text: They sailed the two rafts back to Centaur Isle that night. In the process they discovered that Arnolde's ambience of magic extended farthest toward the front, perhaps fifteen paces, and half that distance to the rear. It was least potent to the sides, going hardly beyond the centaur's reach. It was, in fact, less an isle of magic than an aisle, always preceding the centaur's march. Thus the second raft was able to precede Arnolde's raft comfortably, or to follow it closely, but not to travel beside it. They had verified that the hard way, having the magic propulsion fail, until Arnolde turned to face them.
  
  Once they re-entered the main magic of Xanth, Arnolde's power was submerged. It seemed to make no difference how close he was or which way he faced; there was no enhancement of enchantment near him. But of course they had no way to measure the intensity of magic in his vicinity accurately.
  
  Grundy sneaked in to wake Chet and explain the situation, while Arnolde researched in his old tomes for the best and swiftest route to Mundania. He reported that there was the tunnel the sun used to return from the ocean east to its position of rising, drying out and recharging along the way. This tunnel would be suitable by day, when the sun wasn't using it; they could trot right along it.
  
  "But that would take us west," Irene protested. "My father left Xanth to the north."
  
  Dor had to agree. "The standard route to Mundania is across the northwest isthmus. We must go there and hope to pick up traces of his passage. We can't use the sun's tunnel. But it's a long way to the isthmus, and I don't think we want to make another trip like the one down the coast; we might never get there. Are there any other good notions?"
  
  "Well, tomorrow is destined to have intermittent showers," Arnolde said. "There should be a rainbow. There is a spell in the archives for traveling the rainbow. It is very fast, for rainbows do not endure long. There is some risk—"
  
  "Speed is what we need," Dor said, remembering his dream-visions, where there had been a sensation of urgency. "I think King Trent is in trouble and needs to be rescued soon. Maybe not in the next day, but I don't think we can afford to wait a month."
  
  "There is also the problem of mounting the rainbow," Arnolde said. Now that he had accepted the distasteful notion of his own magic, his mind was relating to the situation very readily. Perhaps it was because he was trained in the handling of information and knew how to organize it. "Part of the rainbow's magic, as you know, is that it appears equally distant from all observers, with its two ends touching the ground equally far from them, north and south. We must ascend to its top, then slide down quickly before it fades."
  
  "The salve!" Grundy said. "We can mount smoke to a cloud, and run across the cloud to the top of the rainbow, if we start early, before the rainbow forms."
  
  "You just don't understand," the centaur said. "It will seem just as far from us when we board the cloud. Catching a rainbow is one of the hardest things to do."
  
  "I can see why," Dor muttered. "How can we catch one if it always retreats?"
  
  "Excise the eyes," Smash suggested, covering his own gross orbs with his gauntleted mitts.
  
  "Of course the monster is right," Arnolde said, not looking at Smash, whom he seemed to find objectionable. "That is the obvious solution."
  
  It was hardly obvious to Dor. "How can covering our eyes get us to the rainbow?"
  
  "It can hardly appear distant if you don't look at it," Arnolde said.
  
  "Yes, but—"
  
  "I get it," Grundy said. "We spot it, then close our eyes and go to where we saw it, and it can't get away because we aren't looking at it. Simple."
  
  "But somebody has to look at it, or it isn't there," Irene protested. "Is it?"
  
  "Chet can look at it," Grundy said. "He's not going on it anyway."
  
  Dor distrusted this, but the others seemed satisfied. "Let's get some sleep tonight and see what happens tomorrow," he said, hoping it all made sense.
  
  They slept late, but that was all right because the intermittent rain wasn't due until midmorning. Arnolde dutifully acquainted the centaur Elders with his situation; as expected, they encouraged him to depart the Isle forever at his very earliest convenience, without directly referring to the reason for his loss of status in their community. A Magician was not wanted here; they could not be comfortable with him. They would let it be known that Arnolde was retiring for reasons of health, so as to preserve his reputation, and they would arrange to break in a new archivist. No one would know his shame. To facilitate his prompt departure they provided him with a useful assortment of spells and counterspells for his journey, and wished him well.
  
  "The hypocrites!" Irene exclaimed. "For fifty years Arnolde serves them well, and now, suddenly, just because—"
  
  "I said you would not comprehend the nuances of centaur society," Chet reminded her, though he did not look comfortable himself.
  
  Irene shut up rebelliously. Dor liked her better for her feeling, however. It was time to leave Centaur Isle, and not just because they had a new mission.
  
  The intermittent clouds formed and made ready to shower. Dor set up a smudge pot and got a column of smudge angling up to intersect the cloud level. They applied the salve to their feet and hands, invoked the curse-counterspells Arnolde distributed, and marched up the column. Arnolde adjusted to this odd climb remarkably well for his age; he had evidently kept himself in traveling shape by making archaeological field trips.
  
  For a moment they paused to turn back to face Chet, who was standing on the beach, watching for the rainbow. Dor found himself choking up, and could only wave. "I hope to see you again, cousin," Arnolde called. Chet was not related to him; what he referred to was the unity of their magic talents. "And meet your sire." And Chet smiled, appreciating the thought.
  
  When they reached the cloud layer, they donned blindfolds. "Clouds," Dor said, "tell us where the best path to the top of the rainbow is. Don't let any of us step too near the edge of you."
  
  "What rainbow?" the nearest cloud asked.
  
  "The one that is about to form, that my friend Chet Centaur will see from the ground."
  
  "Oh, that rainbow. It isn't here yet. It hasn't finished its business on the eastern coast of Xanth."
  
  "Well, guide us to where it's going to be."
  
  "Why don't you open your eyes and see it for yourself?" the canny cloud asked. The inanimate was often perverse, and the many folds and convolutions of clouds made them smarter than average.
  
  "Just guide us," Dor said.
  
  "Awww." But the cloud had to do it.
  
  There was a popping sound behind them, down on the ground. "That's the popcorn I gave Chet," Irene said. "I told him to set it off when he saw the rainbow. Now that rainbow is fixed in place, as long as he looks at it and we don't; we must be almost upon it."
  
  "Are we?" Dor asked the cloud.
  
  "Yeah," the cloud conceded grudgingly. "It's right ahead, though it has no head. That's cumulus humor."
  
  "Rainbow!" Dor called. "Sing out if you hear me!"
  
  Back came the rainbow's song: "Tra-la-la-fol-de-rol!" It sounded beautiful and multicolored.
  
  They hurried over to it. Once they felt its smooth surface projecting above the cloud and climbed upon it, they removed their blindfolds; the rainbow could no longer work its deceptive magic.
  
  The rainbow was fully as lovely as it sounded. Bands of red and yellow, blue and green, extended lengthwise, and sandwiched between them, where ground observers couldn't see them, were the secret riches of the welkin: bands of polka-dot, plaid, and checkerboard. Some internal bands were translucent, and some blazed with colors seldom imagined by man, like fortissimo, charm, phon, and torque. It would have been easy to become lost in their wonders, and Irene seemed inclined to do just that, but the rainbow would not remain here long. It seemed rainbows had tight schedules, and this one was due for a showing somewhere in Mundania in half an hour. Some magic, it seemed, did extend to Mundania; Dor wondered briefly whether the Mundanes would have the same trouble actually catching up to a rainbow, or whether there it would stay firmly in place regardless how the viewers moved.
  
  Arnolde brought out his rainbow-travel spell, which was sealed in a paper packet. He tore it open—and abruptly they began to slide.
  
  The speed was phenomenal. They zoomed past the clouds, then down into the faintly rainy region below, plunging horrendously toward the sea to the north.
  
  Below them was the Land of Xanth, a long peninsula girt by thin islands along the coastlines. Across the center of it was the jagged chasm of the Gap that separated the northern half of Xanth from the southern. It appeared on no maps because no one remembered it, but this was no map. It was reality, as viewed from the rainbow. There were a number of lakes, such as Ogre-Chobee in the south, but no sign of the human settlements Dor knew were there. Man had simply not made much of an Impression on Xanth, physically.
  
