The Universe Twister (68 page)

"Why, the poor stumble-bum looks like a complete nincompoop!" O'Leary muttered aloud. "Doesn't he know yellow takes all the color out of my complexion?"

"Shhh!" hissed a stout nobleman in purple at Lafayette's elbow. "His spies are everywhere!"

"Listen," O'Leary said urgently. "That popinjay isn't the real—"

"Oh, I know, I know! Hold your tongue, sir! Do you want to get us all hanged?" The man in purple moved off quickly.

The regent sauntered across to the dais, stepped up, assisted by a cluster of courtiers, and seated himself grandly in the ornate chair. He tucked one foot back, thrust out the other, and leaned forward, resting his chin on one fist.

"Ha! Just like Henry the Eighth in a grade-B movie," O'Leary murmured, netting several apprehensive looks from those about him. As he made his way closer a functionary—a former second assistant stock room tallier, Lafayette saw, now decked out in full ceremonial garb—stepped forward, cleared his throat, unrolled a scroll with a flourish.

"Milords and ladies, his Royal Highness, Prince Lafayette, will graciously address the assemblage," he piped in a thin voice.

There was a patter of applause. The man in the golden chair shifted his chin to the other fist.

"Loyal subjects," he said in a mellow tenor, "how I admire your brave spirits—your undaunted gallantry in joining me here this evening—defying gloom, rejecting the melancholy counsels of those who would have us quail before the grim specter now hovering over our beloved Princess and her esteemed consort. If they could join us this evening, they would be the first to applaud you, carrying on in the gala mood they loved—love, that is—so well." The regent paused to shift position again.

"Look at that dumbbell, trying to talk with his jaw on his fist," Lafayette whispered to no one in particular. "He looks like a terminal paresis case."

Several people moved away from him; but one wizened little fellow in scarlet velvet muttered, "Hear! Hear!"

"Why is everybody standing around listening to this clown?" Lafayette asked the old gentleman. "Why don't they do something?"

"Eh? You ask a question like that? Have you forgotten Sir Lafayette's many services to the crown—and the squads of armed bravos he's lately hired to help secure his continued popularity, the while he so unselfishly volunteers his services during our ruler's indisposition?"

"Lord Archibald—what would you say if I said Adoranne's not really sick at all?" Lafayette inquired,
sotto voce
.

"Say? Why, I'd say you were prey to wishful thinking. And have we met, sir?"

"No—not exactly. But if she
were
actually well—just being held incommunicado—"

"Then all the cut-necks in Hell wouldn't restrain my sword from her service, sir!"

"Shhh! Good boy, Lord Archie—and keep your eyes peeled." O'Leary moved off as the regent droned on, took up a position some ten yards from the speaker, in the front rank of the crowd.

" . . . it is therefore incumbent on me—a realization to which I come with inexpressible reluctance—to formally assume a title commensurate with the dignities residing in the
de facto
Chief of the Artesian state. Accordingly—and with a heavy heart—" The regent broke off as his eye fell on O'Leary. For a long moment he gazed blankly at him. Suddenly he jerked upright, his eyes blazing, pointed a finger at O'Leary.

"Seize me that traitor!" he roared.

2

There were small shrieks and muttered exclamations as a squad of strong-arm men jostled their way through the press to grab Lafayette by both arms and the back of the neck. He landed one solid kick to a uniformed kneecap before a double wrist lock immobilized him.

"Don't kill him yet!" the regent yelled; then, as startled faces jerked around to stare at him, the managed an undernourished smile. "I mean to say, remember the prisoner's constitutional rights, lads, and treat him with all due gentility."

"What's the charge?" O'Leary croaked, speaking with difficulty because of the awkward angle at which his chin was being crushed against his sternum.

"Take him away," the regent snapped. "I'll question him later."

"One moment, if you please," a cracked voice piped up. Lord Archibald pushed his way forward to stand before the golden chair.

"I, too, would like to know the nature of the charge," he said.

"What's this? You dare to question me—that is, ah, why, my dear Archie—suppose we discuss the matter later—in private. Security of the realm involved and all that—"

"Sire, the security of the realm is involved at any time that one of her citizens is arrested arbitrarily!"

There was a small murmur of assent that faded swiftly as the man in the chair thrust out his lower lip and frowned down at the crowd.

"I perceive," he said in a lowered tone, "that the time has come for the enforcement of more stringent wartime regulations regarding free speech—or more properly—treason!"

