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merely reshaped itself into a gun. It winked a red eye, as Al threw everything he had-everything-into a final, impossible defense. Something in his skull seemed to explode, and silence followed. He blinked his lids open. Someone was patting him on the cheek. The rasping in his head was his own breath, and his lips had a salty taste on them. The bright copper smell of blood clogged his nose.
    “Sorry about that, Alfred.”
    It was Teacher Roberts, with a concerned look on his face.
    “I let you push yourself too hard.”
    Al swallowed shakily. He noticed that he was on a gurney, that not far away a nurse was fussing about.
    “Where am I? That was…”
    Words failed him.
    “This is the infirmary. You’re okay, they just wanted to watch you for a little while. You’ve been out for about two hours.”
    He hesitated, then gripped Al’s hand.
    “I want you to understand that I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Al. But in your contest with Simon, I noticed a certain self-congratulatory smugness. You’re good for your age, and you push yourself harder than anyone I’ve ever seen-too hard, in fact, as this incident demonstrates-but there are mind-rippers out there who can make what just happened to you seem like a thump on the nose. It would be a disservice for me not to help you understand that, now, before you make a habit of overconfidence.”
    “I think I understand, sir.”
    “I don’t think you do. But it’s a start.” He paused.
    “You grasped part of my lessons, Al. You tried to control the imago, the metaphorical construct I attacked you with, and did a good job. It’s one approach, but it has its dangers. It’s a sort of a shaman game…”
    “Sir?”
    “Shamans. Tribal doctors and magicians. Worldwide, they were said to go into trances and fight battles of imago, transforming as their opponents transformed. One would be a wolf, the other would become a lion. Then the first would become a bear, his opponent a… T-rex or something. Often it was even more subtle than that; one becomes fire, the other becomes rain, the drowned fire rises as a mist-and so on.
    “The winner is the one whose form plays most cleverly and convincingly against his opponent’s form. It only works because both combatants allow their minds to accept the rules, to be bound by what they know of the normal world. And that brings me to one last point. Have you ever played paper, scissors, rock?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Al was mystified by the sudden change of direction.
    “Let’s play. On three.”
    They shook their closed fists three times. Al kept his clenched - rock. Teacher Roberts’ came out two fingers-scissors.
    “Well?” the teacher said.
    “I win. Rock smashes scissors.”
    Teacher Roberts reached out, very quickly, and grabbed Al’s hand at thumb and little finger, twisting it around. Al yelped, involuntarily, in surprise and pain.
    “I win,” Roberts said.
    “I win because I don’t acknowledge that there was a rock or scissors. Only our hands. And my hand is bigger, faster, stronger, more skillful than yours. You see?”
    He released Al’s hand as quickly as he had taken it.
    “Yes. I see,” Al said.
    You cheated. You broke the rules.
    Teacher Roberts caught that, and his eyes glittered.
    Exactly, Al. Exactly. You have a decision coming. This is the end of this session, and you’ll be going to the Minor Academy next, if you pass. If you aren’t comfortable with breaking rules, I suggest you take business prep courses. If you want to be a Psi Cop, though…
    He smiled and stood up.
    “I’ll see you tomorrow for your written final. It’s a take-home. Discuss - let’s see - I want you to compare Yakut shamanic battles, the Flight of Loki, and the exploits of the lively Lemminkainen. And be ready to transpose them in action, should I ask. Yes?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Though he had not the faintest idea what a Yakut was-or who “Loki” or “Lemminkainen” were. That kind of assignment was typical of Teacher