Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [92]
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 sotto 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 Yokabump the Jester, Count Alain's square-cut shirt-ad features, Princess Adoranne's flawless patrician face and elegantly gowned figure . . .
Nothing. The telltale bump in the smooth flow of time failed to occur. Of course, he hadn't been able to make use of the Psychic Energies since Central had discovered that he was the culprit who had been creating probability stresses among the continua, and focused a Suppressor on him; but he had hoped that here he might have regained his former power. And—
What was it that bureaucrat on the phone had said? Something about a clue? And then that gibberish he'd spouted about a riddle just before he'd hung up. Nothing in that for him. He was on his own, and the sooner he faced it the better.
"So—now what?" he demanded of the chill night air.
"For a start, get down out of this nest," he counseled himself. "Before you stiffen up and freeze to the crossarm."
With a last, regretful look at the telephone, Lafayette began the long descent to the ground.
It was almost full dark when Lafayette dropped the last ten feet into a dry thicket. Sniffing vigorously, he detected a pleasing aroma of friend onions emanating from the direction of the town. He fingered the coins in his pocket; he could find a suitable tavern and have a bite to eat and possibly a small flagon of wine to restore the nerves, and then set about making inquiring—discreet ones, of course. Just what he'd ask, he didn't know—but he'd think of something. He set off downslope, limping a bit from a slight sprain of the left ankle, twisted in the descent. He was getting fragile in his mature years. It seemed a long time ago that he had rushed about like an acrobat, climbing over roofs, swarming up ropes, battling cutpurses, taming dragons—and wooing and winning the fair Daphne. At the thought of her piquant face, a pang of dismay struck through him. What would she think when he turned up missing? Poor girl, she'd be broken-hearted, frantic with worry . . .
Or would she? The way he'd been neglecting her lately, she might not even notice his absence for a few days. Probably at this moment she was being chattered at by one of the handsome young courtiers who hung around the palace, supposedly getting instruction in knightly ways, but actually spending their time idling over wine bottles, gambling, and wenching . . .
Lafayette's fists tightened. They'd