"Treason against what, Messire?" Archibald persisted.

"Against me, your sovereign!"

"Princess Adoranne, sire, is
my
sovereign!" the old nobleman said loudly.

"I may as well tell you—your Princess is dead!"

There was an instant, dead silence. And in the silence, a clear feminine voice spoke:

"Liar!"

All heads whirled; Adoranne, radiant in silver and pearls, her long hair floating like a golden fog behind her, advanced through an aisle that opened magically before her. Behind her, Count Alain strode, tall and impressively handsome in tailcoat and spurs. Daphne followed, trim and beautiful, her face rigid with tortured emotions.

Bedlam broke out. Cheers, laughter, shouts of joy; elderly nobles went to one knee to kiss their princess' hand; younger ones brandished their dress swords overhead; ladies curtseyed until their wimples swept the floor, and rose, wet-eyed to embrace the person nearest. Lafayette jerked free of the suddenly nerveless grips on his arms to see the regent leap to his feet, his face twisted with rage.

"Imposters!" he roared. "Mummers, tricked out to resemble the dead! I myself witnessed the demise of her Highness but an hour since, and with her last breath she charged me with the solemn duty of assuming the crown—"

"Let me at the conscienceless swine!" Alain roared, leaping onto the dais.

"No!" Daphne shrieked, and threw herself at him, impeding his draw as the pretender scuttled backward. "He's not a traitor, Alain. He's just temporarily lost his wits!"

"Grab him!" O'Leary yelled. "But don't hurt him," he added.

"Right!" Lord Archibald chirped as he bounded forward, chrome-plated blade bared. "We need the scoundrel in one piece for trial!"

There was a sudden disturbance behind Lafayette; he turned to see a familiar figure thrusting toward him.

"Lom!" he blurted. "Or should I say Quelius?" He reached for the little man—and froze as the sonic projector swung to cover him.

"Wait!" Lom shouted. "Don't do anything foolish! You don't know—"

"I know I want to get my hands on your skinny neck!" O'Leary yelled, and charged.

"No! You don't understand! We have to—" Lom broke off, ducked under O'Leary's clutch, whirled to face the dais.

"Quelius!" Lom roared. "Stand where you are! It's all over!"

Lafayette checked in midstride as the usurper spun to face Lom.

"You!" the regent said in a strangled tone. "But—but—but—"

"That's right—me!" Lom yelled, as the man on the dais fumbled in his robes, drew out an object the size of an electric can opener, fumbled with it—

A soundless detonation sent O'Leary whirling off into lightless depths.

3

The stars were rushed toward him; they struck with a ghostly impact, blasting him outward in the form of an expanding shell of thin gas. Gazing inward from all points of the compass at once, he saw all the matter in the universe, gathered at his exact center, dwindle to a single glowing point and wink out. At once he was collapsing inward, shrinking, compressing. There was a momentary sensation of searing heat and crushing weight—

He was stumbling backward, to fetch up hard against folds of a velvet hanging against the wall. Something heavy slid down over his right eye, clanged to the floor and rolled. Below him, the man he had known as Lom looked swiftly up; his eye—as piercing as a red-hot needle—fell on O'Leary. His mouth quirked in a smile of ferocity; he raised the sonic projector—and uttered a yell as Sir Archibald brought the dull edge of his sword down on his wrist, knocking the weapon across the floor.

"I said he'll live to stand trial, you old goat!" the elderly courtier snapped. "Seize him, gentlemen! And the false regent as well!"

Eager hands grabbed Lom, who kicked and cursed in vain. And elegantly manicured hands fell on O'Leary, dragged him forward and held him, as the crowd stared up at him, wide-eyed.

"Alain," Lafayette barked. "Let go, you big oaf! It's all right now! I've got my own shape back—"

"Have done, false rogue, or I'll take pleasure in snapping your spine!"

Below, a swarthily handsome fellow in tight-fitting black with a red cummerbund stood gaping about him with an expression of total wonder.

"Zorro!" O'Leary yelled. "Tell them you're you! That you're not me anymore! I mean, that I'm not you anymore!"

"Think not to cop a plea of insanity!" Alain growled in O'Leary's ear. "There's a VIP dungeon ready and waiting for you, turncoat rebel!"

