As they slowly pulled into the next station, Chuck didn't need to be told that they had arrived at a very special place. Everything was very grand. The station house itself was gleaming, white alabaster brick with brass filigree on the doors and winding all around the corners of the building like golden ivy. Chuck had never seen a train station like it.
"Why is it so fancy?" Persemid asked, her eyebrows aloft.
"This is the personal station used by the Duke of Oneiros," Keir said.
"Is he one of the king's sons?" Sean asked.
"Oh, no," Bergold said. "The king has only the one child, the princess Leonora. As a matter of fact, my dear friend Roan is engaged to be married to her. A very beautiful woman. Don't you agree?" he asked Hiramus.
The bearded man nodded gravely. "Lovely and most gracious. I'm sorry we won't be getting to Mnemosyne this time. That is the capital city, where the Palace of Dreams is," he told Chuck.
"One can't do everything," Bergold said. "You must all try to come to Mnemosyne some time. I think you would find much to enjoy."
"Another time," Keir said, with real regret.
The little Historian bowed. "It would be a pleasure to have all of you visit. I would love to show you my home."
The train came to a halt. Chuck was impressed by how spotless the station was. The very stones in the railbed were polished, and the rails had a golden glint. He couldn't see a sign of wear, not a wilted flower or a blade of grass out of place. All the porters were neat and tidy enough to have just been unfolded from a package. All the luggage on freshly painted carts had been shined. Even the newsboys were wearing suits and ties, and their newspapers were ironed crisp.
"Oh, look!" Pipistrella's cry of delight brought his attention back into the car. On the table between them were cream-white envelopes addressed in gorgeous copperplate writing. CHARLES "CHUCK" MEADOWS, read the inscription on his. Chuck turned it over, awed by the wax seal on the back.
"I've never had an invitation like this," he said.
"I'm almost embarrassed to open mine," Persemid said. "How beautiful." Hiramus, devoid of sentiment, flipped his open, glanced hastily at his invitation and put it in his inner pocket. Morit scowled at his and shoved it down the table to his wife.
"My, my, Spot!" Mrs. Flannel exclaimed to her pet, presently a white toy poodle. "You and I are bidden to a dinner dance at the ducal palace, at half past seven of the clock. Isn't that marvelous!" The little dog wagged its fluffy tail, mouth open with delight. Mrs. Flannel looked up at her fellow passengers. "I'm so excited. I've never been invited to a ducal ball!"
"We are all invited," Hiramus said, tapping his pocket.
Chuck swept a hand at the blue jeans and button-neck shirt he was wearing. "I can't go to a formal party in this stuff."
"Pah!" Keir laughed, throwing back his head. "These things take care of themselves." His seedy tunic sprouted a bow tie. The aura of formality spread outward until he was attired in a full tuxedo. Chuck felt his collar constrict and looked down at himself. Influence was spreading up his arm from the invitation. The nails on that hand had been trimmed and buffed. Beginning at his wrist, an impeccable, snow-white shirt and jet-black jacket swiftly covered over the casual clothes until Chuck was clad in full evening attire down to a pair of black patent-leather shoes. A quick glance at his back told him he was still wearing his remaining suitcases.
"Keir, can't we leave these here for the evening?"
The guide turned his black eyes on Chuck. "They're still your issues," he said. "But if you concentrate, you can probably minimize them for now."
Chuck slid the straps off his shoulders and stared at the three bags. To his relief, they shrank down into a slim gentleman's trifold wallet that he could easily tuck into his inner breast pocket. It was heavy, but didn't spoil the line of the suit.
"Dang, I feel like Cinderella," Persemid said, her eyes shining. "And don't you dare say a word about pumpkins." True, her figure was as round as usual, but the style of Edwardian gown that influence had provided for her looked far better on her than it would have on the bone-thin Pipistrella. The ends of her long, red hair had turned upward and folded themselves into a mass neatly coiled around her head and adorned with a jeweled clip and pale-blue ostrich plume. Her luggage all fit into a small blue evening bag she held by a chain. "What are you staring at?"
"You look really nice," Chuck said.
"Thanks," she said, sourly. "Don't say it like it hurts."
"It doesn't hurt to say it," Chuck said. "It's true." Why did talking with her always put him on the defensive?
"We're not going," Morit growled, undoing his bow tie and throwing it on the center table.
