We ate, drank, rested what minutes we dared, and took off. Ginny had the lead with Svartalf on her saddlebow, I flew on her right in echelon. The sticks were cranky and sluggish, the screenfields kaput, leaving us exposed to the wind from starboard. But we did loft and level off before the going got tough.

  At first it was visual distortion. What I saw—my grasp on the controls, Svartalf, Ginny’s splendid figure, the stones underneath—rippled, wavered, widened, narrowed, flowed from one obscene caricature of itself to a worse. Gobs of flesh seemed to slough off, hang in drops, stretch thin, break free and disappear. Sound altered too; the skirl turned into a cacophony of yells, buzzes, drones, fleetingly like words almost understandable and threatening, pulses too deep to hear except with the body’s automatic terror reaction. “Don’t pay heed!” I called. “Optical effects, Doppler—” but no message could get through that gibbering.

  Suddenly my love receded. She whirled from me like a blown leaf. I tried to follow, straight into the blast that lashed tears from my eyes. The more rudder I gave the broom, the faster our courses split apart. “Bolyai, help!” I cried into the aloneness. It swallowed me.

  I slid down a long wild curve. The stick would not pull out of it. Well, flashed through my fear, I’m not in a crash dive, it’ll flatten a short ways above—

  And the line of rocks athwart my path were not rocks, they were a mountain range toward which I catapulted. The gale laughed in my skull and shivered the broom beneath me. I hauled on controls, I bellowed the spells, but any change I could make would dash me on the ground before I hit those cliffs.

  Somehow I’d traveled thousands of miles—had to be that much, or I’d have seen these peaks on the limitless plain, wouldn’t I have?—and Ginny was lost, Val was lost, I could brace myself for death but not for the end of hope.

  “Yeee-ow-w-w!” cut through the clamor. I twisted in my seat. And there came Ginny. Her hair blew in fire. The star on her wand burned anew like Sirius. Bolyai was using Svartalf’s paws to steer; yellow eyes and white fangs flared in the panther countenance.

  They pulled alongside. Ginny leaned over till our fingers met. Her sensations ran down the circuit to me. I saw with her what the cat was doing. I imitated. It would have wrecked us at home. But here we slewed sideways and started gaining altitude.

  How to explain? Suppose you were a Flatlander, a mythical creature (if any creature is mythical) of two space dimensions, no more. You live in a surface. That’s right, in. If this is a plane, its geometry obeys the Euclidean rules we learn in high school: parallel lines don’t meet, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, the angles of a triangle total 180 degrees, et cetera. But now imagine that some three-dimensional giant plucks you out and drops you into a surface of different shape. It might be a sphere, for example. You’ll find space fantastically changed. In a sphere, you must think of lines in terms of meridians and parallels, which means they have finite length; in general, distance between points is minimized by following a great circle; triangles have a variable number of degrees, but always more than 180—You might well go mad. Now imagine cones, hyperboloids, rotated trigonometric and logarithmic curves, Mobius bands, whatever you can.

  And now imagine a planet which is all water, churned by storms and not constrained by the ordinary laws of physics. At any point its surface can have any form, which won’t even stay constant in time. Expand the two dimensions into three; make it four for the temporal axis, unless this requires more than one, as many philosophers believe; add the hyperspace in which paranatural forces act; put it under the rule of chaos and hatred: and you’ve got some analogy to the hell universe.

  We’d hit a saddle point back yonder, Ginny passing to one side of it, I to the other. Our courses diverged because the curvatures of space did. My attempt to intercept her was worse than useless; in the region where I found myself, a line aimed her way quickly bent in a different direction. I blundered from geometry to geometry, through a tuck in space that bypassed enormous reaches, toward my doom.

  No mortal could have avoided it. But Bolyai was mortal no longer. To his genius had been added the knowledge and skill of more than a century’s liberation from the dear but confining flesh. Svartalf’s body had changed from a trap to a tool, once his rapport with Ginny enabled the mathematician to draw on her resources also. He could make lightning-quick observations of a domain, mentally write and solve the equations that described it, calculate what its properties would be, get an excellent notion of what the contour would shade into next—in fractional seconds. He wove through the dimensional storms of hell like a quarterback bound for a touchdown.

