The gnome's gneiss
Date: 2022-09-02T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Irish Americans -- Fiction

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Title: The gnome's gneiss

Author: Kendell Foster Crossen

Illustrator: Alex Schomburg

Release date: September 1, 2022 [eBook #68892]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Better Publications, Inc

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GNOME'S GNEISS ***

The Gnome's Gneiss

A NOVELET BY
KENDELL FOSTER CROSSEN

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories, May 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

I

A mood was upon Kevan MacGreene. As of the moment, he did not consider this the best of all possible worlds. In fact, many arguments to the contrary were running through his head—on shoes of iron, it seemed. Only twenty-five years of age, Kevan MacGreene was foot-loose and fancy free, but his thoughts were cast in gloom and darkly shaped.

It was 1952 and the threats of atomic warfare appeared almost daily in the newspapers. The cost of living continued to go up. The prisons and asylums were overflowing. Congress, having investigated everything else, had formed a Goober-Natural Committee (fifteen governors had misunderstood and resigned the first day it was announced) and were knee-deep in peanuts. The Soviet representative had just stormed out of another U.N. meeting. The American representative wanted to lock the door so he couldn't get back in. A columnist had written that "the world is going to hell on a street car" and had been forced to apologize to seven railroad companies and a major-interest-owned bus line.

But it was because of none of these things that Kevan MacGreene walked the streets of lower Manhattan and pondered on the frailty of Man. It was now only a few days since he had received his draft notice. Far from objecting, he had welcomed the opportunity to become a hero—even a radioactive one. He had quit his job in Macy's complaint department and the night before he'd spent all of his money financing a binge for himself and a few select friends. It had lasted until morning and then, complete with hangover, Kevan MacGreene had reported for his physical.

It was while being questioned by a fatherly doctor, who, it turned out, was a psychiatrist, that Kevan made his first slip. Usually he was more alert, but the hangover was demanding attention and he automatically admitted that he often heard voices. Under the pressure of questioning, while wondering if his head was really as hollow as it felt, he went into some detail on the voices and what they said. By the time he realized what was happening it was too late. He was classified as an unstable personality and was being ushered through the door reserved for those who weren't wanted.

Broke, hungry, and considerably vexed at being called an unstable personality, especially since everything now combined to make him feel like one, Kevan MacGreene walked through the streets of Greenwich Village. It was in this mood that he arrived on the corner where Fourth Street unaccountably crosses Twelfth Street. Standing there for a minute, he happened to glance up and see the sign over one of the buildings:

TROUBLESHOOTERS, INC.

Below that, in smaller letters, it said:

Come in.

Kevan MacGreene went in.

The girl at the desk was lovely beyond words. Her hair was like black velvet and her eyes were an emerald green. Just looking at her made Kevan MacGreene feel better.

"I have some troubles I'd like shot," he said, saying the first thing that came into his aching head.

The girl smiled with a distant friendliness. "Do you mean you'd like to employ us?" she asked.

"No," said Kevan MacGreene, realizing what it was that he did want. "I'd like you to employ me."

"I'm sorry," the girl said, "but I'm afraid there are no positions open—none, at least, that you could fill."

"But I need a job," Kevan said. "I—I gave up my last job because I thought I was going to be drafted. Now I have no job and I'm broke. And the draft board rejected me because I hear voices."

For the first time, the black-haired girl looked interested. "What kind of voices?" she asked.

"Thin little piping voices," Kevan said. He didn't know why but he felt that she would understand. "Most of the time I can't understand what they're saying. Sometimes they sing. Like this." Wincing from the pain in his head, Kevan sang in the highest pitch he could reach. "Gie brownie coat, gie brownie sark, ye'll get nae mair o' brownie's wark." He stopped and looked at the girl. Her smile was warmer.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Kevan MacGreene."

She nodded. "I'll see," she said. She picked up the phone and pressed a button. He could hear the faint buzz in the inner office. "There's a young man here," she said into the phone, "looking for a job. He says his name is Kevan MacGreene and that he hears voices." She listened a minute and then put the phone down.

"He'll see you," she said. "Go in." She indicated the door beyond her desk.

Kevan stopped beside the desk and glanced down at the hair that was like a raven's wing. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Kathleen Culanna."