"Yes, we are," Blanda said, picking it up and tying it around his neck again. He batted at her hands like a cat, but she paid no attention. "Look, we are all dressed up. And we have an invitation. If you keep saying no, people will stop asking you." He grumbled to himself. He didn't care if no one ever sent him another invitation in his remaining existence. Blanda paid no attention. She busied herself putting on a gorgeous pearl necklace that reached all the way to her midsection, complementing the pale-gold evening dress. Both set off her plump pink cheeks and shoulders so that she looked rather handsome.
As usual, Pipistrella was the loveliest person on the train. Her gown was like something out of an Italian Renaissance painting, with a white silk underdress starting pretty far down her smooth shoulders, enhanced though not covered up by a golden overgown like a coat tied at intervals along the sleeve and fastened right under her bosom, opening to show more of the white dress and tiny white slippers. Pip basked in compliments from everyone else until she was literally glowing. She glided up and down the aisle to enjoy the sway of the silk around her legs. The capelike overskirt embroidered with jewels had a brief train that whisked itself out from underneath passing feet without Pip even seeming to be aware that her dress was ever in danger of being stepped on.
"You know," Persemid said aloud to no one in particular, but to Chuck in general, "I could really hate her. She's so clueless that nothing ever seems to go wrong for her."
"And here are our carriages," Keir said, pointing out of the window. Chuck and the others hurried down to the platform to see them. Open four-wheel landaus of polished black lacquer and shining silver trim were drawn by pairs of snow-white horses that pranced as they waited for their passengers. Each held a driver and a footman. The latter jumped down from his perch at the rear of the vehicle, and bowed to the travelers.
They were seated four to a carriage. Chuck would have liked to ride with Pip, whose arm he had taken walking across the station platform, but she was handed into a grand white landau with Bergold, Keir, and Mrs. Flannel. He and Persemid shared a coach with Bolster and Hiramus, who except for the carpetbag at his feet that he had refused to minimize or leave behind, looked more like a painting than a human being, the image of sartorial perfection from a previous century. Chuck thought he might like to see Hiramus and Pipistrella together on the dance floor. He looked several years older than Pip, but that shouldn't matter if they danced well.
The moment that the carriages turned into the grounds of the ducal palace Chuck knew that he had gone way out of his usual social range. They proceeded along a path lined by wrought iron fences with roses twining through them. The way curved through enormous flowering rhododendrons, lush grass like plushy velvet dotted with flowers, pleasure gardens with topiaries in the shape of fabulous creatures. Every twenty feet along the way were matched pairs of iron torches, gleaming a welcome. Crisp-petaled violet flowers nodded against the foot of the fences. Chuck wasn't sure, but they looked like orchids. A whole driveway full of orchids? The garden alone was worth a fortune. Statues appeared along the way, each a miracle of workmanship. Chuck was overawed even before the palace appeared.
The hall was a classicist's dream. The upper floor's windows were arched. The carriages stopped under a traditional, perfect triangular portico of bright white, held aloft on round, fluted pillars. There, passengers alighted to walk up shallow marble stairs to the entrance. Until Chuck saw the first carriages pull up he didn't realize the building's scale. Dwarfed by the grand roof, the landau looked like a toy. Patinaed doors thirty feet high were flung open, allowing the delicate strains of violin music to drift out into the night air. This place had been made by giants for kings.
The interior walls were adorned in various colors of marble, predominantly a warm red that was cheerful and elegant at the same time, and inlaid with precious stones. In the antechamber, lit by torches, the floor boasted a terrazzo mural of crystals lit from within.
"Where is everyone?" Persemid asked in a low voice. Her question echoed until it ended in whispers in the high, domed ceiling.
As though in answer, two pairs of red-heeled shoes on the floor came to attention beside double doors painted salmon pink. They arranged themselves, one pair on either side of the door, toes pointing toward the visitors. The doors swung open to show a grand ballroom. Beautiful waltz music was coming from inside.
"Ah!" Bergold said, taking Persemid's arm and directing her in that direction. "There are the footmen. A little slow, but on duty where they should be."
"You're joking, right?" Persemid asked.
"No, indeed! Those are the servants. All the duke's retinue is like them," Bergold whispered to them as they entered.