  He gloried. For lack of other voice, he sang the songs of a black tomcat out after fornication and battle. We clawed over the mountains and streaked toward our goal.

  It was no milk run. We must keep aware and reacting each instant. Often we made an error that well-nigh brought us to grief. I’d lose contact with Ginny and wander off again; or a lurch would nearly make us collide; or the intense gravitational field where space was sharply warped hurled our sticks groundward and tried to yank out guts and eyeballs; or a quick drop in weight sent us spinning; or we shot through folds in space instead of going around and were immediately elsewhere—I don’t recall every incident. I was too busy to notice a lot of them.

  We traveled, though, and faster than we’d hoped, once Bolyai discovered what tricks we could play when the time dimension was buckled. The deafening racket and disgusting illusions plagued us less as we got the hang of passing smoothly from metric to metric. Moreover, the world around us grew steadier. Somebody or something wanted to lair in a region where disturbances tended to cancel out—surely our goal.

  I became able to study the landscape. It changed behind us, though its desolation was constant. The plain gave way to crags, to miles of jumbled bones, to a pit that seemed without bottom, to a lava sea across which sleeted flames and from which rose fumes that made us don our masks, to a swamp of dead trees where thin black mantis-like figures danced around a steeple-high bonfire where other figures writhed shrieking…and on to worse things. We plowed through. Each time Ginny lifted her globe, a pale but waxing glow from inside it showed we were nearer our destination.

  We couldn’t hope to be unobserved, that whole long route. And doubtless word would flash ahead. We pushed the hardest we could.

  We crossed a forest of gallows and a river that flowed with a noise like sobbing and whose spray, cast up by a gust, was warm and salt. We suffered the heat and poisonous vapors from a system of roads where motor vehicles of some kind crawled nose to tail across miles. We traversed hills gouged with trenches and the craters of explosions, rusted cannon the last sign of life except for one flag, raised as in victory, whose colors had faded to gray. The hills climbed till we met another range so high we needed our masks; flitting through its canyons, we dodged stones that fell upward.

  But past those mountains the land swooped down anew. Another plain of boulders reached beyond sight. Far off upon it, toylike at their remove, we spied gaunt black towers. The globe flared brilliant, the wand leaped to point in Ginny’s fingers. “By Hecate,” she cried, “that’s it!”

  I drew alongside. The air was still cold and blowing, a wail in our ears, a streaming past our ribs, a smell akin to burning sulfur and wet iron. At hover, the broomsticks rocked and pitched. Her foot against mine was a very precious contact.

  We peered into the globe she held. Svartalf-Bolyai craned around her arm to see. This close, the intervening space not too different from home geometry, the scrying functioned well. Ginny zoomed in on the castle. It was sable in hue, monstrous in size and shape. Or had it a shape? It sprawled, it soared, it burrowed with no unity except ugliness. Here a thin spire lifted crookedly from a cubical donjon, there a dome swelled pustular, yonder a stone beard overhung a misproportioned gate…square miles of planless deformity, aswarm with the maggoty traffic of devils.

  We tried to look through the walls, but didn’t penetrate far. Behind and beneath the cavernous chambers and twisted labyrinths that we discerned, too much evil force roiled. It was just as well, considering what we did vaguely make out. At the limit, a thought came from just beyond, for an instant—no, not a thought, a wave of such agony that Ginny cried aloud and I bit blood out of my lip. We blanked the globe and embraced till we could stop shuddering.

  “Can’t afford this,” she said, drawing free. “Time’s gotten in short supply.”

  She reactivated the scryer, with a foreseer spell. Those rarely work in our universe, but Lobachevsky had theorized that the fluid dimensions of the Low Continuum might give us a better chance. The view in the globe panned, steadied on one spot, and moved close. Slab-like buildings and contorted towers enclosed a certain courtyard in an irregular septagon. At the middle of this was a small, lumpy stone house, windowless and with a single doorway. A steeple climbed from it, suggestive of a malformed ebon toadstool, that overtopped the surrounding structures and overshadowed the pavement.