"Ah," he said, "I knew there was a reason for the green in your eyes and the harp's song in your voice. Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

"Go along with you," the girl said, but there was no rebuke in her voice. "He's waiting for you."

"Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

"Ask me when you come back," the girl said. "If I'm still here, I will."

"I'll be back," he said. He walked through the door and closed it behind him. He stopped there, gazing at the man who sat at the desk in the small room.

He was a short man, with a face Kevan thought of as jolly even though it seemed pinched with worry. Tufts of golden blond hair ringed a bald head, resembling a halo. He looked up from his cluttered desk and studied Kevan.

"MacGreene, is it?" he said finally. "Where were you born?"

"In New York," Kevan answered, wondering at the question.

"And your father?"

"Fergus MacGreene. He was born in the old country, Ulster, I think, but he became a citizen as soon as he could after arriving here." He wondered if this was some sort of loyalty check.

"You hear voices, do you?" the little man asked.

"I do," Kevan said shortly, thinking that it had been a mistake to mention it. "As did my mother, and her mother before her. But it's never interfered with a job I've held."

"Of course not." The worried expression was fading from his face. "You're hired. My name is Brian Shanachie."

"But—but I don't understand," Kevan said. He was feeling confused and he wasn't sure whether it was the hangover or the company. "Don't you want to know my qualifications?"

"You've already told me," said Brian Shanachie. "Your name's MacGreene and you hear voices. What more could I ask—even though it's true I'm in a bit of a pinch? Here I was, with every one of my men out on a job and me with an emergency on my hands, when, Finbheara be praised, in you walked. You'll be quite ready to go to work at once?"

Kevan MacGreene was more confused than ever, but a generous streak of stubbornness came to his aid. "You may be satisfied," he said, dropping into the chair in front of the desk, "but I want to know something about the job before I take it. What does Troubleshooters, Inc., do?"

"You don't know?" the little man asked in surprise.

Kevan shook his head, an act which painfully reminded him of his headache.

"Oh, well," sighed Brian Shanachie, "but it'll have to be brief. There is an emergency. Tell me, Kevan MacGreene, you know of the Little People?"

It was Kevan's turn to be surprised. "Gnomes?" he asked.

"Gnomes, dwarfs, brownies, leprechauns, fairies, druids, apuku, the Wanagemeswak, it matters little what you call them. You know of them?"

"My mother used to tell me about them," Kevan said, "but she was a woman without education. I've been through college and while they are interesting legends—"

"Agh!" interrupted Brian Shanachie. "There's the trouble with the world. Too much education in the wrong things. If it weren't for people like you, Kevan MacGreene, who've given up the old ways, I wouldn't have to be working here, slaving away all hours—"

It was obvious that he was working himself into a rage, so Kevan interrupted. "Okay, so there are Little People," he said. He thought he might as well humor his prospective employer. He glanced at him more closely. "Don't tell me you're one? You're too big."

"Too big for a gnome, too small for a mortal," said Brian Shanachie, his humor restored, "No, I'm neither. My father was the son of Finbheara himself, but my mother was a mortal. So I am well suited for this job."

"Which is what?"

"I'm telling you," said Brian Shanachie, with a scowl. "In the days when people had enough sense to believe in the Little People, diplomatic relations were handled on an individual basis. The individual who aroused the anger of a gnome would himself put out an offering of milk, with perhaps a wee drop of brandy in it, or offer him a new cloak and hood. But with the coming of such fine education that the Little People were forgotten there was a problem. It was then that my little organization was started. More properly it should be known as the Bureau of Mortal-Gnomic Adjustments, but there are too many non-believers who would only plague me with their silly questions, so I called it Troubleshooters, Inc."

"But what do you do?" Kevan asked. He had a strange feeling that the more it was explained the less he understood.

"Adjust matters between mortals and gnomes, of course," snapped the other. He picked up some papers on his desk. "Now, take the case I'm assigning you to, the emergency—I'm putting it in the files as The Case of the Gnome's Gneiss...."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Gneiss," said Brian Shanachie with some irritation. "G-N-E-I-S-S. Everybody certainly knows what gneisses are."

"I don't."