  "Fun begun!" Smash cried joyfully.
  
  "Eeek—my skirt!" Irene squealed as the mischievous gusts whipped it up, displaying her legs to the whole world. Dor wondered why she insisted on wearing a skirt despite such constant inconveniences; pants of some kind would have solved the problems decisively. Then it occurred to him that she might not want that particular problem solved. She was well aware that her legs were the finest features of a generally excellent body and perhaps was not averse to letting the world know it also. If she constantly protested any inadvertent exposures that occurred, how could anyone blame her for showing herself off? She had a pretty good system going.
  
  Dor and Grundy and Arnolde, less sanguine about violence than the ogre and less modest (?) than Irene, hung on to the sliding arc of the rainbow and stared ahead and down with increasing misgiving. How were they to stop, once the end came? The descent was drawing close at an alarming velocity. The northern shoreline of Xanth loomed rapidly larger, the curlicues of beaches magnifying. The ocean in this region seemed oddly reddish; Dor hoped that wasn't from the blood of prior travelers of the rainbow. Of course it wasn't; how could he think such a thought?
  
  Then the travel-spell reversed, and they slid rapidly slower until, as they reached the water at the end of the rainbow, they were moving at no more than a running pace. They plunged into the crimson water and swam for the shore to the north. The color was not blood; it was translucently thin, up close. Dor was relieved.
  
  Now that he could no longer see it from the air, Dor remembered other details of Xanth. The length of it was north-south, with the narrowest portion near where his grandfather Elder Roland's village was, in the middle north on the western side. At the top, Xanth extended west, linking to Mundania by the isthmus they were headed for—and somehow Mundania beyond that isthmus seemed huge, much larger than Xanth. Dor decided that must be a misimpression; surely Mundania was about the same size as Xanth, or somewhat smaller. How could a region of so little importance be larger, especially without magic?
  
  Now they came to the shallows and waded through the dark red water to the beach. That crimson bothered him, as the color intensified near the tide-line; how could the normally blue water change color here, in the Mundane quadrant? What magic could affect it here, where no magic existed?
  
  "Maybe some color leaked from the rainbow," Irene said, following his thought.
  
  Well, maybe. Of course there was the centaur aisle of magic now, so that wherever they were was no longer strictly Mundane. Yet the red water extended well beyond the area of temporary enchantment. It seemed to be a regular feature of the region.
  
  They gathered on the beach, dripping pink water. Grundy and Smash didn't mind, but Dor felt uncomfortable, and Irene's blouse and skirt were plastered to her body. "I'm not walking around this way, and I'm not taking off my clothes," she expostulated. She felt in her seedbag, which she had refilled at Centaur Isle, and brought out a purple seed. It seemed the bag was waterproof, for the seed was dry. "Grow," she ordered it as she dropped it on the sand.
  
  The thing sprouted into a heliotrope. Clusters of small purple flowers burst open aromatically. Warm dry air wafted outward. This plant did not really travel toward the sun; it emulated the sun's heat, dehydrating things in the vicinity. Soon their clothing was dry again. Even Smash and Grundy appreciated this, since both now wore the special jackets given them by the centaurs. Smash also shook out his gauntlets and dried them, and Irene spread her silver-lined fur out nearby.
  
  "Do we know where we go from here?" Irene asked once she had her skirt and blouse properly fluffed out.
  
  "Did King Trent pass this way?" Dor inquired of the landscape.
  
  "When?" the beach-sand asked.
  
  "Within the past month."
  
  "I don't think so."
  
  They moved a short distance north, and Dor tried again. Again the response was negative. As the day wore into afternoon and on into evening, they completed their traverse of the isthmus—without positive result. The land had not seen the King.
  
  "Maybe the Queen still had an illusion of invisibility enchantment," Grundy suggested. "So nothing could see them."
  
  "Her illusion wouldn't work here in Mundania, dummy," Irene retorted. She was still miffed at the golem because of the way Grundy had caused her to lose half her seeds to the eclectic eel. She carried a little grudge a long time.
  
  "I am not properly conversant with King Trent's excursion," Arnolde said. "Perhaps he departed Xanth by another route."
  
  "But I know he came this way!" Irene said.
  
  "You didn't even know he was leaving Xanth," Grundy reminded her. "You thought he was inside Xanth on vacation."
  
  She shrugged that off as irrelevant. "But this is the only route out of Xanth!" Her voice was starting its hysterical tremor.
  
  "Unless he went by sea," Dor said.
  
  "Yes, he could have done that," she agreed quickly. "But he would have come ashore somewhere. My mother gets seasick when she's in a boat too long. All we have to do is walk along the beach and ask the stones and plants."
  
  "And watch for Mundane monsters," Grundy said, still needling her. "So they can't look up your—"
  
  "I am inclined to doubt that countermagical species will present very much of a problem," Arnolde said in his scholarly manner.
  
  "What he know, he hoofed schmoe?" Smash demanded.
  
  "Evidently more than you, you moronic oaf," the centaur snapped back. "I have been studying Mundania somewhat, recently, garnering information from immigrants, and by most reports most Mundane plants and animals are comparatively shy. Of course there is a certain margin for error, as in all phenomena."
  
  "What dray, he say?" Smash asked, perplexed by the centaur's vocabulary.
  
  "Dray!" Arnolde repeated, freshly affronted. "A dray is a low cart, not a creature, you ignorant monster. I shall thank you to address me by my proper appellation."
  
  "What's the poop from the goop?" Smash asked.
  
  Dor stifled a laugh, turning it into a choking cough. In this hour of frustration, tempers were fraying and they could not afford to have things get too negative.
  
  Grundy opened his big mouth, but Dor managed to cover it in time. The golem could only aggravate the situation with his natural penchant for insults.
  
  It was Irene who retained enough poise to alleviate the crisis. "You just don't understand a person of education, Smash. He says the Mundane monsters won't dare bother us while you're on guard."
  
  "Oh. So," the ogre said, mollified.
  
  "Ignorant troglodyte," the centaur muttered.
  
  That set it off again. "Me know he get the place of Chet!" Smash said angrily, forming his gauntlets into horrendous fists.
  
  So that was the root of the ogre's ire! He felt Arnolde had usurped the position of his younger centaur friend. "No, that's not so," Dor started, seeking some way to alleviate his resentment. If their party started fracturing now, before they were fairly clear of Xanth, what would happen once they got deep into Mundania?
  
  "And he called you a caveman, Smash," Grundy put in helpfully.
  
  "Compliments no good; me head like wood," the ogre growled, evidently meaning that he refused to be swayed by soft talk.
  
  "Indubitably," Arnolde agreed.
  
  Dor decided to leave it at that; a more perfect understanding between ogre and centaur would only exacerbate things.
  
  They walked along the beach. Sure enough, nothing attacked them. The trees were strange oval-leafed things with brownish, inert bark and no tentacles. Small birds flitted among the branches, and gray animals scurried along the ground.
  
  Arnolde had brought along a tome of natural history, and he consulted it eagerly as each thing turned up. "An oak tree!" he exclaimed. "Probably the root stock of the silver oak, the blackjack oak, the turkey oak, and the acorn trees!"
  
  "But there's no silver, blackjacks, or acorns," Grundy protested.
  
  "Or turkeys," Irene added.
  
  "Certainly there are, in rudimentary forms," the centaur said. "Observe a certain silvery aspect to some leaves, and the typical shape of others, primitively suggestive of other, eventual divergencies. And I suspect there are also acorns, in season. The deficiency of magic prevents proper manifestation, but to the trained perception—"
  
  "Maybe so," the golem agreed, shrugging. This was evidently more than he cared to know about oak trees.
  
  Dor continued to query the objects along the beach, and the water of the sea, but with negative results. All denied seeing King Trent or Queen Iris.
  