The ballroom was as gorgeous as the rest of the palace. Huge murals edged with gold filled the walls. The ceiling, also painted with classical scenes, was forty feet high. A dome in the middle reached up through angels and Jacob's ladders through clouds to a clear cupola framing the full moon. Chuck admired the golden floor that shone like polished glass, yet wasn't slippery. It also didn't transmit the sound of dancing footsteps. Except for the music pouring from the orchestra, the place was eerily quiet.
There were no people visible in the room. Only shoes, hundreds of them. But instead of sitting in pairs, they were gathered in small groups, or lined up along the edge of the beautiful floor, on which dozens more pairs were whirling together to the strains of a waltz.
"I hate to state the obvious," Chuck said, "but they're shoes!"
Bergold shrugged. "Typical, really. His Grace likes to surround himself with shallow people. These are so shallow there's little to them but their shoes. They are attracted by charisma or strong influence. About what you'd expect."
"Well, I like it," Kenner said, heartily. He let out a low whistle through his teeth, and nudged Chuck in the side. "Will you get a load of some of those pairs!"
The duke's guests must have found him attractive, too. With his broad shoulders and healthy outdoorsman looks, he was immediately surrounded by a circle of the most beautiful ladies' shoes. "Well, good evening! I must say you're all looking splendid tonight." The pumps and high-heeled mules quivered and leaned toward one another as if whispering about the handsome man in their midst. "My name's Kenner. I'm from Rem. You probably can't tell, but I'm an expert in several forms of martial arts. And I can bench-press two-eighty." The shoes tittered again. He reached out to the daintiest pair of pale pink slippers, that were hanging slightly back behind the circle. "I wonder if you would do me the great honor of dancing with me?"
The right slipper immediately dug its toe into the floor and swiveled as though trying to work up the confidence to accept his invitation. The other pairs made way as the little slippers came forward. Kenner bowed deeply, and led the way out onto the floor. The others waited impatiently until he had made a circuit of the hall before each stepping forward to take their turn.
Chuck felt as though he was being crowded, and looked down to discover he was the center of attention amidst a large flock of shoes, including ladies' shoes both narrow and broad, a pair of cavalier's boots, numerous black leather half-boots, and one single elegant shoe that walked with a limp. He didn't know quite what to do. Converse with them? He found himself babbling just to fill the silence.
"Uh, hi. How are you all doing?" Chuck pulled at his formal collar. "How's the weather been here? Well, folks, I'm happy to be here in the Dreamland. It's always nice to know where the things you use every day are made, but between you and me I don't want to see where they made the monster that used to live under my bed. Bada-boom. Heh heh." His laugh died away uneasily.
Silence. Now he knew how stand-up comedians felt in a difficult house. Without voices, how could he know if they were bored or not? How did anyone tell with shoes? Did they stick their tongues out at him? But they didn't leave. He glanced around to the others, to see how they were handling the odd situation. Bergold seemed to be having a pretty good time, bowing and smiling his way around the ballroom, but Chuck had yet to see a situation where the little Historian didn't feel at home. The couple from Elysia hung close to the refreshment room. Morit was drinking a lot of punch, and to judge by his red face, might have been doctoring it to make it a little more interesting. He seemed very uncomfortable. Blanda was enjoying herself enormously, tugging on her husband's arm to point things out to him. Nice lady, Chuck thought. She deserved better than Morit.
Hiramus did dance with Pip. His movements were as precise as those of a Swiss watch, but Chuck had to admit he was a fine dancer. Chuck felt a twinge of envy. Everything Hiramus did, he did well. Her lovely face aglow, Pip glided and flew about the floor like a fairy. It was a wonder that she stayed on the ground. Persemid waited her turn in the shadow of the pillars near the door.
"Isn't this lovely?" asked Mrs. Flannel, waving to Chuck from a row of chairs. The old woman was dressed in beaded black with black lace mitts on her thin, little hands. He was glad to hear a real voice, and went to stand beside her.
"It's beautiful," Chuck said, sincerely. "I've never been invited to a place like this."
"And the music! So inspiring, don't you think?"
"Oh, yes," Chuck agreed. He glanced up toward the bandstand. He probably shouldn't have been surprised that it, too, was empty of humanity. The musical instruments hung in midair, operating themselves.
Bolster, ever the gentleman, came to bow before Mrs. Flannel.
"May I have the honor of this dance?"
"Oh!" she tittered. "I would love to!" She turned to Chuck. "Would you watch Spot?"
