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say, but I was calling myself Kamis bal-Krees."
    "Which is a mixture of Northmoor and Alspring words, and which would get you arrested just as soon as you opened your mouth and moved your tongue. You are now working for me."
    "Oh yes, I—what? I say, I'm meant to be running this laun-daric."
    "Where is the soap?"
    "The soap. Ah . . ."
    "That blue jar on your right with soap written on it. Where do you get water?"
    "By lowering a bucket into that hole beneath the sign that says Caution—Well. Where is the register of garments?"
    "What's that?"
    "That book on the counter in front of you."
    "Yes, well, er. . . granted, I have had little time to familiarize myself with the procedures here, but—"
    "Fras Rhyn, a dog wearing an academic cloak who tells customers that their laundry will be ready by 'Woof! Woof!' would make a more convincing master of the campus laundaric than you. If you want to stay out of the new Libris calculor for longer than it takes for the next member of the Libris Espionage Constables to walk through the door, you will work here as my eunuch and do exactly as I say. Agreed?"
    "Well, I do concede that I am not sufficiently endowed with lower-class cunning to maintain this disguise for long, but—but do I have to be a real eunuch? I mean I'm rather attached to—I mean it would probably hurt to—"
    "Fras Rhyn, that is your option, but you must at least shave your head. Oh, and rub in some umber brown to hide the paleness of the skin. Go now, hurry!"
    Before ten minutes had passed a new customer entered the laundaric. To Rangen's eyes she was no more genuine that Rhyn or himself. By now Rangen was dressed in the former washerman's tunic and apron.
    "Ah, pretty Frelle, how can I be helpin' ye?"
    The woman frowned at him, hooking her thumbs into her belt.
    "I was told that the washerman had been arrested."
    "Aye, ye were told truth."
    "Then who are you?"
    "I be Skew."
    "I—what?"
    "I be Skew, the washerman's deputy. I were a musketeer, aye, and a corporal. Bone in me leg were broken by a shot, but healed skew, like. Tha's me name, Skew, 'cause I'm, like, skew. I'se strong an' willin', but, and I can do anythin' if its not ter be done at a run."
    "Can you count?"
    "Aye, yeah, ter ten, aye. Like the washerman did the countin' till today, but nothin' cost more than ten coppers in here, so I'se able ter take over."
    "So, you can count coppers when students pay for washing?"
    "Ah, aye. I can write names, too. If anyone comes in, I takes their washing an' chalks their names on a slate ter go with the bag. And I'se got a eunuch fer to do stokin'."
    "A Southmoor? Is he educated?"
    "Fras Bandilsi? Nay. Can't write or count, but he's strong. Now, what can I be washin'?"
    "Only yourself," muttered the Dragon Librarian, who turned and walked out again.
    Rhyn emerged from the back of the laundaric. His head was shaved, but he had rubbed the umber brown into his face alone, leaving the rest of his head gleaming white. Rangen shook his head.
    "Your wages are fifty—ah, fifteen coppers a day, and you can lodge in the lumber room."
    "But, I say, there's no bed there."
    "Yes, there is, it's cunningly disguised as a pile of hessian sacks. Just evict the cockroaches and it will be just like home."
    As Rangen stretched out on the former washerman's bed that night he contemplated his good fortune. In just twenty-four hours he had become a fugitive, commenced a new career as a beggar, changed careers to work in the university's laundaric, and given himself a promotion to laundaric master. Now he had accommodation and financial security, but best of all he had anonymity.
    Mounthaven, North America
    \Jn the other side of the world, it was late afternoon when the electrical devices of the world had died. It had been a day after a massive air battle over the wastelands of central North America. A
    long and particularly brutal war had been won, a war engineered from a continent halfway around the world. The invaders and their allies