A group of soldiers sat under a tulip tree eating lunch. Nash asked the way to the lake, got a jerk of a thumb from a hussar with his mouth full of sandwich, and continued on.
At the point where the path debouched on the lake shore there was a small boathouse bearing a sign:
CAPT. PERRY DECATUR SHAPIRO
BOATS FOR RENT
Sounds of carpentry came from the boathouse. Nash dismounted and tried to tie his horse to a tree. But the animal developed fractiousness and tugged Nash toward the lake. The idea finally penetrated his head that the horse was thirsty. He let it drink and tied it so that it could reach plenty of the long grass that grew around.
Captain Perry Decatur Shapiro crawled out from under the boat on which he was working, wiped his hands, and put on his swallow-tailed, brass-buttoned coat and his cocked hat. He and Nash exchanged courtly greetings, and the captain asked if a boat was wanted.
"I have but three fit to put out," he explained."Two have already been taken today. The rest were so riddled in the battle that they'll not be ready for a week."
"What battle, m'sieur?" asked Nash.
"Weren't you in town when it happened? It was during the recent attempt of the Aryan scoundrels. They came down the lake on timber rafts, and our saucy boys went out in the boats to stop them. By God, sir, it was hot work for a while, since we couldn't sink the rafts."
"Have the Aryans all been driven away from the lake now?"
"Yes, sir. So here I sit, hiring my sound boats out to pay for repairs on the rest. Though being so near the front, and what with old Tukiphat's desert island taking up half the lake, I get little enough custom."
"Who," asked Nash carefully, "is Tukiphat?"
"The genius of the Shamir, of course. Though I don't know why he chose my lake to set himself and his bauble up in. He leaves room neither for pleasure boating nor for a proper battle. I wanted to drag the boats over to the river to join Larry Preble Pappas' squadron, but the staff wouldn't hear of it. Those noodles in City Hall are so bemused to the word 'defense' that they'll never put down the vermin, which can be accomplished only by overwhelming attack."
Nash hastily helped launch the rowboat and rowed out before Captain Shapiro could start another tirade. The captain's rate of a dollar an hour made his wallet nerve wince, but he reasoned that if he secured the Shamir he would no longer have to worry about the chevalier's finances.
When he got away from shore he looked around; sure enough there was a most patent desert island; a bare little knob of sand and rock crowned by one sorrowful palm tree, the ensemble looking as out of place in the park as a juke box in a church.
It certainly did not take up half the lake. Nash rowed closer and saw an empty rowboat lying on the sand of the island's minuscule beach. The whole island had a faintly queer, insubstantial look; its perspectives were, somehow, not quite right. Nash put that effect down to an illusion resulting from its general incongruity. Surrounding it was what looked at first sight like a circular ribbon of oil on the water, several yards wide, smooth, dully blue-gray.
Nash decided not to investigate more closely because two other rowboats were in sight. He rowed casually toward one of these; it held two gold-braided soldiers fishing, who warned him off with fingers to their lips. The other looked empty until Nash got close to it. Then he saw that in it lay a young woman sun-bathing in the costume most effective for that occupation. He rowed off, face tingling with embarrassment.
Imagining you were a dashing cavalier was all right for daydreaming. But right now he was more interested in getting back into his own body before Bechard did something awful with it. The demon had not given him detailed instructions for using the Shamir; had in fact sent him off with a mere airy assurance that he would learn what was necessary when the time came. Either Bechard had a great and unfounded confidence in him, or was not very bright, or knew in some supernatural way that things would in fact take care of themselves. The last was the most comforting hypothesis, so Prosper Nash adopted it, pulled into a little cove near the outlet where he would be out df sight of the other boats and Captain Shapiro, lay back, pushed his hat over his eyes, and dozed.
He was awakened by cold and a great interior emptiness. The stars were coming out in quick succession; this city must have a much less smoky atmosphere than its mundane equivalent. The boats were gone from the lake. Everything was quiet saye for the faint sounds of the city's primitive means of transportation and the occasional pop of a gun over to eastward.
Nash's main emotions were impatience to get the job over with, and lonesomeness. He was reminded of how he had felt when he first moved to New York from Hartford, knowing nobody.
If Captain Shapiro came out to demand explanations, Nash would simply tell him he had fallen asleep and then had lost his way in the dark. But the little boathouse was as dark as the rest, and the incongruous island sat there inviting him to storm it, and beg, borrow, or steal the Shamir from this Tukiphat. Who was that? The genius of the Shamir, Shapiro had said; so what? A kind of spirit? He would know soon enough.
It looked too easy; the rowboat still lay on the sand. A genius who used a rowboat sounded like a pretty finite sort of being. Still, Nash would have liked to know what he was up against. The sight of a grim but definite policeman on the rock pile ahead would have been a comfort. Decidedly he was too easygoing a person for enterprises requiring meticulous planning and desperate nerve.
Not a sound from the shore or the island. Nash pulled with a short stroke to minimize the squeak of the oarlocks. It was too easy—
It was.
Chapter V.
Prosper Nash's teeth chattered a little until the exercise warmed him. He took one last look to assure himself that Tukiphat's island was straight ahead, and bent to the oars again. The water gurgled pleasantly as the blades bit through it—pull— reach—pull—reach—a dozen strokes should bring him to the beach. But a dozen strokes did not, nor yet two dozen. Had he rowed right past it in the dark?
Where was the damned thing? And for that matter where was everything? The stars had vanished, and Nash could no longer make out the silhouette of trees against the sky. In fact he could no longer make out anything save the water alongside, darkly reflecting like blued steel. It must have clouded over.
He leaned on his oars again, frowning; a prickly sensation began in the hair follicles of his nape and spread over his scalp. Except for that rippling surface he might as well be rowing through interstellar space. He stuck a finger into the water to see whether it was what it seemed; it was at least wet, and warmer than the chill air. A line from a poem ran through his mind:
The weird ululation of fiends
On the brackish waters of time—
Nash preferred his poetry more concrete and cheerful, but that line seemed appropriate right now. It was no darker than it had been; he just couldn't seem to see anything except two strips of feebly lit water, one stretching away from the bow of the craft and one from the stern. It was somewhat as though he were in his old mundane body without his glasses? Could it be that he was? He felt himself quickly, and was satisfied that he still inhabited the chevalier's big, hawk-nosed, long-haired physique.
But still island, lake, stars, and everything else recognizable had vanished; there was water before and water behind, stretching off to slightly brighter patches on what would be the horizon; everything else was a blur and a dark one at that.