"Certainly!" he said. Mrs. Flannel's pet, which was on the chair beside hers, hardly needed watching, having become an irregularly shaped rock about the size of his fist, but if it made her feel more comfortable, he'd be delighted to help. Chuck smiled as the two of them joined the others on the floor.
He thought he was getting used to the weirdness of the Dreamland, but this party was the strangest thing he'd experienced yet. No one was speaking aloud except for the visitors, yet the Dreamlanders were having no trouble communicating with the other guests. He guessed that they were so used to people changing shape they understood instinctively whatever form of communication each form took. He wished he had that ability. He wondered why the Sleepers had decided everybody here ought to be shoes for a while. It must be symbolic. Like Bergold said, these people were shallow. He was sorry there wasn't a book on dream interpretation among the pitiful collection on board the train.
A few yards to his left, Bergold was telling an animated story to a circle of mens' and womens' shoes. The tapping of their toes sounded like polite tittering. They were communicating, just in a fashion he was not accustomed to dealing with. Chuck became aware that a pair of pale blue kidskin pumps were hovering near him. They leaned closer, communicating a question. A request. What could it be? Did they, or rather, the lady they represented, want to dance?
"Uh," Chuck said, uneasily. "I'm not very good at waltzing." His conscience prodded him. He had a responsibility to ask ladies at a formal ball to dance. It was only polite. It was one of the reasons he'd been asked. "Um. May I have this dance?"
He held out his hand. He almost jumped when he felt a dainty hand nestle into his. So that was how Kenner knew which pair he was taking out on the floor! There was a lady here, almost. Chuck felt as though he was clutching a very thin balloon in the shape of a hand. If he squeezed too hard it might pop. He wondered what she looked like. He let his imagination shape her as a small-boned, pretty woman with upswept dark hair and dark eyes, but pale skin like a pearl. And her dress would be robin's-egg blue like her shoes. Once he'd imagined the rest of her, it was easier to relate to the disembodied footgear and the light pressure on his hands. He was curious, but how could he ever find out if his imagination was correct?
The dainty shoes minced out to a place near the center of the floor, stopped, and turned to face him. The baton on the dais wagged up and down several times, then hovered in the air before dropping sharply. The invisible musicians struck up a grand piece that was too fast for a waltz, with a different rhythm. Chuck's heart sank. He could have faked his way through a waltz.
"I'm . . . not much of a dancer," Chuck stammered. "Maybe another time. I don't know this one."
The ghost hand in his refused to let him go. Obligingly, a pattern of numbered footprints appeared on the floor, with one pair immediately underneath his own feet. The blue shoes tapped, one, two, three, and set off taking one step back and to the right. Chuck had to follow.
For once he was thankful that his partner was invisible so he could see the instructions on the floor through her skirt. His forehead perspiring with the effort, he followed the numbers, putting his feet on the marks in time to the music. It was awkward going at first. He hoped he wasn't making too much of a fool of himself.
"Oops! I'm sorry," he exclaimed, as he accidentally stepped on his partner's toes. The ghost hand lightened its touch, as if to say it was all right. Sweating, Chuck tried to be more careful. Within a short time, he started to feel more confident. This wasn't too hard, as long as it didn't get fancy. He began to enjoy himself.
"I haven't danced like this since my wedding," he told his partner. The little hand shifted so that he could feel the base of her third finger against the side of his upturned hand. A smooth coldness touched his flesh. Ah, a ring! She was married, too.
Now that he had managed to hardwire the cha-cha into his reflexes, Chuck had a moment to be wistful. He wished he remembered his wife's face, but at that moment he could only remember the shoes she was wearing on their wedding day. They had been white satin with rhinestone clips. He sighed, feeling sad for all the times he hadn't appreciated her. His partner-shoes made a pretty little pirouette, as though to sympathize, and to draw his attention back to what he was doing. She must be a very nice lady. He smiled at her, and felt a friendly pressure against his hands in reply.
Trays full of bite-sized goodies circulated throughout the room at chest level, followed discreetly by leather shoes with plain square steel buckles. Lots of small, scuffed shoes gathered among the pillars to either side of the dance floor. They must be kids watching. Chuck grinned at them as he sailed by with his partner. They scattered momentarily, and regrouped behind another pillar. Yep. Kids.
The music ended. Chuck escorted his partner to the nearest chairs and bowed to her. Her hand squeezed his and withdrew.
"And thank you, too, ma'am," Chuck said. He joined the others in applauding the orchestra.
