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sorta cute.” She dissolved into whirling dust, then reformed, larger and fuller, “Maybe I'll kiss you. We can improvise from there.”
    Was she coming on to him? This was odd indeed. “What interest would a dust devil have in a mere cyborg?”
    Her head dissolved into whirling dust as she considered, then reformed. “I don't know. But there's something about you that makes me want to impress you.”
    “I'm not very impressive.”
    “I didn't say you were. I said I want to impress you. That's different.”
    She was correct. But the larger mystery remained: what interest did any of these young women have in him? He didn't know, and none of them seemed to know either, “Well, I'm going to set about defeating you so that I can talk to the Good Magician.”
    “That would impress me.” She dissolved into the whirlwind again, then lurched toward him. He felt the imprint of lips on his as the dust swirled around his head. She had, indeed, kissed him.
    He focused on the Challenge. How could he get through, when he couldn't see anything? Could he get down on hands and knees and feel his way along the path under the dust?
    He tried that. Immediately the dust devil enveloped him, forcing him to jam his eyes and mouth shut. He felt kisses on his ears and neck. She was indulging herself while keeping up with her business.
    His strategy didn't work. There was so much dust that whatever was under it was indistinct. He could not tell what was path and what was ordinary land. He had to be wrong, because soon he banged into the trunk of a big tree.
    What kind of tree was it? It hardly seemed to matter, but he was curious what variety would grow in perpetual dust. He felt the bark, and found it smooth. He tapped it, and there was a half-hollow sound. He sifted his memory, seeking to match sound to wood.
    And got it. This was a beer-barrel tree, with a huge cylindrical trunk filled or partly filled with beer. Or was it? He tapped again, analyzing the sound. No, not beer, but ale; this was an ale tree. Its beverage would be a bit stronger.
    That gave him a wicked idea. How much experience did Dusti have with strong ale? She was obviously of age to drink it if she wanted to, but might not have done so before. If he could get her to drink some, it might impair her judgment and make her forget to stir up so much dust.
    He worked his way around the trunk until he found a spigot. He turned it on and caught a little fluid in the palm of one hand. He sipped it.
    “That's certainly, really, awfully good,” he murmured. And paused, considering. Why had he chosen those superfluous words?
    The question brought the answer. This was adverbi ale, that caused the drinker to use too many words ending in LY. He had taken only a sip, so only three had gotten out.
    Unfortunately he didn't see how that would stop the dust devil. He might get her to drink some, but she would catch on the moment the LYs came spewing out. He needed a brew that would get her tipsy without side effects.
    Still, there was hope. He crawled on, seeking another tree. There might be a better one for his purpose, as they tended to grow in groves.
    He found one, and tried it—and went into a coughing tit. That was bronchi ale, and congested the lungs. That was no good.
    Or was it? Maybe he could after all make it work.
    He fetched the butter cup he kept in reserve. He had long since used up its butter, and saved the cup as a folded yellow sac. He opened it, held it under the spigot, and filled it with ale. Then he drew the petal flap over to seal it in. He was ready.
    He stood up, “Dusti!” he called. “I have something for you.”
    The whirling wind coalesced into the she-devil. “What is it?”
    “A cup of ale.”
    “Ale?”
    “Bronchi Ale, from a local ale-barrel tree.”
    She made a face. “I don't drink that stuff. It interferes with my wind.”
    “Too bad.” He opened the cup and dumped it on her head.
    Immediately she went into a coughing fit.