"I'm not insane! I'm Lafayette O'Leary! I was somebody else, but now I'm me again, can't you understand, you numbskull? And we're not out of trouble yet—"

"How could you?" a tearful feminine voice spoke near at hand. Daphne stood there, looking up into his face. "Is it really
you
, Lafayette—or was that man telling the truth! That somehow you aren't really you, and—"

"Daphne—before I wasn't me—but now I am, don't you see? I'm Lafayette O'Leary, nobody else—"

"Did somebody call fer Sir Lafayette?" a deep voice boomed. Clarence appeared, making his way through the crowd with a pleased smile on his face. "Dat's me," he announced, indicating himself with a thumb. "Anybody want to make sumpin of it?"

"No, Clarence, not now!" O'Leary shouted. "Cornmeal mush!"

"Don't pay no never mind to dat bozo," Clarence exhorted the crowd. "He's a ringer. Me, I'm duh McCoy."

"Zorro!" O'Leary appealed to the Wayfarer. "I told Clarence to stick to his story until I said 'cornmeal mush.' I mean until
you
said 'cornmeal mush.' That is, I was you then, and what I meant was—"

"I'm duh real O'Leary!" Clarence roared.

"No, he's not!" Daphne cried. "
He
is!" She pointed at Zorro, who goggled at her in astonishment. Daphne rushed to him, threw her arms around his neck.

"I recognized you in spite of your—your disguise—as soon as you laid hands on me," she sobbed.

Zorro stared over her head; his look of amazement gave way to a delighted smile.

"You bet, keed," he said.

"Daphne!" O'Leary yelled, "get away from that degenerate! Clarence—" A loud screech cut across the room. There was a stir in the crowd, cries of outrage as a small, furious figure in a scarlet skirt, a shiny black blouse, and jingling earrings forced her way through the press, followed by half a dozen olive-hued, black-haired barbarously attired Wayfarers.

"Gizelle! Luppo! What are
you
doing here?" O'Leary cried. The girl burst through the front rank and threw herself at Zorro, who leaped from Daphne's embrace to dive for cover as her enamorata's knife whistled past his ribs.

"Peeg! Lecher! Philanderer!" Gizelle shrieked as her arms were seized and the knife clattered away. "Wait unteel I get my hands on you, you sneaky, feelthy worm in the weeds you!"

"Hey! Watch him!" Lafayette shouted—too late. Lom, his captor's attention distracted by the disturbance, wrenched free, ducked to catch up Gizelle's knife, darted to Daphne, now standing alone, seized her by the arm and whirled to face the crowd, holding the point of the stiletto at his captive's throat.

"Back!" he barked. "Or I slit it from ear to ear!"

Women screamed; men uttered oaths and grabbed for their sword hilts; but they fell back.

All but one man. O'Leary stared in horror as a tall, white-bearded patriarch in a glowing blue robe circled behind Lom, unseen.

The latter backed slowly, his eyes darting from face to face; he stooped, scooped up the object that the regent had been holding at the moment of O'Leary's transfer back into his original body.

"No!" Lafayette yelled, and plunged against the men holding him. "Don't let him—"

Lom uttered a shrill laugh. "Don't
let
me? Ha! Who can stop me?"

The tall man in blue tapped Lom on the shoulder.

"I can," he said in a tone like the tolling of a bell.

Lom whirled to goggle at the tall apparition that had appeared so suddenly behind him.

"Jorlemagne!" he gasped. He dropped the knife, clutched Daphne to him, thumbed a control on the button of the device in his hands—and with a sharp
whop!
of imploding air, vanished.

4

For the next two minutes, bedlam reigned. Lafayette made a frantic try for freedom, received a stunning blow on the skull, then hung dazedly in the grasp of the vigilantes. Confused images whirled in his brain, blended with the cacophony of a hundred voices raised in simultaneous hysteria.

"Quiet!" a thunderous tone broke through the hubbub. "Ladies and gentlemen—quiet! I must have silence in order to think!"

"Who might you be, sir?" "Where did he go?" "What's happened to Countess Daphne?" The clamor broke out again at once.

"I said QUIET!" the old man roared: he made a curt gesture—and sudden, total silence fell. O'Leary could see lips moving feebly, but not a sound was audible. The crowd stood as if bemused, staring at nothing.

"Well, that's better," the old man in blue said, his voice alone audible. "Now . . ." He half closed his eyes. "Hmmm. Quelius is a tricky devil. Who'd have thought
he'd
have thought of using the Mark III in that fashion? And where would he have fled? Not the caves . . . He knows I know . . ."