  "This is ridiculous!" Irene expostulated. "I know he came this way!"
  
  Arnolde stroked his chin thoughtfully. "There does appear to be a significant discontinuity."
  
  "Something doesn't fit," Grundy agreed.
  
  As the sun set, they made camp high on the beach. Rather than post watches, they decided to trust in magic. Dor told the sand in their vicinity to make an exclamation if anything dangerous or obnoxious intruded, and the sand promised to do so. Irene grew a blanket bush for their beds and set a chokecherry hedge around them for additional protection. They ate beefsteak tomatoes that they butchered and roasted on flame-vines, and drank the product of wine-and-rain lilies.
  
  "Young lady, your talent contributes enormously to our comfort," Arnolde complimented her, and Irene flushed modestly.
  
  "Aw, he's just saying that 'cause she's pretty," Grundy grumbled. That only made Irene flush with greater pleasure. Dor was not pleased, but could not isolate the cause of his reaction. The hangups of others were easier for him to perceive than his own.
  
  "Especially when her skirt hikes up over her knees," the golem continued. Irene quickly tugged down her hem, her flush becoming less attractive.
  
  "Actually, there are few enough rewards to a mission like this," Arnolde said. "Had I my choice, I would instantly abolish my own magic and return to my sinecure at the museum, my shame extirpated."
  
  And there was the centaur's fundamental disturbance, Dor realized. He resented their dastardly deed that had ripped him from his contented existence and made him an exile from his kind. Dor could hardly blame him. Arnolde's agreement to travel with them to Mundania to help rescue King Trent did not mean he was satisfied with his lot; he was merely making the best of what was for him an awful situation.
  
  "Me help he go, with big heave-ho!" Smash offered.
  
  "But we need his magic," Irene said, verbally interposing herself to prevent further trouble. "Just as we need your strength, Smash." And she laid her hand on the ogre's ponderous arm, pacifying him. Dor found himself resenting this, too, though he understood her motive. The peace had to be kept.
  
  They settled down for the night—and the sand gave alarm. The monsters it warned of turned out to be sand fleas—bugs so small they could hardly even be seen. Arnolde dug a vermin-repulsor spell out of his collection, and that took care of the matter. They settled down again and this time slept. Once more the nightmares were unable to reach them, since the magic horses were bound to the magic realm of Xanth and could not cross the Mundane territory intervening. Dor almost felt sympathy for the mares; they had been balked from doing their duty to trouble people's sleep for several nights now, and must be very frustrated.
  
  They resumed their march in the morning. But as the new day wore on, the gloom of failure became more pervasive. "Something certainly appears to be amiss," Arnolde observed. "From what we understand, King Trent had to have passed this vicinity—yet the objects here deny it. Perhaps it is not entirely premature to entertain conjectures."
  
  Smash wrinkled his hairy brow, trying to figure out whether this was another rarefied insult. "Say what's on your mind, horsetail," Grundy said with his customary diplomacy.
  
  "We have ascertained that the Queen could not have employed her power to deceive the local objects," Arnolde said didactically.
  
  "Not without magic," Dor agreed. "The two of them were strictly Mundane-type people here, as far as we know."
  
  "Could they have failed to come in from the sea?"
  
  "No!" Irene cried emotionally.
  
  "I have queried the sea," Dor said. "It says nothing like that is in it." Irene relaxed.
  
  "Could they have employed a completely different route? Perhaps crossed to the eastern coast of Xanth and sailed north from there to intercept another region of Mundania?"
  
  "They didn't," Irene said firmly. "They had it all planned, to come out here. Someone had found a good trade deal, and they were following his map. I saw it, and the route passed here."
  
  "But if you don't know—" Dor protested.
  
  "I didn't know they were going to travel the route, then," she said. "But I did see the map when their scout brought it in, with the line on it. Now I know what it meant. That's all I saw, but I am absolutely certain this was the way they headed."
  
  Dor was disinclined to argue the point further. This did seem to be the only practical route. He had told the others all he knew about King Trent's destination, and this route certainly did not conflict with that information.
  
  "Could they have been intercepted before leaving Xanth?" Arnolde continued, evidently with an intellectual conclusion in mind. "Waylaid, perhaps?"
  
  "My father would have turned any waylayer into a toad," she said defiantly. "Anyway, inside Xanth, my mother's illusion would have made them impossible to identify."
  
  "Then it seems we have eliminated the likely," Arnolde said. "We are thus obliged to contemplate the unlikely."
  
  "What do you mean?" Irene asked.
  
  "As I intimated, it is an unlikely supposition that I entertain, quite possibly erroneous—"
  
  "Spit it out, brownfur," Grundy said.
  
  "My dear vociferous construct, a civilized centaur does not expectorate. And my color is appaloosa, not mere brown."
  
  Irene was catching on to her power over the centaur, and over males in general. "Please, Arnolde," she pleaded sweetly. "It's so important to me to know anything that might help find my lost father—"
  
  "Of course, dear child," Arnolde agreed quickly, adopting an avuncular pose. "It is simply this: perhaps King Trent did not pass this region when we suppose he did."
  
  "It had to be within this past month," she said.
  
  "Not necessarily. That is the extraordinary aspect of this supposition. He may have passed here a century ago."
  
  Now Dor, Irene, and Grundy peered at the centaur intently to see whether he was joking. Smash, less interested in intellectual conjectures, idly formed sandstone by squeezing handfuls of sand until the mineral fused. His new gauntlets evidently enabled him to apply his power in ways that were beyond his natural limits before, since even ogre's flesh was marginally softer than stone. A modest sandstone castle was developing.
  
  "You happen to sleep with your head underwater last night?" the golem inquired solicitously.
  
  "I have, as I have clarified previously, engaged in a modicum of research into the phenomena of Mundania," Arnolde said. "I confess I know only the merest fraction of what may be available, and must be constantly alert for error, but certain conclusions are becoming more credible. Through history, certain anomalies have manifested in the relationship between continuums. There is of course the matter of linguistics—it appears that there exist multiple languages in Mundania, yet all become intelligible in Xanth. I wonder if you properly appreciate the significance of—"
  
  Irene was growing impatient. She tapped her small foot on the ground. "How could he have passed a century ago, when he wasn't even born then?"
  
  "It is this matter of discontinuity, as I was saying. Time seems to differ; there may be no constant ratio. There is evidence that the several Waves of human colonization of Xanth originated from widely divergent subcultures within Mundania, and, in fact, some may be anachronistic. That is to say, the last Wave of people may have originated from a period in Mundania preceding that of the prior Wave."
  
  "Now wait!" Dor exclaimed. "I visited Xanth of eight hundred years ago, and I guess that was a kind of time travel, but that was a special case. Since there's no magic in Mundania, how could people get reversed like that? Are their times mixed up?"
  
  "No, I believe their framework is consistent in their world. Yet if the temporal sequence were reversed with respect to ours—"
  
  "I just want to know where my father is!" Irene snapped.
  
  "He may be in Mundania's past—or its future," the centaur said. "We simply do not know what law governs transfer across the barrier of magic, but it seems to be governed from Xanth's side. That is, we may be able to determine into what age of Mundania we travel, whereas the access of Mundania to Xanth is random and perhaps in some cases impossible. It is a most intriguing interface. It is as if Xanth were a boat sailing along a river; the passengers may disembark anywhere they choose, merely by picking their port, or a specific time on the triptych, so to speak, but the natives along the shores can take only that craft that happens to pass within their range. This is an inadequate analogy, I realize, that does not properly account for certain—"
  
  "The King can be anywhen in Mundania?" Irene demanded skeptically.
  
  "Marvelously succinct summation," Arnolde admitted.
  
  "But he told me 'medieval,'" Dor protested.
  
  "That does narrow it," the centaur agreed. "But it covers an extraordinary range, and if he was speaking figuratively—"
  
  "Then how can we ever find him?" Irene demanded.
  