"Come on!" Keir said, appearing at his side. "You're about to receive a great honor. The duke wants to meet the Visitors." He grinned, his black eyes glinting, and scurried away to retrieve Hiramus. Keir's dolphin shape didn't lose sight of the fact that he was attending a formal dance: he still wore a bow tie.
"There's no need to be nervous," Bergold assured the Visitors, as they lined up before the dais. Chuck kept staring at the empty chairs, wondering what the faces looked like that belonged to the footwear. Bergold stepped forward and bowed. "Your graces, I have the honor to present Visitors from the Waking World. Master Chuck Meadows."
Bergold gestured, urging him to come forward. "Chuck Meadows, His Grace the Duke of Oneiros, and Her Grace the Duchess of Oneiros."
"Uh, Your Grace?" Chuck made a hasty bow before the grandest shoes in the room; in fact, the grandest shoes he had ever seen, men's shoes in gleaming white leather with diamond buckles and high red heels, like ones said to belong to Louis XIV he had seen in a history book. Resting on a pillow, they moved slightly as though to acknowledge Chuck's presence.
Chuck bowed to the other pair, very tiny, jeweled ladies' shoes to the left of the man's shoes. Chuck bowed and said, "Ma'am." Bergold nudged him in the back and whispered, "Your Grace." Chuck parroted the response, and backed away, red-faced, as Pipistrella was presented. Pip gathered her beautiful skirts in her hands, approached the dais, and sank a few inches in a delicate curtsy. Her beauty must have made a distinct impression on the duke. The diamond-studded shoes stirred excitedly. One of the tiny, jeweled shoes beside them swiveled over and kicked them in the heel.
Persemid came next. She was much better at this presentation stuff than Pip. When Bergold pronounced her name, she swept a deep curtsy, brushing her ostrich plume headdress on the floor as she bowed her head. Her gesture got an equally good response from both pairs of shoes on the dais.
The duke and duchess didn't seem to have much of an attention span. When Hiramus came forward to make his bow, the red-heeled shoes swiveled around as though they were facing the rear of the dais, where several other pairs were waiting. They didn't trouble to turn back when Keir was introduced, either.
Shallow is right, Chuck thought, backing away from the platform as Bergold instructed him. His dance partner was waiting for him at the doorway to the supper room. He'd much rather spend the time with people who enjoyed his company, even if he couldn't see them.
* * *
A clock somewhere in the palace struck twelve. Though the others were still going strong, Chuck felt as though he was ready to go back. He caught Keir's eye while the guide was chatting with Hiramus and a dozen or so of the unseen courtiers, and gestured toward the door. Keir nodded understanding.
Chuck walked down the marble steps, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. It must have rained or, Chuck corrected himself, the sleepers who dreamed this part of the world had been thinking of rain. His footsteps rang on damp flagstone pavement, making a lonely, late-night sound that made Chuck think of film noir thrillers. He'd had a terrific time. When he came out of his trance and told his wife and friends about his experiences, they wouldn't believe the half of it; dancing at a palace with invisible women. If he got back. If he didn't come to pieces in the meantime. All his anxieties came roaring back. He beat them down, thinking of the palace he'd just left. What a place.
The night was a trifle chilly. Chuck pulled up the collar of his fancy coat and clutched it around his neck. There ought to be mood music, violins and oboes, following him. To his delight, just the right kind of pensive blues rose around his feet like fog. A streetlight threw his shadow down on the wet concrete. Chuck smiled and started walking to the beat.
He heard footsteps a long way back. A glance over his shoulder showed no one in sight. If the other person was one of the duke's courtiers there'd be nothing but shoes anyhow. He kept going.
The footsteps grew nearer. Chuck looked back. The sound was more ominous, echoing louder than his own tread. Suddenly, more footsteps joined the first pair. Chuck began walking faster. He heard more and more of them coming. He wanted to see who was there. Stopping to take refuge in the oasis of another streetlamp's halo, he waited for them to catch up. All the sounds ceased. Chuck started walking again, slowly at first. The footsteps began again, pacing him step for step. Chuck sped up. So did his pursuers.
He started striding as quickly as he could, his shoes clattering as loud as a snare drum in the silence of the evening, but they were drowned out by the horde of feet approaching from behind. They were after him!
