Then suddenly —

“Here it is: we’re mad. You must prove to us you are mad. You must do — oh, let’s see — five mad acts. Truly mad. Right here in the Cave. You can do anything but harm one of us or try to escape. And we’re mad, so we’ll know if they’re mad acts or not. Now, go on.”

“Tell him the rest, Deere, tell him —” Darfla began.

“Quiet, woman! That’s all there is, Watcher. Go on.” He stood back, arms folded across his round little belly.

“Mad? What kind of madness? I mean, like what? I don’t … I can’t do any …” Themus looked at Darfla. Something unhinged within him at sight of her, about to cry.

He thought for a while. The crowd became impatient, voices called out things from the pack. He thought longer. Then his face smiled all the way from his mouth to his hairline.

Calmly he walked over to Darfla and began undressing her.

The clack of jaws falling was an audible thing in the sudden silence of the Cave.

Themus stripped her piece by piece, carefully knotting and pulling each piece of clothing before he went on to the next. Blouse. Knot and pull tight. Belt. Knot and pull tight. Skirt. Knot and pull tight.

Darfla offered no resistance, but her face went stoney and her jaw muscles worked rhythmically.

Eventually she was naked to the skin.

Themus bent down, made sure each item of clothing was securely knotted. Then he gathered it all up in a bundle and brought the armful to the girl. She put out her arms and he dropped the bundle into them.

“Knots to you,” he said.

“One,” said Deere.

Themus could feel small generators in his head begin to spin, whirr, and grind as they worked themselves up to a monstrous headache.

He stood spraddle-legged in the open area among the Crackpots, a tall, blue-haired man with a nose just a trifle too long and cheeks just a trifle too sunken, and rubbed his a-trifle-too-long nose in deep concentration.

Again he smiled.

Then he spun three times on his toes, badly, and made a wild dash for one of the onlookers.

The Crackpot looked around in alarm, saw his neighbors smiling at his discomfort, and looked back at Themus, who had stopped directly in front of him.

The Crackpot wore a shirt and slacks of motley, a flat mortarboard-type hat askew over his forehead. The mortarboard slipped a fraction of an inch as he looked at Themus.

The Watcher stood before him, intently staring at his own hand. Themus was clutching his left elbow with his right hand. His left hand was extended, the fingers bent up like spikes, to form a rough sort of enclosure.

“See my guggle fish?” asked Themus.

The Crackpot opened his mouth once; strangled a bit, closed his mouth, strangled a bit, opened his mouth again. Nothing came out.

Themus extended his hand directly under the other’s nose. It was obviously a bowl he was holding in his hand. “See my guggle fish?” he repeated.

Confused, the Crackpot managed to say, “W -what g-guggle fish? I don’t see any fish.”

“That isn’t odd,” said Themus, grinning, “they all died last week.”

Over the roar of the crowd the voice of a blocky-faced man next to the motley wearer rose:

“I see your guggle fish. Right there in the bowl. I see them. Now what?”

“You’re crazier than I am,” said Themus, letting the mythical bowl evaporate as he opened his hand, “I don’t have any bowl.”

“Two,” said Deere, his brow furrowed.

Without wasting a moment, Themus began shoving the Crackpots toward the wall. Without resistance they allowed themselves to be pushed a bit. Then they stopped.

“For this one I’ll need everyone’s help,” said Themus. “Everybody has to line up. I need everyone in a straight line, a real straight line.” He began shoving again. This time they all allowed themselves to be pushed into a semblance of order, a line straight across the Cave.

“No, no,” muttered Themus slowly, “that isn’t quite good enough. Here.” He went to one end, began moving each Crackpot a bit forward or backward till they were all approximately in the same positions of the line.

He went to the right end and squinted down the line.

“You there, fourth from the end, move back a half step, will you. Uh, yes, that’s — just — stop! Fine. Now you,” he pointed to a fellow with yellow bagged-out trousers and no shirt, “move up just a smidgee-un-uh-nuh! Stop! That’s just perfect.”

He stepped back away from them and looked along both ways, surveying them as a general surveys his troops.

“You’re all nicely in line. All the same. The Crackpots are neatly maneuvered into being regimented Stuffed Shirts. Thank you,” he said, grinning widely.

“Three,” said Deere, blushing and furrowed at the same time.

Themus was pacing back and forth by the time the crowd had hurriedly and self-consciously gotten itself out of rank and clumped around the Cave again.

He paced from one huge stalagmite, kicking it, on turning, to the edge of the mud-surrounded pool, and began scrabbling in the mud at his feet.

He scooped up two huge handfuls of the runny stuff and carried it a few feet away to a rock surface. Plunking it down, he hurried back for another handful. This he carried with wild abandon, spraying those near him with drops of the gunk, till he was back where he had deposited the previous load. Then he stopped, considered for a long moment, then placed the mud gingerly atop the other, at an angle.

Then he hurried back for more.

This he again placed with careful deliberation, tongue poking from a corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed in contemplation.

Then another load.

And another.

Each one placed with more care than the last, till he had a huge structure over four feet tall.

He stepped back from it, looked at it, raised his thumb and squinted at it through one eye. Then he raced back to the deep hole that had been gouged out of the mud and took a fingerful of the stuff.

He ran back, patted it carefully into place, smoothed it with an experienced hand, and stepped back, with a sigh and a look of utter contentment and achievement.

“Ah! Just the way I wanted it,” he said …

… and jumped into the hole.

“Four,” said Deere, tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks.

Themus sat in the hole, legs drawn up and crossed, hands cupping his chin, elbows on knees. He sat.

And sat longer.

And still sat.

And remained seated.

Deere walked over to him and looked down. “What is the fifth act of madness?”

“There isn’t any.”

More quickly than anyone could follow, he had swiveled back and his head had revolved on his head in a blur, “There isn’t any?”

“I’m going to sit here and not do any more.”

The crowd murmured again. “What?” cried Deere. “What do you mean, you won’t do any more? We set you five. You’ve done four. Why no fifth?”

“Because if I don’t do a fifth, you’ll kill me, and I think that’s mad enough even for you.”

Though Deere’s back was turned and he was walking away, Themus was certain he heard “Five” from somewhere.

“They want you to come back here again after you’ve seen my uncle,” said Darfla, a definite chill in her voice.

They were walking briskly down a moving traverseway, the girl a few steps ahead of the Watcher.

Themus knew he had a small problem on his hands.

“Look, Darfla, I’m sorry about that back there, but it was my life or a little embarrassment for you. It was the first thing I could bring to mind, and I had to stall for time. I’m really sorry, but I’m sure they’ve seen a woman naked before, and you must have been naked before a man before so it shouldn’t —”

Themus fell silent. The continued down the traverseway, Darfla striding forward, anger evident in each long step.

Finally the girl came to an intersection of belt strips and agilely swung across till she was on the slowest-moving outer belt. She stepped off, took several rapid steps to lose momentum, and turned to Themus.