  "That becomes problematical. I hasten to remind you that this is merely a theory, undocumented, perhaps fallacious. I would not have introduced it for consideration, except—"
  
  "Except nothing else fits," Irene said. "Suppose it's right. What do we do now?"
  
  "Well, I believe it would expedite things if we located research facilities in Mundania. Some institution where detailed records exist, archives—"
  
  "And you're an archivist!" Dor exclaimed.
  
  "Precisely. This should enable me to determine at what period in Mundania's history we have intruded. Since, as King Dor says, King Trent referred to a medieval period, that would provide a frame of reference."
  
  "If we're in the wrong Mundane century," Irene said, "how do we get to him?"
  
  "We should be required to return to Xanth and undertake a new mission to that century. As I mentioned, it seems feasible to determine the temporal locale from Xanth, and once in that aspect of Mundania, we would be fixed in it until returning to Xanth. However, this procedure is fraught with uncertainties and potential complications."
  
  "I should think so," Dor said. "If we figured it wrong, we might get there before he did."
  
  "Oh, I doubt that would happen, other than on the macroscopic scale, of course."
  
  "The what?" Dor asked.
  
  "I believe the times are consistent in particular circumstances. That is to say, within a given age, we could enter Mundania only with an elapsed period consonant with that of Xanth. Therefore—"
  
  "We might miss by a century, but not by a day," Grundy said.
  
  "That is the essence, golem. The particular channels appear to be fixed—"
  
  "So let's go find the century!" Irene said, brightening. "Then all we'll need is the place."
  
  "With appropriate research, the specific geography should also be evident."
  
  "Then let's go find your archives," she said.
  
  "Unfortunately, we have no knowledge of this period," Arnolde reminded her. "We are hardly likely to locate a suitable facility randomly."
  
  "I can help there," Dor said. "It should be where there are a lot of people, right?"
  
  "Correct, King Dor."
  
  "Uh, better not call me King here. I'm not, really, and people might find it strange." Then Dor addressed the sand. "Which way to where most people live?"
  
  "How should I know?" the sand asked.
  
  "You know which direction most of them come from, and where they return."
  
  "Oh, that. They mostly go north."
  
  "North it is," Dor agreed.
  
  They marched north, and in due course encountered a Mundane path that debouched into a road that became a paved highway. No such highway existed in Xanth, and Dor had to question this one closely to ascertain its nature. It seemed it served to facilitate the travel of metal and rubber vehicles that propelled themselves with some sort of magic or whatever it was that Mundanes used to accomplish such wonders. These wagons were called "cars," and they moved very rapidly.
  
  "I saw something like that belowground," Grundy said. "The demons rode in them."
  
  Soon the party saw a car. The thing zoomed along like a racing dragon, belching faint smoke from its posterior. They stared after it, amazed. "Fire it send from wrong end," Smash said.
  
  "Are you sure there's no magic in Mundania?" Grundy asked. "Even the demons didn't have firebreathers."
  
  "I am not at all certain," Arnolde admitted. "Perhaps they merely have a different name and application for their magic. I doubt it would operate for us. Perhaps this is the reason we believe there is no magic in Mundania— it is not applicable to our needs."
  
  "I don't want any part of that car," Irene said. "Any dragon shooting out smoke from its rear is either crazy or has one awful case of indigestion! How could it fight? Let's find our archives and get out of here."
  
  The others agreed. This aspect of Mundania was certainly inverted. They avoided the highway, making their way along assorted paths that paralleled it. Dor continued to query the ground, and by nightfall they were approaching a city. It was a strange sort of settlement, with roads that crisscrossed to form large squares, and buildings all lined up with their fronts right on the edges of the roads, so that there was hardly room for any forest there, jammed in close together. Some were so tall it was a wonder they didn't fall over when the wind blew.
  
  Dor's party camped at the edge of the city, under a large umbrella tree Irene grew to shelter them. The tree's canopy dipped almost to the ground, concealing them, and this seemed just as well. They were not sure how the Mundanes would react to the sight of an ogre, golem, or centaur.
  
  "We have gone as far as we can as a group," Dor said. "There are many people here, and few trees; we can't avoid being seen any more. I think Irene and I had better go in and find a museum—"
  
  "A library," Arnolde corrected him. "I would love to delve eternally in a Mundane museum, but the information is probably most readily accessible in a library."
  
  "A library," Dor agreed. He knew what that was, because King Trent had many books in his library-office in Castle Roogna.
  
  "However, that is academic, no pun intended," the centaur continued. "You can not go there without me."
  
  "I know I'll step out of magic," Dor said. "But I won't need to do anything special. Nothing magical. Once I find the library for you—"
  
  "You have no certainty you can even speak their language," Arnolde said curtly. "In the magic ambience, you can; beyond it, this is problematical."
  
  "I'm not sure we speak the same language in our own group, sometimes," Irene said with a smile. "Words like 'ambience' and 'problematical'—"
  
  "I can speak their language," Grundy said. "That's my talent. I was made to translate."
  
  "A magical talent," Arnolde said.
  
  "Oooops," Grundy said, chagrined. "Won't work outside the aisle."
  
  "But you can't just walk in to the city!" Dor said. "I'm sure they aren't used to centaurs."
  
  "I would have to walk in to use the library," Arnolde pointed out. "Fortunately, I anticipated such an impediment, so obtained a few helpful spells from our repository. We centaurs do not normally practice inherent magic, but we do utilize particular enchantments on an ad hoc basis. I have found them invaluable when on field trips to the wilder regions of Xanth." He checked through his bag of spells, much the way Irene checked through her seeds. "I have with me assorted spells for invisibility, inaudibility, untouchability, and so forth. The golem and I can traverse the city unperceived."
  
  "What about the ogre?" Dor asked. "He can't exactly merge with the local population either."
  
  Arnolde frowned. "Him, too, I suppose," he agreed distastefully. "However, there is one attendant liability inherent in this process—"
  
  "I won't be able to detect you either," Dor finished.
  
  "Precisely. Some one of our number must exist openly, for these spells make the handling of books awkward; our hands would pass right through the pages. My ambience of magic should be unimpaired, of course, and we could remain with you—but you would have to do all the research unassisted."
  
  "He'll never make it," Irene said.
  
  "She's right," Dor said. "I'm just not much of a scholar. I'd mess it up."
  
  "Allow me to cogitate," Arnolde said. He closed his eyes and stroked his chin reflectively. For a worried moment Dor thought the centaur was going to be sick, then realized that he had the wrong word in mind. Cogitate actually referred to thinking.
  
  "Perhaps I have an alternative," Arnolde said. "You could obtain the assistance of a Mundane scholar, a qualified researcher, perhaps an archivist. You could pay him one of the gold coins you have hoarded, or perhaps a diamond; I believe either would have value in any frame of Mundania."
  
  "Uh, I guess so," Dor said doubtfully.
  
  "I tell you, even with help, he'll foul it up," Irene said. She seemed to have forgotten her earlier compliments on Dor's performance. That was one of the little things about her—selective memory. "You're the one who should do the research, Arnolde."
  
  "I can only, as it were, look over his shoulder," the centaur said. "It would certainly help if I could direct the manner he selects references and turns the pages, as I am a gifted reader with a fine memory. He would not have to comprehend the material. But unless I were to abort the imperceptibility spells, which I doubt very much would be wise since I have no duplicates—"
  
  "There's a way, maybe," Grundy said. "I could step outside the magic aisle. Then he could see me and hear me, and I could tell him to turn the page, or whatever."
  
  "And any Mundanes in the area would pop their eyeballs, looking at the living doll," Irene said. "If anyone does it, I'm the one."
  
  "So they can pop their eyes looking up your skirt," the golem retorted, miffed.
  
  "That may indeed be the solution," Arnolde said.
  
  "Now wait a minute!" Irene cried.
  
