'Are you sure, sire? I am something of a medical man, as you know, having seen me at work among the slaves, and I would be glad to concoct a dosage of - '
Blade, hard put to refrain from laughing, held up a hand. That will not be necessary, little man. I tell you I am well again. The sight of you, once again yourself, has made me well in this instant.'
Pelops regarded him with suspicion. 'You jibe at me again, sire. I know you do it often.'
Before Blade could protest he went on, 'Sometimes I deserve it. I am not really the fool I seem at times. But what matter - I am feeling well. I have gained weight and I have clothes. When I have armor again, and a weapon, I will be more than content. I will return to Sarma and fight for the Queen against Tyranna.'
As Blade studied the little fellow an idea began to creep into his mind. He had often amused himself with it.
'You would return to Sarma, Pelops?'
A nod. A blank stare; 'What else, sire? I am a Sarmaian, am I not? I shall most certainly return to Sarma - if I live. But there is always that.'
Blade inclined his head, deep in thought. 'Yes. There is always that. Pelops - '
The little man stared at Blade and waited. Blade drew pictures in the sand with a twig.
'Yes, sire? You were going to speak?'
Blade made up his mind and grinned. He would do it. Why not? He was on his own in Dimension X. He had a right - and how could he do harm to the time-space-dimensional continuum? He saw no harm. And it was only a prank, something that would amuse him for years to come when he thought of it.
Blade said: 'Pelops, how would you like to be a genius?'
The little man tugged at the few hairs on his chin. 'I might like it, sire, if I knew what it was. We do not have the word in Sarma.'
Blade reached to pat the scrawny shoulder. 'A great man! One who will never be forgotten. People will write and talk about you for centuries and even build statues, images, to you.'
Pelops' eyes were round. 'Build images - you mean such as the great effigies of Bek-Tor?'
'Bigger,' said Blade. 'And handsomer, too. At least you are - all a man! And statues have a way of looking better than the model.'
Pelops nodded. 'I would like that very much, sire.' Then he looked sly. 'But would I have to die first?'
Blade laughed. 'You will have to die sometime, but not because you are a genius. Are you ready, Pelops? I am going to tell you a secret that will make you a genius.'
Pelops gulped, swallowed, then grinned back at Blade. 'I am ready. I trust you, sire, and I will take a chance. It would be a great thing for me, who was once a slave, to be a genius and have images built to me.'
'Then watch closely.'
Blade took his twig and drew a wheel in the sand.
'It is the sun,' Pelops said eagerly. 'Or the moon. But how does it make me famous?'
'It is neither the sun nor moon. Keep quiet and watch and listen. It is called a wheel. And this is another wheel. And this is called an axle. Now listen and heed well.'
In half an hour Blade explained it all to him. Pelops nodding, somewhat awe-stricken, totally bemused by the simplicity of it. He scratched his skull fuzz.
'Why has not someone thought of this before?'
Blade could not answer that. 'It is always simple, or seems so, after someone does it for the first time. There was once in my own land a people called Indians. Also Incas. Both these people had civilizations, religions, calendars, medicine, many things. Yet they did not think of the wheel. They used sleds and drags, just as you do in Sarma. But never mind that - now that you have thought of the wheel you will be able to change the whole way of life in Sarma. Look at this!'
Blade made more sketches in the sand, showing how to use cogs and pulleys and interlocking gears. Pelops, silent now, followed every word and sketch avidly.
Blade tossed away the twig. 'There. You are now a genius. Take heed and keep it to yourself until you return to Sarma. I do not think the Moghs know of the wheel, either. Do not put anything on paper. Keep the secret in your head.'
Pelops squared his tiny shoulders. 'Ah, yes, sire Blade. I will keep my secret. And you are right - I am a genius.'
Blade stood up and peered at a cloud of dust on the horizon. Their escort.
He rapped his knuckles lightly on Pelops' bald pate. 'You are that,' he agreed. 'I cannot understand why you did not think of it before.'
It was the escort. Two dozen Mogh soldiers under command of a Lieutenant. The Vizier had not come in person. They were to be escorted to the city of El Kal and shown every courtesy and comfort. The Lieutenant handed Blade a writing done on scraped animal hide.
Greetings, my brother! My heart was joyful at the news that you lived. I long to see you again. Hurry. Your loving brother, Gemma.
Gemma! The very name that Blade had made up while in Sarma.
Chapter Nineteen
It was, Blade thought, like seeing your mirror image move and speak. The two men, except for the color of their turbans, were identical. Blade's turban was white. His double wore scarlet.