  We couldn’t view the inside of this either, for the same reason as before. It seemed to be untenanted, though. I had the creepy feeling that it corresponded in some perverted way to a chapel.

  “Unambiguous and sharp,” Ginny said. “That means she’ll arrive there, and soon. We’ll have to lay our plans fast.”

  “And move fast, too,” I said. “Give me an overall scan, will you, with spot closeups?”

  She nodded. The scene changed to one from on high. I noted afresh how it pullulated in the crowds. Were they always this frantic? Not quite, surely. We focused on a single band of demons. No two looked alike; vanity runs high in hell. A body covered with spines, a tentacled dinosaur, a fat slattern whose nipples were tiny grinning heads, a flying swine, a changeable blob, a nude man with a snake for a phallus, a face in a belly, a dwarf on ten-foot pencil-thin legs, and less describable sights—What held my attention was that most of them were armed. They didn’t go for projectiles either, evidently. However, those medievalish weapons would be bad to encounter.

  Sweeping around, our vision caught similar groups. The confusion was unbelievable. There was no discipline, no consideration, everybody dashed about like a decapitated chicken yelling at everybody else, they jostled and snarled and broke into fights. But more arms were being fetched each minute from inside, more grotesque flyers lumbered into the air and circled.

  “They’ve been alerted, all right,” I said.

  “I don’t suppose they know what to expect,” Ginny said in a low, tight voice. “They aren’t especially guarding the site we’re after. Didn’t the Adversary pass word about us?”

  “He seems to be debarred from taking a personal hand in this matter, same as Lobachevsky and for analogous reasons, I guess. At most, he may’ve tipped his underlings to watch out for trouble from us. But they can’t know we’ve acquired the capability to do what we did. Especially since we’ve made an end run in time.”

  “And the diabolic forces are stupid,” Ginny said. “Evil is never intelligent or creative. They receive word a raid is possible, and look at that mess!”

  “Don’t underrate them. An idiot can kill you just as dead.” I pondered. “Here’s what we’ll do, if you agree. Rush straight in. We can’t prevent them seeing us, so we have to be quick. Good thing our sticks function close to normal in this neighborhood. We won’t make directly for the yard or they might block us off. See that palace, I assume it is, over to the left—the one with the columns in front that look like bowels? Must belong to the big cheese, which makes it a logical spot for enemies to drop a bomb on. At the last moment we’ll swerve toward our real mark. You get inside, establish our paranatural defenses, and ready the return spell. I’ll keep the door. The instant Val appears, you skewer the kidnaper and grab her. Got it?”

  “Yes. Oh, Steve.” The tears ran silently from her eyes. “I love you.”

  We kissed a final time, there in the sky of hell. Then we attacked.

  The wind of our passage shouted around us. The dreary landscape reeled away beneath. I heard Svartalf’s challenge and answered with my own whoop. Fear blew out of me. Gangway, you legions of darkness, we’re coming to fetch our girl!

  They began to see us. Croaks and yammers reached our ears, answered by shrieks from below. The flying devils milled in the air. Others joined them till several hundred wings beat in a swarm across the sooty stars. They couldn’t make up the minds they scarcely had what to do about us. Nearer we came and nearer. The castle rose in our vision like the ranges we had crossed.

  Ginny must spend her entire force warding off sorceries. Lightning bolts spattered blue on the shield-field, yards off, followed by thunder and ozone. Lethal clouds boiled from smokestacks, englobed our volume of air and dissipated. I had no doubt that, unperceived by us, curses, hoodoos, illusions, temptations, and screaming meemies rained upward and rebounded.

  The effort was draining her. I glimpsed the white, strained countenance, hair plastered to brow and cheek by sweat, wand darting while the free hand gestured and the lips talked spells. Svartalf snarled in front of her; Bolyai piloted the broom. None of them could keep it up for many minutes.

  But that conjure wave made it impossible for anything to get at us physically. The creature in charge must have realized this at the end, for the assault stopped. An eagle the size of a horse, wearing a crocodile’s head, swooped upon us.