  "He means the messenger service," Dor told her gently.
  
  "Of course," the centaur said. "Since we have ascertained that the aisle is narrow, it would be feasible to stand quite close while Dor remains well within the forward extension."
  
  Dor considered, and it did seem to be the best course. He had somehow thought he could just go into Mundania, follow King Trent's trail by querying the terrain, and reach the King without much trouble. This temporal discontinuity, as the centaur put it, was hard to understand and harder to deal with, and the vicarious research the centaur proposed seemed fraught with hangups. But what other way was there? "We'll try it," he agreed. "In the morning."
  
  They settled down for the night, their second in Mundania. Smash and Grundy slept instantly; Dor and Irene had more trouble, and Arnolde seemed uncomfortably wide awake. "We are approaching direct contact with Mundane civilization," the centaur said. "In a certain sense this represents the culmination of an impossible dream for me, almost justifying the personal damnation my magic talent represents. Yet I have had so many confusing intimations, I hardly know what to expect. This city could be too primitive to have a proper library. The denizens could for all we know practice cannibalism. There are so many imponderabilities."
  
  "I don't care what they practice," Irene said. "Just so long as I find my father."
  
  "Perhaps we should query the surroundings in the morning," Arnolde said thoughtfully, "to ascertain whether suitable facilities exist here, before we venture any farther. Certainly we do not wish to chance discovery by the Mundanes unless we have excellent reason."
  
  "And we should ask where the best Mundane archivist is," Irene agreed.
  
  Dor drew a word in the dirt with one finger: ONESTI. He contemplated it morosely.
  
  "This is relevant?" the centaur inquired, glancing at the word.
  
  "It's what King Trent told me," Dor said. "If ever I was in doubt, to proceed with honesty."
  
  "Honesty?" Arnolde asked, his brow wrinkling at the dirt.
  
  "I think about that a lot when I'm in doubt," Dor said. "I don't like deceiving people, even Mundanes."
  
  Irene smiled tiredly. "Arnolde, it's the way Dor spells the word. He is the world's champion poor speller. O N E S T I: Honesty."
  
  "ONESTI," the centaur repeated, removing his spectacles to rub his eyes. "I believe I perceive it now. A fitting signature for a King."
  
  "King Trent's a great King," Dor agreed. "I know his advice will pull us through somehow."
  
  Arnolde seemed almost to smile, as if finding Dor's attitude peculiar. "I will sleep on that," the centaur said. And he did, lying down on the dirt-scratched word.
  
  In the morning, after some problems with food and natural functions in this semipublic locale, they set it up. The centaur dug out his collection of spells, each one sealed in a glassy little globe, and Dor stepped outside the aisle of magic while the spells were invoked. First the party became inaudible, then invisible; it looked as if the spot were empty. Dor gave them time to get through the unfeeling spell, then walked back onto the lot. He heard, saw, and felt nothing.
  
  "But I can smell you," he remarked. "Arnolde has a slight equine odor, and Smash smells like a monster, and Irene is wearing perfume. Better clean yourselves up before we get into a building."
  
  Soon the smells faded, and after a moment Irene appeared, a short distance away. "Can you see me now?"
  
  "I see you and hear you," Dor said.
  
  "Oh, good. I didn't know how far out the magic went. I'm still the same to me." She stepped toward him and vanished.
  
  "You've gone again," Dor said, hastening to the spot where she had been. "Can you perceive me?"
  
  "Hey, you're overlapping me!" she protested, appearing right up against him, so that he almost stumbled.
  
  "Well, I can't perceive you," he said. "I mean, now I can, but I couldn't before. Can you see the others when you're outside the aisle?"
  
  She looked. "They're gone! We can see and hear you all the time, but now—"
  
  "So you'll know when I can see you by when you can't see them."
  
  She leaned forward, and her face disappeared, reminding him of the Gorgon. Then she drew back. "I could see them then. I'm really in the enchantment, aren't I?"
  
  "You're enchanting," he agreed.
  
  She smiled and leaned forward to kiss him—but her face disappeared and he felt nothing.
  
  "Now I have to go find a library and a good archivist," he said, disgruntled, as she reappeared. "If you're with me, stay away from me."
  
  She laughed. "I'm with you. Just don't try to catch me outside the aisle." And of course that was what he should have done, if he really wanted to kiss her. And he did want to—but he didn't want to admit it.
  
  She walked well to the side of him, staying clear of the enchantment. "No sense you getting lost."
  
  They walked on into the city. There were many cars in the streets, all zooming rapidly to the intersections, where they screeched to stops, waited a minute with irate growls and constant ejections of smoke from their posteriors, then zoomed in packs to the next intersections. They seemed to have only two speeds: zoom and stop. There were people inside the cars, exactly the way Grundy had described with the demon vehicles, but they never got out. It was as if the people had been swallowed whole and were now being digested.
  
  Because the cars were as large as centaurs and moved at a constant gallop when not stopped, Dor was wary of them and tried to avoid them. But it was impossible; he had to cross the road sometime. He remembered how the nefarious Gap Dragon of Xanth lurked for those foolish enough to cross the bottom of the Gap; these cars seemed all too similar. Maybe there were some that had not yet consumed people and were traveling hungry, waiting to catch someone like Dor. He saw one car stopped by the side of the street with its mouth wide open like that of a dragon; he avoided it nervously. The strangest thing about it was that its guts seemed to be all in that huge mouth—steaming tubes and tendons and a disk-shaped tongue. Oddest of all, it had no teeth. Maybe that was why it took so long to digest the people.
  
  He came to a corner. "How do I get across?" he asked.
  
  "You wait for a light to stop the traffic," the street informed him with a contemptuous air of dust and car fumes. "Then you run-don't-walk across before they clip you, if you're lucky. Where have you been all your life?"
  
  "In another realm," Dor said. He saw one of the lights the street described. It hung above the intersection and wore several little visors pointing each way. All sorts of colors flashed malevolently from it, in all sorts of directions. Dor couldn't understand how it made the car stop. Maybe the lights had some kind of stun-spell, or whatever it was called here. He played it safe by asking the light to tell him when it was proper to cross.
  
  "Now," the light said, flashing green from one face and red from another.
  
  Dor started across. A car honked like a sea monster and squealed like a sea-monster victim, almost running over Dor's leading foot. "Not that way, idiot!" the light exclaimed, flashing an angry red. "The other way! With the green, not the red! Haven't you ever crossed a street before?"
  
  "Never," Dor admitted. Irene had disappeared; she must have re-entered the magic aisle to consult with the others. Maybe she found it safer within the spell zone; apparently the cars were unable to threaten her there.
  
  "Wait till I tell you, then cross the way I tell you," the light said, blinking erratically. "I don't want any blood in my intersection!"
  
  Dor waited humbly. "Now," the light said. "Walk straight ahead, keeping an even pace. Fast. You don't have all day, only fifteen seconds."
  
  "But there's a car charging me!" Dor protested.
  
  "It will stop," the light assured him. "I shall change to red at the last possible moment and force it to scorch rubber. I get a deep pleasure from that sort of thing."
  
  Nervously, Dor stepped out onto the street again. The car zoomed terrifyingly close, then squealed to a stop a handspan's distance from Dor's shaking body. "Shook you up that time, you damned pedestrian," the car gloated through its cloud of scorched rubber. "If it hadn't been for that blinking light, I'd a had you. You creeps shouldn't be allowed on the road."
  
  "But how can I cross the street if I'm not allowed on the road?" Dor asked.
  
  "That's your problem," the car huffed.
  
  "See, I can time them perfectly," the light said with satisfaction. "I get hundreds of them each day. No one gets through my intersection without paying his tax in gas and rubber."
  
  "Go blow a bulb!" the car growled at the light.
  
  "Go soak your horn!" the light flashed back.
  
