Free The Undesired Princess by L. Sprague deCamp Page A

started, expecting an alarm and the urgent need for explanations. But all she said was: “You are going, Prince?” He nodded.
    “May I—just once—”
    No harm in that, he thought. She was in his arms as he was still opening them; kissed him passionately; whispered: “Farewell, my dearest darling,” and fled silently.
    He was grateful for her having neither made a fuss nor tried to dissuade him; if only she weren’t so too perfect . . . Wait, maybe it was just as well he was getting out; no telling what mere propinquity would do to the best of resolutions . . .
    A sentry passed them without a word. Outside, an anonymous groom handed them horses and a big food-bag in the uncertain light of a pair of flambeaux bracketed to the palace wall. They plop-plopped through the deserted streets of Oroloia; the Logaians must keep early hours.
    Out of the city, Alaxius led the way briskly, apparently steering by clairvoyance or by the faint stars overhead; the landscape as far as Hobart could see was as black as the inside of a cow. The uncertain feeling of jogging through a black void on an invisible steed oppressed Rollin Hobart, who had been accustomed to the definiteness of this orthogonal world.
    Now that he observed them, the stars were peculiar. They were all of the same magnitude, and were arranged in neat patterns: circles, squares, and configurations like diagrams of the molecules of organic compounds. In such a cosmos there was a real reason for naming constellations: that group on their right, for instance, was probably called the Tiller Wheel; at least it looked like a tiller wheel, whereas Taurus had never to Hobart’s exact mind borne the slightest resemblance to a real bull.
    He waited with some interest for more constellations to appear over the horizon. But after an hour’s jogging none came, and it was gradually bore upon Hobart that none were coming: that the vault of heaven here stayed put relative to the earth. Maybe Hoimon had been right: the earth was the center of the solar system here, and the universe was built on Ptolemaic lines . . . Come to think of it, between its black-and-white logic—which got plenty of support from the behavior of people and things—and its geocentric cosmogony, this whole plane of existence looked suspiciously as though it had sprung from the brains of a crew of Hellenistic philosophers . . . The correspondence was too close for coincidence. The question would bear looking into, if somebody cared to hire him under a decent contract to investigate it . . .
    “The fork,” announced Alaxius. “You turn right; I return to Oroloia. It’s up to you to decide whether you want to rest till dawn and then ride hard—for Father will have sent men after you—or continue slowly now.”
    “Guess I’ll wait,” said Hobart. “It oughtn’t—hello, what’s that?”
    They fell silent as unmistakable hoof sounds came down the Great West Road, mixed with the creak of wheels.
    “This is no time for honest travelers to be abroad,” whispered Alaxius. “Could it be that Father already pursues us?”
    “Doesn’t seem likely he’d do it in a wagon,” replied Hobart. “Let’s hide anyway.”
    They dismounted as quietly as they could, which unfortunately was not very quiet, and pulled their horses off the road. The clink and shuffle of their movements must have carried to the approaching vehicle, for its sounds ceased. For some seconds all concerned froze, listening to their own breathing. From the direction of the unknown came a spark and then a sputter of light: a little yellow flame flickered and went out. But it left behind it a small red spark. This moved about the darkness erratically, then came toward them. It would move a little, halt as though to listen, then move some more.
    Hobart guessed it to be the match of a gun. He held his breath as it came right up to the fork, perhaps thirty feet from where he stood with his hand over his horse’s muzzle.
    The spark halted.