"By the harp of Homer and the stylus of Archimedes," Chalmers intoned, "by the shape-shifting magic of Proteus and the logic of Zeno; by the arts of the Muses and the mathematics of Pythagoras; I call upon you Olympians to witness that granting the existence of P and likewise that of Q, then P equals not-Q, even as Q equals not-P ..." As he spoke, someone entered the room.
"Are you leaving us?" It was a slave. In fact, it was the slave who had run into the temple to announce the departure of Aeneas. Chalmers, concentrating on his parchment, did not look up.
"Go away!" Shea hissed. It was imperative that Chalmers recite his equations precisely.
"My, my," the slave said. "And you're not even going to say goodbye?" Something seemed familiar about the slave's lopsided grin. Then the man seemed to swell. He grew several feet in height, and he turned gold.
"Forgot about me, didn't you?" said Phoebus Apollo. "Well, I never forget a mortal who crosses me!" He pointed at the parchment and a beam of blinding light shot from his finger, incinerating the parchment in an instant. "Have a pleasant journey, mortals!"
The room wavered around them and it began to fade. So also faded the laughter of the vengeful god. Last of all, there was a rustling, crackling sound, as of a giant pair of hands crumpling a first draft to toss it into the wastebasket. Then they were off into the aether.
The kaleidoscope of colored spots whirled on, and on, and on for, it seemed, hours. Harold Shea, clutching Reed Chalmers' bony hand in his, said:
"Hey, Doc, where is this taking us? At this rate, my kid will be a grown-up young woman by the time we get back to our own space-time continuum!"
"I'm sure I had the formula correct," replied Reed Chalmers. "It included Florimel, and I double-checked it before starting the spell. But then that rascally deity Apollo wiped it out halfway through the formula. I finished as best I could from memory; but I may have misplaced an item or two. So, to answer your question, I simply do not know. We shall have to wait and see."
"Assuming we're going to land anywhere! What if the god's interference haves us trapped between universes forever?"
"Then we shall have to compose ourselves and submit to fate with the best grace we can muster."
"Easy for you to say!" snorted Shea, never one to submit supinely to fate however overriding. "I can see myself coming home and having Belphebe say: 'Oh, darling, what a shame you weren't in time for our daughter's wedding yesterday!' ... But hey, I think we're about to land somewhere!"
The polychromatic whirl slowed, and beyond it a landscape was taking shape. As it formed up, however, it became increasingly evident that, whatever space-time continuum it formed a part of, it was not that of the neighborhood of Garaden, Ohio.