«The full argument thus consists in an epicheirematic syllogism in Barbara, the major premise of which is not the conclusion of an enthymeme, though the minor premise of which may or may not be the conclusion of a non-Aristotelian sorites —»
The papers were still there, but overlaying the picture of those six white rectangles was a whirl of faint spots of colour. All the colours of the spectrum were represented, he noted with the back of his mind, but there was a strong tendency toward violet. Round and round they went — round — and round — «If either F or Q is true or (Q or R) is true then either Q is true or (P or R) is false —»
Round and round — He could hear nothing at all. He had no sense of heat or cold, or of the pressure of the chair seat against him. There was nothing but millions of whirling spots of colour.
Yes, he could feel temperature now. He was cold. There was sound, too, a distant whistling sound, like that of a wind in a chimney. The spots were fading into a general greyness. There was a sense of pressure, also, on the soles of his feet. He straightened his legs — yes, standing on something. But everything around him was grey — and bitter cold, with a wind whipping the skirts of his coat around him.
He looked down. His feet were there all right — «hello, feet, pleased to meet you.» But they were fixed in greyish-yellow mud which had squilched up in little ridges around them. The mud belonged to a track, only two feet wide, On both sides of it the grey-green of dying grass began. On the grass large flakes of snow were scattered, dandruffwise. More were coming, visible as dots of darker grey against the background of whirling mist, swooping down long parallel inclines, growing and striking the path with the tiniest
He had done it. The formula worked!
TWO
«Welcome to Ireland!» Harold Shea murmured to himself. He thanked heaven that his syllogismobile had brought his clothes and equipment along with his person. It would never have done to have been dumped naked onto this freezing landscape. The snow was not atone responsible for the greyness. There was also a cold, clinging mist that cut off vision at a hundred yards or so. Ahead of him the track edged leftward around a little mammary of a hill, on whose flank a tree rocked under the melancholy wind. The tree’s arms all reached one direction, as though the wind were habitual; its branches bore a few leaves as grey and discouraged as the landscape itself. The tree was the only object visible in that wilderness of mud, grass and fog. Shea stepped towards it. The serrated leaves bore the indentations of the Northern scrub oak.
But that grows only in the Arctic Circle, he thought. He was bending closer for another look when he heard the
He turned. The horse was very small, hardly more than a pony, and shaggy, with a luxuriant tail blowing round its withers. On its back sat a man who might have been tall had he been upright, for his feet nearly touched the ground. But he was hunched before the icy wind driving in behind. From saddle to eyes he was enveloped in a faded blue cloak. A formless slouch hat was pulled tight over his face, yet not So tight as to conceal the fact that he was full-bearded and grey.
Shea took half a dozen quick steps to the roadside. He addressed the man with the phrase he had composed in advance for his first human contact in the world of Irish myth:
«The top of the morning to you, my good man, and would it be far to the nearest hostel?»
He had meant to say more, but paused uncertainly as the man on the horse lifted his head to reveal a proud, unsmiling face in which the left eye socket was unpleasantly vacant. Shea smiled weakly, then gathered his courage and plunged on: «it’s a rare bitter December you do be having in Ireland.»
The stranger looked at him with much of the same clinical detachment he himself would have given to an interesting case of schizophrenia, and spoke in slow, deep tones: «I have no knowledge of hostels, nor of Ireland; but the month is not December. We are in May, and this is the Fimbulwinter.»
A little prickle of horror filled Harold Shea, though the last word was meaningless to him. Faint and far, his ear caught a sound that might be the howling of a dog — or a wolf. As he sought for words there was a flutter of movement. Two big black birds, like oversize crows, slid down the wind past him and came to rest on the the grass, looked at him for a second or two with bright, intelligent eyes, then took the air again.
«Well, where
«At the wings of the world, by Midgards border.»
«Where in hell is that?»
The deep voice took on an edge of annoyance. «For all things there is a time, a place, and a person. There is none of the three for ill-judged questions, and empty jokes.» He showed Shea a blue-dad shoulder, clucked to his pony and began to move wearily ahead.
«Hey!» cried Shea. He was feeling good and sore. The wind made his fingers and jaw muscles ache. He was lost in this arctic wasteland, and this old goat was about to trot off and leave him stranded. He leaned forward, planting himself squarely in front of the pony. «What kind of a runaround is this, anyway? When I ask someone a civil question —»
The pony had halted, its muzzle almost touching Shea’s coat. The man on the animal’s back straightened suddenly so that Shea could see he was very tall indeed, a perfect giant. But before he had time to note anything more he felt himself caught and held with an almost physical force by that single eye. A stab of intense, burning cold seemed to run through him, inside his head, as though his brain had been pierced by an icicle. He felt rather than heard a voice which demanded, «Are you trying to stop
For his life, Shea could not have moved anything but his lips. «N—no,» he stammered. «That is, I just wondered if you could tell me how I could get somewhere where it’s warm —»
The single eye held him unblinkingly for a few seconds. Shea felt that it was examining his inmost thoughts. Then the man slumped a trifle so that the brim of his hat shut out the glare and the deep voice was muffled. «I shall be tonight at the house of the bonder Sverre, which is the Crossroads of the World. You may follow.» The wind whipped a fold of his blue cloak, and as it did so there came, apparently from within the cloak itself, a little swirl of leaves. One clung for a moment to the front of Shea’s coat. He caught it with numbed fingers, and saw it was an ash leaf, fresh and tender with the bright green of spring — in the midst of this howling wilderness, where only arctic scrub oak grew!
Shea let the pony pass and fell in behind, head down, collar up, hands deep in pockets, squinting against the snowflakes. He was too frozen to think clearly, but he tried. The logical formulas had certainly thrown him into another world. But he hardly needed the word of Old Whiskers that it was not Ireland. Something must have gone haywire in his calculations. Could he go back and recheck them? No — he had not the slightest idea at present what might have been on those six sheets of paper. He would have to make the best of his situation.
But what world had he tumbled into? A cold, bleak one, inhabited by small, shaggy ponies and grim old blue-eyed men with remarkable eyes. It might be the world of Scandinavian mythology. Shea knew very little about such a world, except that its No. 1 guy was someone named Odinn, or Woden, or Wotan, and there was another god named Thor who threw a sledge hammer at people he disliked.
Shea’s scientific training made him doubt whether he would actually find these gods operating as gods, with more-than-human powers; or, for that matter, whether he would see any fabulous monsters. Still, that stab of cold through his head and that handful of ash leaves needed explaining. Of course, the pain in his head might be an indication of incipient pneumonia, and Old Whiskers might make a habit of carrying ash leaves in his pockets. But still — The big black birds were keeping up with them. They didn’t seem afraid, nor did they seem to mind the ghastly weather.
It was getting darker, though in this landscape of damp blotting paper Shea could not tell whether the sun had set. The wind pushed at him violently, forcing him to lean into it; the mud on the path was freezing, but not quite gelid. it had collected in yellow gobs on his boots. He could have sworn the boots weighed thirty pounds apiece, and they had taken in water around the seams, adding clammy socks to his discomfort. A clicking sound, like a long roll of castanets, made him wonder until he realized it was caused by his own teeth.
He seemed to have been walking for days, though he knew it could hardly be a matter of hours. Reluctantly he took one hand from his pocket and gazed at his wrist watch. It read 9.36; certainly wrong. When he held the
