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twelve inches of steel into you before you get past the first abracadabra!"
    Lafayette snorted. "The whole thing is getting silly," he said. "That's the trouble with dreams; just when they begin to get interesting, things start to go wrong. I may as well just wake up and start over tomorrow night."
    He squinted, concentrating; he was getting pretty good at the trick now, he thought complacently. Just picture what you wanted, build it up in the mind's eye—
    Someone was jerking at his arm. Damned nuisance. Hard to concentrate. Mrs. MacGlint's; the old family wallpaper, the homey smells, the creaky floor  . . . He opened an eye and saw a ring of angry faces. He shut his eyes tight, seized on the fading visualization of his room, working to solidify it. Wake up , he commanded himself. This is just a whacky dream . . .
    The sounds around were fading now; he could almost see the blotched walls, the curtained alcove, the orange-crate table—
    The hand was hauling at his arm again. He stumbled, almost fell. His eyes snapped open. A voice yelled in his ear.
    The mob sounds swelled back to normal. Lafayette's breath made a frosty cloud before his face. The musketeers were staring at him, mouths wide.
    "Did you see that, Sarge?" Shorty choked. "Like he turned to smoke!" They were backing away. The three-striper stood his ground, swallowed hard.
    "Look, pal," he said desperately, "be nice and come along quiet, huh? I mean, if you got to do a fade, do it in front of witnesses, you know what I mean? If I report in with a story like this—and no pinch—well, it's goodby retirement, and me with twenty-one years on the force."
    For the moment, O'Leary saw, it seemed there was no help for it: he was stuck in the damned dream—at least until he could manage a moment of peace and quiet.
    "Certainly, Sergeant," O'Leary said grandly, "I'll be glad to accompany you. Just keep it couth, if you don't mind."
    "Sure, kid gloves all the way, buddy. Now, if you don't mind just stepping this way?" The sergeant indicated the lane to the waiting vehicle. O'Leary strolled to the car, stood by while one of the guardsmen opened the rear door and then clambered up, seating himself on the wooden bench.
    "All clear," he said. "Button her up." As the cops hurried to close the door, O'Leary caught a glimpse of four nervous faces looking oddly different . . .
    Then he saw it: The big sergeant was now clean-shaven; somehow in the reshuffling of scenes, his immense mustachios had been inadvertently transferred to the upper lip of Shorty. O'Leary smiled, relaxed. There was really no need to be in a crashing hurry to get back to reality; why not stay with it a bit longer, and see what his subconscious came up with next? He could always wake up later.
    O'Leary braced himself with one foot against the opposite bench and settled down for the ride.

Chapter III
    It was a bumpy twenty-minute trip. Lafayette held on, feeling his teeth clack at each uneven cobble, regretting that he had neglected to provide padded seats and a window. The wagon swayed, mounted a slight incline and then halted with a jolt. Feet clattered; voices muttered. The door clanked and swung open. Lafayette stepped down, looked around interestedly at a wide, cobbled courtyard fronted on all four sides by elaborate façades of rusticated stone, ornate with columns, pilasters, niches with statues, bright-lit rows of high, Gothic-arched windows. Far above, the slopes of massive mansard roofs gleamed a dull green in the moonlight. There were flower beds and geometric shapes of manicured lawn; clumps of tall poplars shimmered their silvery leaves in the night breeze. Flaming lanterns atop tall poles lighted a cavernous colonnaded entry, beside which two brass-helmeted, ramrod-stiff guardsmen in baggy knickers of Bromo-Seltzer blue and puff-sleeved jackets in red and yellow stripes stood with arquebuses at order arms.
    "Now, if you'll just step this way, ah, sir," the sergeant said nervously,