  "Some day we cars will have a revolution and establish a new axle," the car said darkly. "We'll smash all you restrictive lights and have a genuine free-enterprise system."
  
  "You really crack me up," the light said disdainfully. "Without me, you'd have no discipline at all."
  
  Dor walked on. Another car zoomed up, and Dor lost his nerve and leaped out of the way. "Missed him!" the car complained. "I haven't scored in a week!"
  
  "Get out of my intersection!" the light screamed. "You never stopped! You never burned rubber! You're supposed to waste gas for the full pause before you go through! How do you expect me to maintain a decent level of pollution here if you don't cooperate?"
  
  "Oh, go jam your circuits!" the car roared, moving on through.
  
  "Police! Police!" the light flashed. "That criminal car just ran the light! Rogue car! Rogue car!"
  
  But now the other cars, perceiving that one was getting away with open defiance, hastened to do likewise. The intersection filled with snarling vehicles that crashed merrily into each other. There was the crackle of beginning fire.
  
  Then the magic aisle moved out of the light's range, and it was silent. Dor was relieved; he didn't want to attract attention.
  
  Irene reappeared. "You almost did it that time, Dor! Why don't you quit fooling with lights and get on to the library?"
  
  "I'm trying to!" Dor snapped. "Where is the library?" he asked the sidewalk.
  
  "You don't need a library, you clumsy oaf," the walk said. "You need a bodyguard."
  
  "Just answer my question." The perversity of the inanimate seemed worse than ever, here in Mundania. Perhaps it was because the objects here had never been tamed by magic.
  
  "Three blocks south, two east," the walk said grudgingly.
  
  "What's a block?"
  
  "Is this twerp real?" the walk asked rhetorically.
  
  "Answer!" Dor snapped. And in due course he obtained the necessary definition. A block was one of the big squares formed by the crisscrossing roads. "Is there an archivist there?"
  
  "A what?"
  
  "A researcher, someone who knows a lot."
  
  "Oh, sure. The best in the state. He walks here all the time. Strange old coot."
  
  "That sidewalk sure understands you," Irene remarked smugly.
  
  Dor was silent. Irene was safe from any remarks the sidewalk might make about her legs because she was outside the magic aisle. Dor knew Arnolde was keeping up with him, because his magic was operating. If Irene stepped within that region of magic, she would vanish. So she had the advantage and could snipe with impunity, for now.
  
  A small group of Mundanes walked toward them, three men and two women. Their attire was strange. The men wore knots of something about their necks, almost choking them, and their shoes shone like mirrors. The women seemed to be walking on stilts. Irene continued blithely along, passing them. Dor hung back, curious about Mundane reactions to a citizen of Xanth.
  
  The two females seemed to pay no attention, but all three males paused to look back at Irene. "Look at that creature!" one murmured. "What world is she from?"
  
  "Whatever world it is, I want to go there!" another said. "Must be a foreign student. I haven't seen legs like that in three years."
  
  "Her clothing is three centuries out of fashion, if it ever was in fashion," one of the women remarked, her nose elevated. Evidently she had after all paid attention. It was amazing what women could notice while seeming not to. Her own legs were unremarkable, though it occurred to Dor that the stilt-shoes might be responsible for deforming them.
  
  "Men have no taste," the other woman said. "They prefer harem girls."
  
  "Yeah . . ." the third man said with a slow smile. "I'd like to have her number."
  
  "Over my dead body!" the second woman said.
  
  The Mundanes went on, their strange conversation fading from Dor's hearing. Dor proceeded thoughtfully. If Irene were that different from Mundanes, what about himself? No one had reacted to him, yet he was dressed as differently from the males as Irene was from the females. He pondered that as he and Irene continued along the streets. Maybe the Mundanes had been so distracted by Irene's legs that they had skipped over Dor. That was understandable.
  
  The library was a palatial edifice with an exceedingly strange entrance. The door went round and round without ever quite opening.
  
  Dor stood near it, uncertain how to proceed. Mundane people passed him, not noticing him at all despite his evident difference. That was part of the magic, he realized suddenly, his contemplations finally fitting an aspect of the Mundane mystery together. He seemed to share their culture. Should he step outside the magic aisle, he would stand out as a complete foreigner, as Irene had. Fortunately, she was a pretty girl, so she could get away with it; he would not have that advantage.
  
  At the moment, Irene was not in view; perhaps she had been more aware of the Mundane reaction, and preferred to avoid repetition. But as the Mundanes cleared the vicinity, she reappeared. "Arnolde believes that is a revolving door," she said. "There are a few obscure references to them in the texts on Mundania. Probably all you have to do is—" She saw another Mundane approaching, and hastily stepped into invisibility.
  
  The Mundane walked to the door, put forth a hand, and pushed on a panel of the door. A chamber swung inward, and the man followed the compartment around. So simple, once Dor saw it in action!
  
  He walked boldly up to the door and pushed through. It worked like a charm—that is, almost like a natural phenomenon of Xanth—passing him into the building. He was now in a large room in which there were many couches and tables, and the walls were lined with levels of books. This was a library, all right. Now all he needed to do was locate the excellent researcher who was supposed to be here. Maybe in the history section.
  
  Dor walked across the room, toward a wall of books. He could check those and see if any related. It shouldn't be too hard to—
  
  He paused, aware that people were staring at him. What was the matter?
  
  An older woman approached him, her face formed into stern lines. "Xf ibwf b esftt-dpef ifsf," she said severely, her gaze traveling disapprovingly from his unkempt hair to his dust-scuffed sandaled feet. It seemed she disapproved of his attire.
  
  After a moment of confusion, Dor realized he had stepped beyond the magic aisle and was now being seen without the cushion of enchantment. Arnolde had been correct; Dor could not accomplish anything by himself.
  
  What had happened to the centaur? Dor looked back toward the door— and saw Irene beckoning him frantically. He hurried back to her, the Mundane woman following. "Xf pqfsbuf a respectable library here," the Mundane was saying. "We expect a suitable demeanor—"
  
  Dor turned to face her. "Yes?"
  
  The woman stopped, nonplused. "Oh—I see you are properly dressed. I must have mistaken you for someone else." She retreated, embarrassed.
  
  Dor's clothing had not changed. Only the woman's perception of it had, thanks to the magic.
  
  "Arnolde can't get through the spinning door," Irene said.
  
  So that was why Dor had left the aisle! He had walked well beyond the door. Of course those small chambers could not accommodate the mass of the centaur!
  
  "Maybe there's another door," Dor suggested. "We could walk around the building—"
  
  Irene vanished, then reappeared. "Yes, Arnolde says the spell fuzzes the boundaries of things somewhat, so his hands pass through Mundane objects, but his whole body mass is just too much to push through a solid Mundane wall. He might make it through a window, though."
  
  Dor went back out the rotating door, then walked around the building. In the back was a double door that opened wide enough to admit a car. Dor walked through this and past some men who were stacking crates of books. "Hey, kid, you lost?" one called.
  
  It had not taken him long to progress from "King" to "kid"! "I am looking for the archives," Dor said nervously.
  
  "Oh, sure. The stacks. Third door on your left."
  
  "Thank you." Dor went to the door and opened it wide, taking his time to pass through so that the others could get clear. He smelled the centaur and ogre, faintly, so knew they were with him.
  
  Now they were in a region of long narrow passages between shelves loaded with boxes. Dor had no idea how to proceed, and wasn't certain the centaur could fit within these passages, but in a moment Irene appeared and informed him that Arnolde was right at home here. "But it would be better to consult with a competent archivist, he says," she concluded.
  
  "There is one here," he said. "I asked." Then another thought came. "But suppose he sics the Mundane authorities on us? He may not understand our need."
  
  "Arnolde says academics aren't like that. If there is a good one here, his scientific curiosity—I think that's what they call magic here—will keep him interested. Check in that little office; that looks like an archivist's cubby."
  
