Park frowned up from his mountain of printed matter. “Who? Never mind; let’s see it.” He took the note. It read (spelling conventionalized):
Dear Hallow: Why in the name of the Blood Witnesses of Belfast did you run away from us yesterday? The papers say you have gone back home; isn’t that risky? Must have a meeting with you forthwith; shall be at Bridget’s Beach this noon, waiting. Respectfully, R. C.
Park asked Dunedin: “Tell me, is Callahan a tall heavy guy who looks like an In — a Skrelling?”
Dunedin looked at him oddly. By this time Park was getting pretty well used to being looked at oddly. Dunedin said: “But he is a Skrelling, Hallow; the Sachem of all the Skrellings of Vinland.”
“Hm. So he’ll meet me at this beach — why the devil can’t he come here?”
“Ooooh, but Hallow, bethink what happened to him the last time the New Belfast knicks caught him!”
Whatever that was, Park reckoned he owed the Sachem something for the rescue from the clutches of the mysterious Mr. Noggle. The note didn’t sound like one from a would-be abductor to his escaped prey. But just in case, Park went out to the modest episcopal automobile (Dunedin called it a “wain”) and put a wrench in his pocket. He told Dunedin: “You’ll have to drive this thing; my thumb’s still sore.”
It took a few minutes to get steam up. As they rolled out of the driveway, a car parked across the street started up too. Park got a glimpse of the men therein. While they were in civilian clothes, as he was, they had a grim plainclothesman look about them.
After three blocks the other car was still behind them. Park ordered Dunedin to go around the block. The other car followed.
Park asked: “Can you shake those guys?”
“I–I don’t know, your hallowship. I’m not very good at fast driving.”
“Slide over then. How in hell do you run this thing?”
“You mean you don’t know-”
“Never mind!” roared Park. “Where’s the accelerator or throttle or whatever you call it?”
“Oh, the strangle. There.” Dunedin pointed a frankly terrified finger. “And the brake-”
The wain jumped ahead with a rush. Park spun it around a couple of corners, getting the feel of the wheel. The mirror showed the other car still following. Park opened the “strangle” and whisked around the next corner. No sooner had he straightened out than he threw the car into another dizzy turn. The tires screeched and Dunedin yelped as they shot into an alleyway. The pursuers whizzed by without seeing them.
An egg-bald man in shirtsleeves popped out of a door in the alley. “Hi,” he said, “this ain’t no hitching place.” He looked at Park’s left front fender, clucking. “Looks like you took off some paint.”
Park smiled. “I was just looking for a room, and I saw your sign. How much are you asking?”
“Forty-five a month.”
Park made a show of writing this down. He asked: “What’s the address, please?”
“One twenty-five Isleif.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back, maybe.” Park backed out, with a scrape of fender against stone, and asked Dunedin directions. Dunedin, gray of face, gave them. Park looked at him and chuckled. “Nothing to be scared of, old boy. I knew I had a good two inches clearance on both sides.”
The Sachem awaited Park in the shade of the bathhouse. He swept off his bonnet with a theatrical flourish. “Haw, Hallow! A fair day for our tryst.” Park reflected that on a dull day you could smell Rufus Callahan’s breath almost as far as you could see Rufus Callahan. He continued: “The west end’s best for talk. I have a local knick watching in case Greenfield sends a prowler. Did they follow you out?”
Park told him, meanwhile wondering how to handle the interview so as to make it yield the most information. They passed the end of the bathhouse, and Allister Park checked his stride. The beach was covered with naked men and women. Not quite naked; each had a gaily colored belt of elastic webbing around his or her middle. Just that. Park resumed his walk at Callahan’s amused look.
Callahan said: “If the head knick, Lewis, weren’t a friend of mine, I shouldn’t be here. If I ever did get pulled up-well, the judges are all MacSvensson’s men, just as Greenfield is.” Park remembered that Offa Greenfield was mayor of New Belfast. Callahan continued: “While MacSvensson’s away, the pushing eases a little.”
“When’s he due back?” asked Park.
“In a week maybe.” Callahan waved an arm toward distant New Belfast. “What a fair burg, and what a wretched wick to rule it! How do you like it?”
“Why, I live there, don’t I?”
Callahan chuckled. “Wonderful, my dear Hallow, wonderful. In another week nobody’ll know you aren’t his hallowship at all.”
“Meaning what?”
“Oh, you needn’t look at me with that wooden face. You’re nay mair Bishop Scoglund than I am.”
“Yeah?” said Park noncommittally. He lit one of the bishop’s pipes.
“How about a jinn?” asked Callahan.
Park looked at him, until the Sachem got out a cigarette.
Park lit it for him, silently conceding one to the opposition. How was he to know that a jinn was a match? He asked: “Suppose I was hit on the head?”
The big Skrelling grinned broadly. “That mick spoil your recall, in spots, but it wouldn’t give you that frickful word-tone you were using when we befreed you. I see you’ve gotten rid of most of it, by the way. How did you do that in thirty — some hours?”
Park gave up. The man might be just a slightly drunken Indian with a conspiratorial manner, but he had the goods on Allister. He explained: “I found a bunch of records of some of my sermons, and played them over and over on the machine.”
“My, my, you are a cool one! Joe Noggle mick have done worse when he picked your mind to swap with the bishop’s. Who are you, in sooth? Or perhaps I should say who were you?”
Park puffed placidly. “I’ll exchange information, but I won’t give it away.”
When Callahan agreed to tell Park all he wanted to know, Park told his story. Callahan looked thoughtful. He said: “I’m nay brain-wizard, but they do say there’s a theory that every time the history of the world hinges on some decision, there are two worlds, one that which would happen if the card fell one way, the other that which would follow from the other.”
“Which is the real one?”
“That I can’t tell you. But they do say Noggle can swap minds with his thocks, and I don’t doubt it’s swapping between one of these possible worlds and another they mean.”
He went on to tell Park of the bishop’s efforts to emancipate the Skrellings, in the teeth of the opposition of the ruling Diamond Party. This party’s strength was mainly among the rural squirearchy of the west and south, but it also controlled New Belfast through the local boss, Ivor MacSvensson. If Scoglund’s amendment to the Bretwaldate’s constitution went through at the next session of the national Thing, as seemed likely if the Ruby Party ousted the Diamonds at the forthcoming election, the squirearchy might revolt. The independent Skrelling nations of the west and south had been threatening intervention on behalf of their abused minority. (That sounded familiar to Park, except that, if he took what he had read and heard at its face value, the minority really had something to kick about this time.) The Diamonds wouldn’t mind a war, because in that case the elections, which they expected to lose, would be called off…
“You’re not listening, Thane Park, or should I say Hallow Scoglund?”
“Nice little number,” said Park, nodding toward a pretty blonde girl on the beach. Callahan clucked. “Such a wording from a strict wed-less!”
“What?”
“You’re a pillar of the church, aren’t you?”
“Oh, my Lord!” Park hadn’t thought of that angle. The Celtic Christian Church, despite its libertarian tradition, was strict on the one subject of sex.