'Explain to me again this marriage stuff.'
'Snowy, it all has to do with human mating behavior. You wouldn't understand.'
'Well, I know about mating behavior. But from what I understand, you and Linda have already mated. So-'
'Snowy, Jesus H. Christ.'
Phil Kaufmann and a few of the other men suppressed a chuckle.
'Huh? What'd I say?'
'Nothing. You're right, we did, but now we're going to ritualize it. Celebrate it.'
'Uh-huh.' Snowclaw shook his huge, white ursine head. His yellow cat's-eyes looked oddly thoughtful. 'I think I understand.' He thought some more, then shook his head. 'I don't understand.'
'Don't trouble yourself about it,' Gene told him. 'I'm human and I don't quite understand it. It's a cultural thing.'
'What's that mean?'
'Uh… Snowy, have another candle.'
Gene picked up a beeswax candle, dipped it into a bowl of Thousand Island dressing, and offered it to his nonhuman friend.
'Thanks,' Snowclaw said, taking it. He crunched it between his wickedly sharp teeth and swallowed it all.
'Anyone seen Dalton and Lord Peter?' Gene asked.
'They were in the Queen's Hall when I passed,' said Tyrene, the captain of the castle guard.
'Lord Peter sticks to his daily schedule,' Gene said, 'come hell or high water.'
'Aye, he does. A creature of habit. But there's nothing wrong with that.'
'I guess not, but it would bore the crap out of me. Can't stand to do the same thing every day.' Gene added in a mumble, 'Or being married to the same woman every day.'
'Pardon?'
'Nothing, Tyrene, nothing. Just thinking aloud.'
Tyrene nodded and sipped at his flagon of ale. He had heard what Gene had said.
'Sure are beautiful, these girls,' said another party guest appreciatively. 'Excuse me, women.'
'Girls… women…'
'Eh?' Snowclaw turned his snowy head toward Gene.
'Nothing.'
'You sure don't seem happy.'
'I'm ecstatic.'
'What's that mean? Oh, it means you're really happy, doesn't it?'
'I'm really happy.'
'How come you look like you lost your last friend?'
'I have a headache.'
'What you need is a good scrap.'
Gene drank from his beer stein. 'I might at that.'
'Yeah, gets the blood moving.'
'Be nice to find a nice war or revolution.'
'Or just a nice sword fight.'
Gene shook his head. 'Listen to me. I've become a warmonger. A blood-and-thunder addict. And me a longtime peace activist.'
'What's a peace activist?'
'A person who professes to hate war, and disapproves of some wars, yet condones certain others.'
'Doesn't make sense.'
Gene nodded. 'Uh-huh.' He drank more beer.
The dancers danced on, circulating among the tables, showcasing their skill, and their wares. The 'sun' shone down benignly. Puffed clouds moved slowly across the sky. It was a pleasant day. Very pleasant.
'Damn,' Gene said for no apparent reason.
'Eh?'
'Snowy, let's get out of this joint.'
'Okay by me, Gene.'
Gene raised his voice. 'Guys, would you mind awfully if Snowy and I take off? I hate to throw a wet blanket on the festivities…'
'Gene, it's your party,' Phil said.
'Thanks. You're sure, now?'
'Go ahead. We can do quite nicely without you. We haven't even gotten to the food yet.'
'Before we eat, though,' someone else said, 'we're going to get roaring drunk and play a little touch football. Right, guys?'
Declarations of enthusiastic agreement.
'And after the feast, poker,' said Phil. 'You're going to miss all the fun.'
'We'll stop back,' Gene said. 'I gotta take care of this headache, is all. Going to go see Doc Mirabilis.'
'Get lost, Gene,' Phil said, raising his glass of stout. 'And, again, congratulations. You're a lucky man.'
'Hear, hear,' came the chorus. Each man raised his glass in a toast.
'Thanks, guys. See you later. Let's go, Snowy.'
'I'm with ya.'
Gene and his friend, the fearsome white beast, walked out of that pleasant world and entered the castle. They came through the arch, stepping into the corridor.
Snowclaw asked, 'Where are we going?'
'I dunno. Let's hunt up some danger.'
'Now you are talking. That kind of fun I can understand.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
He crouched in darkness, the lamp long since extinguished. He did not know how many days had passed. The darkness was like an old cloak smelling faintly of mildew. Sometimes the voice would talk to him; mostly it was silent, waiting. Watching.
He felt something scurry across his fingers. Immediately he brought his other hand down, caught the wriggling insect, and brought it to his mouth.
He held it, poised, for several long moments. Then he threw the thing away.
Not yet, he thought. Not quite yet.
He summoned the mind-picture of the power grid he had worked on since he had been entrapped. There were a multitude of connections. As many as he connected, there were still more he forgot.
It's useless to work magic here, the voice said. I've told you repeatedly, but still you persist.
'Bugger off!' he mouthed, then mentally castigated himself for answering. He had sworn off giving the malevolent spirit any satisfaction.
The voice chuckled. Temper, temper. No, supernatural powers simply cannot permeate a structure of this mathematical shape. You are insulated from all help, my friend. Doomed.
So it would seem. He made a few emendations to the design, considered the whole, then dismissed it from his mind. Useless. He had walked a foolish road, and now he would pay the toll.
But not yet. Not quite yet.
He cast a communication spell. A disembodied female voice answered his hail. The voice was distant and distorted. 'Good morning, Mystic Light and Power Company!'
'Hello. I'd like to order some long-distance power, if I might?'
'Hello?'