  Reluctantly, Dor looked. He was in luck, of what kind he was not sure. There was a middle-aged, bespectacled man poring over a pile of papers. "Excuse me, sir—would you like to do some research?" Dor asked.
  
  The man looked up, blinking. "Of what nature?"
  
  "Uh, it's a long story. I'm trying to find a King, and I don't know where or when he is."
  
  The man removed his spectacles and rubbed his tired eyes. "That would seem to be something of a challenge. What is the name of the King, and of his Kingdom?"
  
  "King Trent of Xanth."
  
  The man stood up and squeezed out of his cubby. He was fairly small and stooped, with fading hair, and he moved slowly. He reminded Dor of Arnolde in obscure ways. He located a large old tome, took it down, dusted it off, set it on a small table, and turned the brittle pages. "That designation does not seem to be listed."
  
  Irene appeared. "He would not be a King in Mundania."
  
  The scholar squinted at her with mild surprise. "My dear, I can not comprehend a word you are saying."
  
  "Uh, she's from another land," Dor said quickly. Since Irene had to stand outside the magic aisle in order to be seen and heard, the magic translation effect was not operative for her. Since Dor had been raised in the same culture, he had no trouble understanding her. It was an interesting distinction. He, Dor, could understand both the others, and both seemed to be speaking the same language, but the two could not understand each other. Magic kept coming up with new wrinkles that perplexed him.
  
  The scholar pondered. "Oh—she is associated with a motion picture company? This is research for a historical re-creation?"
  
  "Not exactly," Dor said. "She's King Trent's daughter."
  
  "Oh, it is a contemporary Kingdom! I must get a more recent text."
  
  "No, it is a medieval one," Dor said. "Uh, that is—well, King Trent is in another time, we think."
  
  The scholar paused thoughtfully. "The Kingdom you are re-creating, of course. I believe I understand." He looked again at Irene. "Females certainly have adequate limbs in that realm."
  
  "What's he saying?" Irene demanded.
  
  "That you have nice legs," Dor told her with a certain mild malice.
  
  She ignored that. "What about my father?"
  
  "Not listed in this book. I think well have to try another tack."
  
  The scholar's eyes shifted from Irene's legs to Dor's face. "This is very odd. You address her in English, and she seems to understand, but she replies in an alien tongue."
  
  "It's complicated to explain," Dor said.
  
  "I'd better check with Arnolde," Irene said, and vanished.
  
  The Mundane scholar removed his spectacles and cleaned them carefully with a bit of tissue paper. He returned them to his face just in time to see Irene reappear. "Yes, that's definitely better," he murmured.
  
  "Arnolde says we'll have to use some salient identifying trait to locate my father or mother." Irene said. "There may be a historical reference."
  
  "Exactly what language is that?" the scholar asked, again fixing on Irene's legs. He might be old and academic, but he evidently had not forgotten what was what in female appearance.
  
  "Xanthian, I guess," Dor said. "She says we should look for some historical reference to her parents, because of special traits they have."
  
  "And what would these traits be?"
  
  "Well, King Trent transforms people, and Queen Iris is mistress of illusion."
  
  "Idiot!" Irene snapped. "Don't tell him about the magic!"
  
  "I don't quite understand," the scholar said. "What manner of transformation, what mode of illusion?"
  
  "Well, it doesn't work in Mundania," Dor said awkwardly.
  
  "Surely you realize that the laws of physics are identical the world over," the scholar said. "Anything that works in the young lady's country will work elsewhere."
  
  "Not magic," Dor said, and realized he was just confusing things more.
  
  "How dumb can you get?" Irene demanded. "I'm checking with Arnolde." She vanished again.
  
  This time the scholar blinked more emphatically. "Strange girl!"
  
  "She's funny that way," Dor agreed weakly.
  
  The scholar walked to the spot Irene had vacated. "Tubhf jmmvtjpo?" he inquired.
  
  Oh, no! He was outside the magic aisle now, so the magic no longer made his language align with Dor's. Dor could not do anything about this; the centaur would have to move.
  
  Irene reappeared right next to the scholar. Evidently she hadn't been paying attention, for she should have been able to see him while within the magic ambience. "Oh—you're here!" she exclaimed.
  
  "Bnbajoh!" the scholar said. "J nvtu jorvjsf—"
  
  Then the centaur moved. Irene vanished and the scholar became comprehensible. ". . . exactly how you perform that trick—" He paused. "Oops, you're gone again."
  
  Irene reappeared farther down the hall. "Arnolde says we'll have to tell him," she announced. "About the magic and everything. Thanks to your bungling."
  
  "Really, this is amazing!" the scholar said.
  
  "Well, I'll have to tell you something you may find hard to believe," Dor said.
  
  "At this stage, I'm inclined to believe in magic itself!"
  
  "Yes. Xanth is a land of magic."
  
  "In which people disappear and reappear at will? I think I would prefer to believe that than to conclude I am losing my sight."
  
  "Well, some do disappear. That's not Irene's talent, though."
  
  "That's not the young lady's ability? Then why is she doing it?"
  
  "She's actually stepping in and out of a magic aisle."
  
  "A magic aisle?"
  
  "Generated by a centaur."
  
  The scholar smiled wanly. "I fear you have the advantage of me. You can imagine nonsense faster than I can assimilate it."
  
  Dor saw that the scholar did not believe him. "I'll show you my own magic, if you like," he said. He pointed to the open tome on the table. "Book, speak to the man."
  
  "Why should I bother?" the book demanded.
  
  "Ventriloquism!" the scholar exclaimed. "I must confess you are very good at it."
  
  "What did you call me?" the book demanded.
  
  "Would you do that again—with your mouth closed?" the scholar asked Dor.
  
  Dor closed his mouth. The book remained silent. "I rather thought so," the scholar said.
  
  "Thought what, four-eyes?" the book asked.
  
  Startled, the scholar looked down at it, then back at Dor. "But your mouth was closed, I'm sure."
  
  "It's magic," Dor said. "I can make any inanimate object talk."
  
  "Let's accept for the moment that this is true. You are telling me that this King you are searching for can also work magic?"
  
  "Right. Only he can't do it in Mundania, so I guess it doesn't count."
  
  "Because he has no magic centaur with him?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "I would like to see this centaur."
  
  "He's protected by an invisibility spell. So the Mundanes won't bother us."
  
  "This centaur is a scholar?"
  
  "Yes. An archivist, like yourself."
  
  "Then he is the one to whom I should talk."
  
  "But the spell—"
  
  "Abate the spell! Bring your centaur scholar forth. Otherwise I can not help you."
  
  "I don't think he'd want to do that. It would be hard to get safely out of here without that enchantment, and we have no duplicate invisibility spell."
  
  The scholar walked back to his cubby. "Mind you, I believe in magic no more than in the revelations of a hallucination, but I am willing to help you if you meet me halfway. Desist your parlor tricks, show me your scholar, and I will work with him to fathom the information you desire. I don't care how fanciful his outward form may be, provided he has a genuine mind. The fact that you find it necessary to dazzle me with ventriloquism, a lovely costumed girl who vanishes, and a mythological narrative suggests that there is very little substance to your claim, and you are wasting my time. I ask you to produce your scholar or depart my presence."
  
  "Uh, Arnolde," Dor said. "I know it'll be awful hard to get out of here without the spells, but maybe we could wait till night. We really need the information, and—"
  
  Abruptly the centaur appeared, facing the scholar's cubby. The ogre and golem stood behind him. "I agree," Arnolde said.
  
  The scholar turned about. He blinked. "These are rare costumes, I admit."
  
  Arnolde strode forward, his barrel barely clearing the shelves on either side, extending his hand. "I certainly do not blame you for being impatient with the uninitiate," he said. "You have excellent facilities here, and I know your time is valuable."
  
  The scholar shook the hand, seeming more reassured by Arnolde's spectacles and demeanor than confused by his form.
  
  "What is your specialty?"
  
