“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 Amolde 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. “Amolde 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. Amolde 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?”
