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golden whiskers.
    The figure walked steadily toward Perseus, with all the dignity of a god . . . or a fine actor. Perseus could not tell whether the figure behind the mask and voluminous robes was male or female. But while that did not matter to him, he sincerely hoped the figure would turn out to be human.
    The source of the powerful voice which had challenged him was also evident, in the form of a twisted speaking trumpet made of metal. It was a bit dented and looked well used. Perseus relaxed just a little: demons were notoriously skillful smiths.
    The approach soon degenerated into a half-march, half-shuffle, further hinting at the mortality of the figure. Soon it became evident the figure was walking with some difficulty. It then dropped all pretense at dignified posture and came to an awkward halt.
    "WHAT DO YOU mean . . . MEAN?" There were some muffled sounds that might have been concealed cursing as the figure inspected the speaking trumpet and then set it aside.
    When it spoke again, it was in a crusty, normal, and slightly, irritated voice: "What do you mean, boy? You say you don't know where you are?"
    Perseus shivered, beginning to feel the chill of the night as well as forces he did not understand. "That's right, I don't. I must have fallen asleep under the olive tree. Then I woke up here. Wherever 'here' is."
    "That makes no sense." The apparition let out a groan of exasperation. "Curse this fool facade!" The figure struggled with the bulky mask, lifted it off and set it aside.
    Its wearer stood revealed, an elderly gentleman of slight stature with no demonic pretensions. He was bearded and gray as the back of an old dog, but the eyes were still as blue as the Aegean with sparkle enough to match the light that sometimes bounced off the waves of that gentle sea.
    He shuffled closer , inspecting Perseus with interest. The boy was an intriguing curiosity. If he was telling the truth, then his manner of, and reason for, being so peculiarly set down here promised nothing if not a subject for entertaining speculation.
    "Now then, lad, where did you say you . . . no." Stroking his beard, he studied Perseus as a scholar might the pages of a rare book. "Let us be patient for a moment."
    "But I am being patient, sir."
    "Not you, not you," said the oldster, waving a hand irritably. "Me. My desires tend to race ahead of my thoughts. Especially these days." He chuckled. "Though it was often the same when I was your age, but the desires were different then.
    "Now, never mind about this olive tree you say you were sleeping under. First we must exchange some necessary preliminary details."
    "Whatever you think best, good sir."
    " 'Good sir' . . . I like that. Now, I will explain first. My name is Ammon." He smiled and bowed slightly. "I am a poet and a playwright. I write comedies, which some sneer at as banal populist entertainment but which is a truer reflection of man and life than those endless, moaning tragedies. Though if you read carefully through all of the—"
    "Excuse me . . . sir? Ammon?"
    "Oh! Sorry, boy. My mind has a regrettable tendency to wander."
    "I am called Perseus. I am heir to the ruined kingdom of Argos but have lived all my adult life on the island of Seriphos."
    "Seriphos!" The old poet frowned uncertainly at the tall young stranger. "By all the gods, then how did you get here?" He looked Perseus up and down.
    "It's evident enough you haven't just stepped off a ship. And I would have seen you approach the theater. Yet you're hardly dressed for a journey of such length. In fact, you're hardly dressed at all. How was this miracle managed, my boy?"
    "I don't know." Perseus spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I'm still not sure where 'here' is, remember."
    "Your pardon. I forgot my own admonition, so overwhelmed am I by amazement. 'Here' is a long way from your Seriphos. This is the old amphitheater of the city of Joppa."
    "Where?" Perseus sounded confused, though not embarrassed. "I confess I