  "Alien archaeology—but of course there is a great deal of routine work and overlapping of chores."
  
  "There certainly is!" the scholar agreed. "The nuisances I have to endure here—"
  
  The two fell into a technical dialogue that soon left Dor behind. They became more animated as they sized up each other's minds and information. There was now no doubt they were similar types.
  
  Irene, bored, grew a cocoa plant in the hall, and shared the hot cups of liquid with Dor, Smash, and Grundy. They knew it was important that Arnolde establish a good rapport so that they could gain the scholar's cooperation and make progress on their request.
  
  Time passed. The two scholars delved into ancient tomes, debated excruciatingly fine points, questioned Dor closely about the hints King Trent had given him in both person and vision, and finally wound down to an animated close. The Mundane scholar accepted a mug of cocoa, relaxing at last. "I believe we have it," he said. "Will I see you again, centaur?"
  
  "Surely so, sir! I am able to travel in Mundania, am fascinated by your comprehensive history, and am presently, as it were, between positions."
  
  "Your compatriots found your magic as intolerable in you as mine would find a similar propensity in me! I shall not be able to tell anyone what I have learned this day, lest I, too, lose my position and possibly even be institutionalized. Imagine conversing with a centaur, ogre, and tiny golem! How I should love to do a research paper on your fantastic Land of Xanth, but it would hardly be believable."
  
  "You could write a book and call it a story," Grundy suggested. "And Arnolde could write one about Mundania."
  
  Both scholars looked pleased. Neither had thought of such a simple expedient.
  
  "But do you know where my father is?" Irene demanded.
  
  "Yes, I believe we do," Arnolde said. "King Trent left a message for us, we believe."
  
  "How could he leave a message?" she demanded.
  
  "He left it with Dor. That, and the other hints we had, such as the fact that he was going to a medieval region, in the mountains near a black body of water. There are, my friend informs me, many places in Mundania that fit the description. So we assume it is literal; either the water itself is black, or it is called black. As it happens, there is in Mundania a large body of water called the Black Sea. Many great rivers empty into it; great mountain ranges surround it. But that is not sufficient to identify this as the specific locale we seek; it merely makes it one possibility among many." Arnolde smiled. "We spent a good deal of time on geography. As it happens, there was historically a confluence of A, B, and K people in that vicinity in medieval times—at least that is so when their names are rendered into Xanth dialect. The Avars, the Bulgars, and the Khazars. So it does seem to fit. Everything you have told us seems to fit."
  
  "But that isn't enough!" Dor cried. "How can you be sure you have the place, the time?"
  
  "Honesty," Arnolde said. "O N E S T I." He pointed to a spot on an open book. "This, we believe, is the unique special hint King Trent gave you, to enable you and only you to locate him in an emergency."
  
  Dor looked. It was an atlas, with a map of some strange Mundane land. On the map was a place labeled Onesti.
  
  "There is only one such place in the world," Arnolde said. "It has to be King Trent's message to you. No one else would grasp the significance of that unique nomenclature."
  
  Dor recalled the intensity with which King Trent had spoken of honesty, as if there had been a separate meaning there. He remembered how well aware the King had been of Dor's kind of spelling. It seemed no one else spelled it the obvious way, onesti.
  
  "But if that's been there—that name, there in your maps and things— for centuries—that means King Trent never came back! We can't rescue him, because then the name would go."
  
  "Not necessarily," Arnolde said. "The place-name does not depend on his presence. We should be able to rescue him without disturbing it. At any rate, we are never certain of the paradoxes of time. We shall simply have to go to that location and that time, circa AD 650, and try to find him."
  
  "But suppose it's wrong?" Irene asked worriedly. "Suppose he isn't there?"
  
  "Then we shall return here and do more research," Arnolde said. "I intend to visit here again anyway, and my friend Ichabod would like to visit Xanth. There will be no trouble about that, I assure you."
  
  "Yes. You will be welcome here," the Mundane scholar agreed. "You have a fine and arcane mind."
  
  "For the first time," Arnolde continued, "I look upon my exile from Centaur Isle and my assumption of an obscene talent with a certain equanimity. I have not, it seems, been excluded from my calling; my horizons have been inordinately expanded."
  
  "And mine," Ichabod agreed. "I must confess my contemporaneous existence was becoming tiresome, though I did not recognize this until this day." Now the scholar sounded just like Arnolde. Perhaps some obscure wrinkle of fate had operated to bring these two together. Did luck or fate really operate in Mundania? Perhaps they did, when the magic aisle was present. "The prospect of researching in a completely new and mystical terrain is immensely appealing; it renovates my outlook." He paused. "Ah, would there by any chance be individuals of the female persuasion remotely resembling . . .?" His glance flicked guiltily to Irene's legs.
  
  "Nymphs galore," Grundy said. "A dime a dozen."
  
  "Oh, you employ contemporaneous currency?" the scholar asked, surprised.
  
  "Currency?" Dor asked blankly.
  
  "A dime is a coin of small denomination here."
  
  Dor smiled. "No, a dime is a tiny object that causes things passing over it to come to a sudden stop. When it has functioned this way twelve times, its enchantment wears out. Hence our saying—"
  
  "How marvelous. I wonder whether one of my own dimes would perform similarly there."
  
  "That's the idea," Grundy said. "Toss it in front of a troupe of gamboling nymphs, and grab the first one it stops. Nymphs don't have much brains, but they sure have legs." He moved farther away from Irene, who showed signs of kicking.
  
  "Oh, I can hardly wait to commence research in Xanth!" the scholar exclaimed. "As it happens, I have a dime ready." He brought out a tiny silver coin, his gaze once again touching on Irene's limbs. "I wonder..."
  
  Irene frowned. "Sometimes I wonder just how badly I really want to rescue my folks. I'll be lucky if my legs don't get blistered from all the attention." But as usual, she did not seem completely displeased. "Let's be on our way; I don't care what you do, once my father is back in Xanth."
  
  Arnolde and Ichabod shook hands, two very similar creatures. On impulse, Dor brought out one of the gold coins he had so carefully saved from the pirate's treasure. "Please accept this, sir, as a token of our appreciation for your help." He pressed it on the scholar.
  
  The man hefted the coin. "That's solid gold?" he exclaimed. "I believe it is a genuine Spanish doubloon! I can not accept it."
  
  The centaur interceded. "Please do accept it, Ichabod. Dor is temporary King of Xanth; to decline would be construed as an offense to the crown."
  
  "But the value—"
  
  "Let's trade coins," Dor said, discovering a way though. "Your dime for my doubloon. Then it is an even exchange."
  
  "An even exchange!" the scholar exclaimed. "In no way can this be considered—"
  
  "Dimes are very precious in Xanth," Arnolde said. "Gold has little special value. Please acquiesce."
  
  "Maybe a nymph would stop on a doubloon, too," Grundy suggested.
  
  "She certainly would!" Ichabod agreed. "But not because of any magic. Women here are much attracted to wealth."
  
  "Please," Irene put in, smiling beguilingly. Dor knew she only wanted to get moving on the search for her father, but her intercession was effective.
  
  "In that case, I will exchange with you, with pleasure, King Dor," the scholar agreed, giving Dor his dime. "I only meant to protest that your coin was far too valuable for whatever service I might have provided, when in fact it was a pleasure providing it anyway."
  
  "Nothing's too valuable to get my father back," Irene said. She leaned forward and kissed Ichabod on the cheek. The man froze as if he had glimpsed the Gorgon, an astonished smile on his face. It was obvious he had not been kissed by many pretty girls in his secluded lifetime.
  
  It was now early evening. Ichabod delved into assorted cubbies and produced shrouds to conceal the bodies of the centaur and ogre. Then Arnolde and Smash walked out of the library in tandem, looking like two big workmen in togas, moving a covered crate between them. It turned out to be almost as good concealment as the invisibility spell; no one paid attention to them. They were on their way back to Xanth.