J was happy about that, certainly-particularly the fact that for once he had come back from Dimension X without being maimed, mauled, and mangled half to death. Blade had arrived that way several times before, and he had to admit that it hadn't done much for his own health or peace of mind. It hadn't done much for J's peace of mind either, so Blade was glad to have spared the old man the worry this time.

J was also being spared another common problem. The mission had been simple, straightforward, and it had not, by some miracle, suggested to Lord Leighton six or even two new avenues of research to explore at further expense and further danger to Blade. Even the old scientist had to admit that it would have been nice, no doubt, to have a sample of the life-sustaining gas from the vaults; but they would have to make do with the marconite. Not that Lord Leighton, sour expression or not, was really dissatisfied with the marconite-but he was a perfectionist. He wanted everything to be exactly right, and in that search for perfection he had at times said «Hang the expense!» or «Hang Blade's safety!» The first had brought him into head-on collisions with the Prime Minister, the second with J. But this time Lord Leighton was on good terms with everybody.

A month at the cottage. Then he was going out to the Mediterranean for a few weeks of diving off Smyrna with an underwater archaeologist friend. That wasn't entirely a vacation-his friend was gong to teach him the basics of underwater searching for relics. Then if he ever landed in a dimension where all the interesting things were fifty feet underwater, he could dive for them. It was another possibly useful skill he wanted to have-another string to his professional bow-although it would be a damned sight more useful if Leighton could figure out how to send a few accessories through the computer! Such as a face mask and swim fins, for example.

Well, Leighton was working as hard at that as he could manage with all the other subprojects to keep going. Sooner or later he would make a breakthrough. Meanwhile there was another three hours of train ride to get through, and that was a depressing thought! Blade had never liked riding as a passenger, except in an airplane. He bent over to rummage in his briefcase for a book.

He was so busy rummaging that he did not notice the train slow, come to a stop, and the trainman pass along the corridor bawling out the name of a station. What he did notice, a minute later, was that somebody was standing in the door of his compartment. He looked up.

About five feet five and all of it nicely curved as far as he could see inside a well-tailored green suit. Blue eyes, so dark they were almost purple, hair the color and consistency of corn silk. He smiled.

«Excuse me,» she said, «is this compartment six A?»

«Yes,» said Blade. «You've come to the right place. Here, let me help you with that suitcase.» He caught up her brown leather traveling bag and swung it one-handed up into the overhead rack. He sat down, trying not to look at her too obviously.

«My name is Richard Blade,» he said. «What's yours?»

«Christine Pohler,» she said. There was just a faint trace of an accent. German? Quietly he picked up the book he had pulled out of his briefcase and slipped it back where it had come from. He no longer needed it. This train trip was not going to be nearly as boring as he had expected.