If only he could get back to the train. The conductor would send for help. It wasn't far, now; only a few streetlamps' distance. He could see the white steam rising from the smokestack. As he turned his head to try and catch a glimpse of his pursuers, he felt the first kick in the back. It knocked him to his knees. Within moments, he was being attacked from every side by disembodied insoles and shoe liners. They plastered themselves to him, immobilizing his hands. Chuck yelled a protest and kicked out, but they covered any part of his body that moved. Then the thugs moved in. Disreputable-looking boots came out of the shadows to jab at him and grind their heels into his flesh. Chuck twisted and turned to avoid kicks in the belly, but a whole gang of workboots took him in the chest, knocking him to the ground. Chuck took a breath to call for help.
"Somebo—"
One of the insoles slapped itself across his mouth. More followed. Soon, Chuck was in a mass of boots, rolling to try and free himself from their bruising assault. Screaming through his gag with frustration, Chuck flung his legs about, trying to kick his attackers away. They had the force of numbers, though. Dozens of them stomped up and down on his body.
"Roll!" cried a voice he knew to be Persemid's. "Roll away! Now!"
Chuck waited until the boots were at the top of their arc, and rolled. The next thing he knew, a sixteen-ton weight came crashing down on his attackers. Persemid came rushing up, her long hair flying, calling for Bergold. She helped Chuck sit up.
His assailants hadn't finished with him. A stiletto heel came flying out of the darkness, stabbing right into his chest. Persemid let out a banshee scream, snatched the shoe out and threw it to the ground. Chuck was knocked backward by the force of the kick. She pulled him into a sitting position, took the insole off his mouth and flung it away. Before he could prevent her, she threw up his shirt to look at the injury, and stopped dead, staring at the hole in his chest. She gaped at him, her eyes huge with horror in the streetlight.
"It was like that before," Chuck said, desperately pulling his dress shirt back into place. The hole was larger than it had been before. No time to worry about that now. "Please don't tell anyone," he begged. "It only exists here. I don't have this at home."
"That's terrible!" Persemid said. She looked sorry for him, but abashment just made her more brusque than before. "You had to go walking off by yourself, in a strange city. You could have been killed! And that, that . . ." She pointed at his chest.
"Don't tell anyone," he pleaded. "I'm hoping Keir's teachings will help me close it up, fill it in again. Don't say anything. I don't want anyone else to know."
"I won't mention it," she said, sincerely. She shook her head. "Weird."
"Tell me about it," he said as Bergold arrived at their side.
"What in all Nightmares happened here?" the Historian asked. His wing collar had sprung loose on one side.
"I got mugged," Chuck said. "If Persemid hadn't come along and foiled them, I could have been badly hurt. Thank you," he told her, sincerely.
"Don't mention it," Persemid said.
The little Historian turned to stare at the sixteen-ton weight. Incredibly, almost all Chuck's attackers were trapped underneath it, flopping like a fresh catch of fish. "Great night!" The others came running up behind him.
"What happened?" demanded Keir.
"He was set upon by footpads," said Bergold.
"You poor boy!" Blanda exclaimed. She started rummaging in her evening bag.
More tramping noises came towards them out of the night. Soon, the prisoners under the weight were surrounded by very flat brogues and shoes with crepe soles who made chalk outlines of footprints all around the place where Chuck had been lying.
"Everything is under control now," Keir said. "The gumshoes are on it."
Chuck felt as though he was a mass of bruises. When he stood up to examine himself under the streetlamp, his fancy suit had footprints all over it. "It's a good thing this body isn't real," he said, trying to keep it light for the circle of worried faces around him. "I'd never get my deposit back on it."
"Are you all right?" Hiramus asked, unusually solicitous.
"Yes, I'm fine," Chuck said. "Sore, but intact."
"Thank the Sleepers," Hiramus said. "Let's get you back to the train and see if the conductor can find you a hot bath."
Chuck groaned as his muscles protested moving. "That would be great."
"Here!" Blanda said, drawing a huge jar from her handbag. "I knew I had some chicken soup. We'll just heat it up for you."
Chuck was grateful for her kindness. The night didn't seem so sinister any more, but he was glad to have a large group around him as they returned to the train. As soon as he mounted the steps of the car, he felt safe.
| Title: | The Grand Tour |
| Author: | Jody Lynn Nye |
| ISBN: | 0-671-57883-9 |
| Copyright: | © 2000 by Jody Lynn Nye |
| Publisher: | Baen Books |