The boat was pushed into the shallow rapid water and held in place by Tom while a number of long pieces of rope, the winch, the scuba tanks, the 10hp motor, and a lot of other stuff were piled inside. Then they headed toward the reservoir, Doug holding the boat by its rope like a large frisky dog on a leash, finding his way through the underbrush at the edge of the stream by aiming his forehead light almost straight down at his feet. The others, following, were a little less lucky in their illumination, and therefore frequently in their footing. Splashes, curses, stumblings, and anonymous thumps and oofs punctuated their way.

At the chain-link fence, Tiny went to work with the wire cutters, announcing, “I’m having déjà vu again.”

It took almost twenty minutes to cut away enough fence so that the boat could go through on the stream and the people could go through more or less on dry land. Once they were all past that obstacle, Dortmunder called softly, “Doug. Hold on a second.”

Doug turned his head, the forehead light flashing around the dark forest. “Yeah?”

“From here on,” Dortmunder told him, “we better go without light. We’re getting too close to the reservoir.”

Tom said, “Al? How do we find the reservoir, if we don’t have any light?”

“The boat knows the way,” Dortmunder explained. “Doug follows the boat, the rest of us follow Doug. We each hold on to the shirt of the guy in front of us.”

“Sounds good,” Kelp said.

It turned out to sound considerably better than it was. The level of splashing, thumping, cursing, and stumbling to one’s knees increased dramatically behind the boat as it bobbed along, happily in its element, followed by Doug, trying to hold on to the boat’s rope while not getting decapitated by tree branches he couldn’t see, followed by Kelp clutching the back of Doug’s wetsuit, followed by Tiny clutching both of Kelp’s shoulders, followed by Tom with a bony finger hooked into one of Tiny’s belt loops, followed by Dortmunder holding gingerly to the back of Tom’s collar.

Finally, in exasperation, Tiny called out, “Are we going the right way? Doug, where the hell’s the reservoir?”

“Uh,” Doug said, and splashed around a bit. “I think I’m in it.”

He was. For a minute or two, they all were, but then they got themselves sorted out once more and refound the land.

The shore here, where stream met reservoir, was very wet and soft and mucky. They had to range a ways off to the left before they found solid enough ground for Tiny to set up the winch and other equipment. The boat was emptied there, the motor attached at the stern, and at last the three seafarers—Doug, Kelp, and Dortmunder—prepared to set off. It was necessary for somebody to be in the boat while the other two were on their dive, and Dortmunder was the only one available for that job, unfortunately. Also, with Kelp volunteering to join Doug in the descent, there hadn’t been much Dortmunder could do to complain.

They got into the boat, which rocked and wriggled as though they were tickling it. But the thing was completely dry inside, to Dortmunder’s astonishment. The bottom was rubberized canvas that moved sluggishly with you, like a waterbed, but the bulbous sides, taut with air, gave a sense of real solidity.

Dortmunder sat on the bottom in the middle, feeling the water’s coldness seep upward, while Kelp sat in the front and Doug knelt beside the steering rod of the motor in back. Tiny gave them a little push away from shore, instantly disappearing back there, and Doug started the motor, which went pock-thrummmmm. Very quiet sound, really, after that explosive onset. You wouldn’t be able to hear it very far at all.

“Everybody set?” Doug asked.

It was so dark you couldn’t tell the difference between water and land. Dortmunder said, “I hope you can see where we’re going.”

“As a matter of fact,” Doug said, “I can’t see a damn thing.” And he accelerated the little thrumming motor, steering them somewhere.

Look at him, Myrtle thought, watching Wally Knurr through the binoculars. The little man’s eyes gleamed with green highlights as he stared at the computer screen.

Myrtle’s own eyes were getting heavier and heavier. She knew she’d have to go to sleep soon. But, watching him, even though his stance and manner and expression never changed, was still repellently fascinating.

Look at him, she thought. What nefarious scheme is he planning over there?

But I’ve already met the princess.

Disguised as a commoner.

Well, not really.

You did not meet her in your true guise.

Wally sat back to digest that thought. Was it accurate? When he’d met Myrtle Jimson he’d told her his true name, and he’d told her the truth about his interest in computers and about where he lived and all of that. He had not, of course, volunteered the information that he knew her father, nor that he was involved with her father in a major…

Robbery? Well, no, actually, this wasn’t a robbery, the robbery had taken place almost twenty-five years ago. There were still illegal elements in the affair, to be sure, such as breaking and entering the reservoir and the fact that the money did still technically belong to some bank or some armored car outfit or some insurance company or somebody other than Tom Jimson, but these seemed to Wally technical crimes at the level that caused toaster companies to pay fines in Federal court but no executives to go to prison.

His fingers padded once more over the keys.

I still don’t see why I can’t just go over to the library and just happen to see her again and just say hello.

The princess does not at this time require rescue.

Not to rescue her. Just to say hello. I only saw her once. I want to see her again.

If the princess meets the hero in his true guise before it is time for the rescue, she will reject him, misunderstanding his role.

I don’t think this princess is going to need to be rescued from anything. She works in the library, she lives with her mother, she’s in a small town where everybody knows her and likes her. What is there to rescue her from?

The hero awaits his moment.

But I want to see Myrtle Jimson again.

She must not see you at this time.

(A block away, sleepy eyes closed behind drooping binoculars. Weary feet moved toward bed.)

Why mustn’t she see me?

She will misunderstand, and the story will end in the hero’s defeat.

I’ll risk it.

Remember the specific rule of the game of Real Life.

Of course I remember it. I entered it into you myself.

Nevertheless. It is:

I know. I know. I know.

Why any hero would wish to play such a game is incomprehensible.

“It sure is,” Wally muttered aloud, and looked sadly out the window at the sleeping village.

Thrummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmm…

There were dim lights visible way down at the dam. Those were the only landmarks at all worth mentioning. Once the three men in a boat were out a ways from shore, it became roughly possible to distinguish between the grayer flatter surface of the reservoir and the darker and more tangled landscape all around them, but that was it for orientation.

Their first goal was the scene of the second disaster, over by the railroad tracks, which turned out to be extremely difficult to find when no moonlight gleamed off them. “I think it’s here,” Kelp or Dortmunder said, four or five times each, before one of them happened to be right.

When they’d definitely found the railroad line, Doug steered them in close to shore, then reduced the motor to idle while he went smoothly and gracefully over the side, standing in knee-deep water as he felt around with his feet for one of the tracks. Finding it, he stooped to tie to it one end of a long reel of monofilament, a high test fishing line, thin and colorless and strong.