"Beaten a hermetic seal, have they?" Michael murmured; again, the thaumaturgy interested him more than anything else. He went on, "We'll be seeing learned articles on that for some time to come. But yes, I will be happy to accompany you to Chocolate Weasel. Where is the facility located?"

"In St. Ferdinand's Valley, near the comer of Mason and Nordhoff," I answered. That wasn't a part of the Valley I'd learned yet; the Devonshire dump was north of it, while the businesses and factories I'd visited were farther south and east. I figured Michael or I could find it, though.

He said, "Shall we take my carpet again, and meet here as we did yesterday?"

"All right," I answered. I was just as glad that he'd fly us up into the Valley; at the moment, I wondered whether I'd be able to get myself home tonight Michael headed for the lab, no doubt intent on catching up on whatever he'd had to abandon when I called him from the Devonshire dump. I asked my watch what time it was - a little before four. Not quite soon enough to go home, but too late to do anything useful (assuming I could do anything useful) to the parchments on my desk.

I decided to try to call Henry Legion. I realized there was an advantage in dealing with a spook rather than a person (the first I'd found, so I treasured it): even though it was just about seven back in D.C., he was likely to be on the job. At least, I didn't think spooks had families to go home to.

And sure enough, I got him when I called. "Inspector Fisher," he said. "I was hoping I would hear from you. What have you learned since this morning?"

So I told him what I'd learned: the hermetic seals, the quetzal feather, the fer-de-lance, the One Called Night, the Nothing. It took a while. Until I told him what all I'd found out in the course of the day, I hadn't realized how big a forest it made; one tree at a time had been falling on me.

But, to shift the figure of speech, I had a lot of pieces. I didn't have a puzzle.

"I shall convey your information to the appropriate sources," he said when I was through. "Inspector Fisher, the Confederation may well owe you a large debt of gratitude."

"I'm sorry," I said, but right now that doesn't matter much to me. All I want to do is get Judy back, and I don't think I'm much closer than I was." Maybe fitting some of the pieces together would help. I asked, "Is it the Aztecians that we've bumped up against here?"

"Your information makes that appear more likely," he answered, maddeningly evasive and dispassionate as usual.

I was too tired to get angry at him. I just pushed ahead; "If it was the Aztedans, why did they attack the Garuda Bird?"

The CI spook hesitated - I must have asked the right question. "The answer which immediately springs to mind is that the Garuda Bird is the great enemy of serpents, being the representative of birth and the heavens, while serpents are in the camp of death, the underworld, and poison."

"The great enemy of serpents," For a second, it didn't mean anything - I was beat Then an alarm dock started yelling inside my head. "Quetzalcoati."

"This though had occurred to me, yes," Henry Legion said.

"What do we do?" I demanded.

"Prayers come to mind," the spook answered, which, while sensible, was not what I wanted to hear. He added,

"Past that, the best we can. Call if you require my assistance, Inspector Fisher; I shall do what I can for you."

"Thanks," I said. I was talking to a dead line; he'd hung up.

Someone tapped on the door. I looked up. Now, as the day wound down, it was Bea. I gulped. She wasn't the person I wanted to see right then. Or at least I thought she wasn't, until she said quietly, "I just want you to know, David, that my prayers will be with you tonight."

From Henry Legion, the suggestion of prayer had had the undertone that even that probably wouldn't help the mess we were in. Bea, though, sounded calmly confident it would make everything all right. I liked her attitude better than the spook's. But then, Henry Legion knew more about what all was wrong than she did.

I'm sorry I didn't come see you," I muttered. I wasn't just sorry; I was ashamed of myself. But that's not something you can casually say to your boss.

I guess she was good at reading between the lines. She said, "If you like, we can talk about it more tomorrow. Why don't you go home and try to get some rest now? You'll be better for it" She made shooing motions, then smiled. "My mother used to do that to chase chickens off the back porch.

I haven't thought about it in years. Go on home now."

"Thank you, Bea," I said humbly, and I went on home.

I don't remember what I cooked for supper that night, which is probably just as well. I thought about going to bed right afterward, but if I did that, I knew I'd wake up at three in the morning and stay up. So I rattled around in my flat instead, like a pea in a pod that was much too big for it. The quiet in there felt very loud. I wished I had an ethemet set to give myself something to occupy my ears and maybe my mind. Being alone with yourself when you're worried is hard work. I tried to work, but I couldn't concentrate on the words.

The phone yelled. I banged my shin on the coffee table in the front room as I sprang up and dashed off to answer it. It was some mountebank selling microsalamander cigar lighters. I'm afraid I told him where to put one before he let the salamander loose. I limped back out front after I hung up.

I picked up my book again. I should have been reading something useful, maybe about the Garuda Bird or Quetzalcoati. But no, it was a thriller about thirteen guys on a spy mission to Alemania during the Second Sorcerous War.

I was at the exciting part - the Alemans were trying to drive them into the alkahest pits still bubbling from the First Sorcerous War. Even so, I kept losing track of what was going on. The phone again. I almost hoped it was another huckster, I'd taken savage, mindless pleasure in baiting the first one.

Too much had happened to me, with no chance for me to hit back at anyone. If a miserable salesman chose that moment to inflict himself on me, it was his lookout "Hello?" I snapped.

"David?" The progressive distortion from two phone imps couldn't mask the voice. All my rage evaporated even before she went on, "It's Judy."

"Honey," I whispered; just hearing for sure that she was alive took my breath away, I made myself talk louder: "Are you all right?"

"I'm - fair," she said, which made me fearful all over again. She hunted on: "Don't ask questions, Dave. You have to listen to me. They won't let me talk long. They say you have to stop messing around with things that aren't your business, or else-" I waited to hear what the "or else" was, but she'd stopped. I was afraid I could figure it out for myself.

"Tell them I say I'll do whatever they want," I answered. I hoped she'd get the distinction: just because I said it didn't mean I would.

"Be careful, Dave," she said. "They aren't joking. They-"

Her voice cut off. Faintly, as if the imps were reproducing the words of someone farther from the phone, I heard,

"Come on, you."

"Honey, I love you," I said. While I was talking, though, somebody hung up the phone. I don't think Judy heard me.

I spent a while wishing damnation on the wretches who'd snatched her, then pulled myself together and called the Long Beach constables. Plaindothesman Johnson had the night off; I got some other worthy, name of Scott. He heard me out, then said, "Thanks for passing on the information, sir. We'll do what we can with it"

Which meant as I knew only too well, they weren't going to do much. It did tell them, as it had me, that Judy was still on This Side. That did count for something to them, and it had counted for a lot more than something to me. I had fresh hope.