  My cutlass was drawn. I rose in the stirrups. “Not one cent for tribute!” I bayed, and struck. The old power awoke in the blade. It smote home with a force I felt through my bones. Blood spurted from a sheared-off wing. The devil bawled and dropped.

  A batsnake threw a loop around my right arm. I grabbed its neck with my left hand before it could sink fangs in me. Human, I remain wolf; I bit it in two. Barely in time, I cut at a twin-tailed manta coming for Ginny. It fell aft, spilling guts. An aerial hound sought to intercept us. I held my weapon straight and got him with the point.

  Horns hooted their discord. The flapping, cawing, stinking flock retreated in its regular disorder. Our stratagem had worked. Their entire outfit, infantry, air corps, and all, was being summoned to defend the palace.

  We pursued to within a hundred yards. The manor was no longer visible for wings and feculent bodies. I lifted my blade as signal. We swung right and whizzed downward. Babel erupted behind us.

  We landed jarringly hard. Surrounded by walls, brooded over by the cap of its tower, the building huddled in twilight. I bounced from my seat to the door and tried its ill-feeling handle. It creaked open and we ran in.

  A single room, dank jagged stone, lay before us. It wasn’t large in area, but opened above on the measureless dark of the tower. The room was bare except for an altar where a Glory Hand cast dull blue light. The arrangement of objects and the pattern on the floor were similar to those we’d employed for transit.

  The heart cracked in me. “Val!” I sobbed. Ginny wrestled me to a halt. She couldn’t have done so without Svartalf getting between my ankles.

  “Hold it,” she gasped. “Don’t move. That’s the changeling.”

  I drew a lungful of air and regained my sanity. Of course, of course. But it was more than I could endure to look at that chubby shape before the altar, gold curls and empty, empty eyes. Strange, also, to see next to the half-alive thing the mass already exchanged from our house: dust flug, sandbox contents, coffee grounds, soggy paper towels, a Campbell’s Soup can—

  The devil garrison was boiling over the walls and through the portals into this courtyard. I slammed the door and dropped the bolt. It was good and heavy: might buy us a few minutes.

  How many did we need? I tried to reconstruct events. The kidnaper was doubtless moronic even by hell’s standards. He’d heard Marmiadon’s curse. A lot of them must have, but didn’t see anything they could do to fulfill it. This one noticed our vulnerability. “Duh,” he said, and flashed off to collect some kudos, without consulting any of the few demons that are able to think. Such a higher-up could have told him to lay off. His action would give a clue to the link between hell and the Johannine Church, and thus imperil the whole scheme for the sabotage of religion and society that the Adversary had been working on since he deluded the first of the neo-Gnostics.

  Being the dimbulb he was, this creature could not solve the momentum problem of transferring a body other than his own between universes, unless the exchange mass was nearly identical in configuration. His plan would have been to appear in our home, scan Valeria as she slept, return here, ’chant a hunk of meat into her semblance, and go back after her. The first part would only have taken seconds, though it got the wind up Svartalf. The snatch ought to have gone quickly too, but the cat was waiting and attacked.

  At this moment, if simultaneity had meaning between universes, the fight ramped and Svartalf’s blood was riven from him. My throat tightened. I stooped over him. “We’d have arrived too late here except for you,” I whispered. “They don’t make thanks for that sort of help.” Infinitely gently, I stroked the sleek head. He twitched his ears, annoyed. In these surroundings, he’d no patience with fine sentiments. Besides, currently they were Janos Bolyai’s ears too.

  Ginny was chalking a diagram around the room for a passive defense against demonurgy. It took care, because she mustn’t disturb altar, emblem, or objects elsewhere. They were the fiend’s return ticket. Given them, he need simply cast the appropriate spell in our cosmos, just as we’d use the things and symbols in Griswold’s lab for a lifeline. If the kidnaper found himself unable to make it back with his victim, God alone knew what would happen. They’d certainly both leave our home and a changeling replace them. But we’d have no inkling of how this came about or where they’d gone. It might provide the exact chance the enemy needed to get his project back on the rails.