The World Shuffler Read Free Page B

put you on to Lost and Found, and—”
    “You look! I helped you out once! Now it’s your turn! Get me out of this fix and back to Artesia!”
    “Out of the question,” the crackly voice rapped. “We’re only handling priority-nine items tonight, and you rate a weak three. Now—”
    “You can’t just abandon me here! Where’s Nicodaeus? He’ll tell you—”
    “Nicodaeus was transferred to Locus Beta Two-oh, with the cover identity of a Capuchin monk engaged in alchemical research. He’ll be out of circulation for the next twenty-eight years, give or take six months.” Lafayette groaned. “Can’t you do anything?”
    “Well—look here, O’Leary: I’ve just leafed through your record. It seems you’re on the books for unauthorized use of Psychical Energies, up until we focused a Suppressor on you. Still, I see you did render valuable services, once upon a time. Now, I have no authority to lift the Suppressor, but just between the two of us—off the record, mind you—I can drop you a hint which may help you to help yourself. But don’t let on I told you.”
    “Well—go ahead and drop it!”
    “Ah—let’s see: O.K., here goes: Mid knackwurst and pig’s knuckles tho you may grope/There’s only one kind that’s tough as a rope/The favorite of millions from the Bronx to Miami/The key to the riddle is—Oh-oh, that’s it, O’Leary. Chief Inspector’s coming! Got to go! Good luck! Let us hear from you—if you survive, that is!”
    “Wait a minute! You didn’t say what the key to the riddle was!” Lafayette rattled the hook madly, but only the derisive buzz of the dial tone answered him. Then, with a sputter, the phone went dead. Lafayette groaned and hung up the receiver.
    “Pig’s knuckles,” he muttered. “Knackwurst. That’s all the thanks I get for all these years of loyal service, pretending to be totally absorbed in living with Daphne and wining and dining and riding to hounds, all the while holding myself in readiness for instant action, any time that infernal phone rang ...”
    He drew a deep breath and blinked.
    “You’re talking nonsense again, O’Leary,” he told himself sternly. “Admit it: you’ve been having the time of your life for three years. You could have dialed Central anytime and volunteered for a hardship post, but you didn’t. Now that things look rough, don’t whine. Pull in your belt, assess the situation, and decide on a plan of action.”
    He looked down. The ground, now pooled in dusk, looked a long way below him.
    “So—how do I start?” he asked himself. “What’s the first step to take to remove oneself from a world and into another dimension?”
    “Of course, you boob!” he blurted with a sudden dawning hope. “The Psychical Energies! Isn’t that how you got from Colby Corners to Artesia in the first place? And I’ll have to cut out talking to myself,” he added s otto voce. “People will think I’ve popped my cork.”
    Clinging to his perch, O’Leary closed his eyes, concentrated on recollecting Artesia, the smell and feel of the place, the romantic old streets clustered about the pennanted turrets of the palace, the taverns, the tall half-timbered houses and tiny, tidy shops, the cobbles and steam cars and forty-watt electric lights ...
    He opened one eye. No change. He was still in the top of a windmill; the barren slope below still led down to the bleak village by the lake. Back in Artesia, that lake was a mirror-surfaced pool on which swans floated among flowering lilies. Even in Colby Corners, it had been a neat enough pond, with only a few candy wrappers floating in it to remind you of civilization. Here, it had an oily, weed-grown look. As he watched, a woman waddled from the rear of a shack and tossed a bucket of slops into the water. Lafayette winced and tried again. He pictured Daphne’s pert profile, the lumpy visage of Yockabump the Jester, Count Alain’s square-cut shirt-ad features, Princess Adoranne’s flawless