"College education," the little man sneered. "Gneisses are rocks made of thin layers of minerals. Now, a gnome, or a dwarf, if you prefer—he's been called both—named Alviss is one of the finest gneiss-makers in the world. Recently, he had just finished what he considered his masterpiece, a gneiss composed of some fifteen different minerals, and all of fifty feet long, when directly over the spot where it was located an atom bomb test was held. You can imagine the results. The gneiss was cracked beyond repair. Alviss, with certain provocation you must admit, is angry. In fact, he grows angrier every minute and I understand that he is on the verge of declaring open war against all mortals."

"So what?" asked Kevan. "What could he do?"

"What could he do?" echoed Brian Shanachie in horror. "Why, there is no end to what he could do. Sour milk, make cows go dry, put changelings in the place of mortal infants, make the hens lay square eggs. Water might run uphill, hens would crow and roosters cackle, and the sun set in the east. And that, mind you, would be only the work of Alviss. If the others of the Little People helped him, and fully half of them would have to, then you can imagine the chaos.

"No, it's obvious Alviss must be appeased and since the ones who dropped the bomb will not do so, it is up to us to avert the war."

"Why not just explain to—er—Alviss that it was all a mistake?" Kevan suggested.

"'Twouldn't do. Alviss is a sensitive one, as you will see, and it'll take more than that to make him forget his grudge."

"As I will see?"

"Certainly," said Brian Shanachie, nodding his head. "It is you who will go to see Alviss."

It wasn't that Kevan MacGreene was willing to so quickly forego his skepticism and embrace a belief in the Little People, but his head hurt too much to argue and he was in a mood to take what came along and let things work themselves out.

"But what do I do after I see him?" he asked.

"Find out what will keep him peaceful and, if it's within reason, give it to him. If it isn't, then you may have to appeal to the Council of Gnomes, or even to the four kings. I'll be giving you this—" Brian Shanachie came around the desk and fixed what seemed to be a small metal flower in the lapel of Kevan's coat—"by which you can discuss any settlement with me. All you have to do is shout my name and the contact will be made. It is also possible for me to deliver to you, by teleportation, certain mortal materials when they will aid in adjustments. I remember one time when peace was made with Sindri, over the matter of a mortal who tried to steal his treasure, with the presentation of a radio.... But now get along with you, Kevan MacGreene."

"Just a minute," said Kevan, "how much does this job pay?"

"Enough in mortal money that you'll have no complaint," Brian Shanachie snapped. "Be gone with you."

"Where?" Kevan asked. "I mean how do I get there?"

Brian Shanachie looked surprised, then nodded. "Of course, you wouldn't know, would you? I best look it up, to be sure that we still have it right." He took a thick book from his desk, thumbing through it rapidly while muttering to himself. Then he nodded again. "Yes, 'tis still in the proper alignment. And all you have to do, my boy, is walk through yon door."

For the first time, Kevan noticed another door in the office near to the chair in which he sat. He stood up and looked at it uncertainly.

"But be sure and watch the first step," said Brian Shanachie. "It's been a bit broken since the time Regin came to see me and stomped on the step instead of knocking."

"But how do I find Alviss after I get through the door?" Kevan wanted to know.

"Ask," said Brian Shanachie. "You can ask anyone—no, but better, perhaps since you're a new employee you'd best first go and pay your respects to Finbheara, Iubdan, Geanncanac, and Daoine Glas, the four kings. They'll be sure to know where you can find Alviss. Run along with you."

II

Taking a deep breath, Kevan MacGreene put his hand on the door knob and opened it. Then he stepped through.

He felt his foot strike the edge of something solid and then he was falling. He tried to twist and grab, but there was nothing to grab. Down he went—falling, it seemed, slowly and interminably—until finally he landed with a thump. Looking around, he realized he was sitting on the ground of a forest. There was an eerie look to the trees around him, their limbs twisting skyward, their leaves looking like green woven silk.

Sitting there on the ground, Kevan MacGreene became aware of the most startling thing. His hangover was gone as if it had never existed. That, more than anything, made him decide to believe that he was in the land of the Little People. He'd had many a hangover, but never had one vanished so quickly and painlessly.

"It's a pity you wouldn't watch where you're falling," a voice said peevishly.

Kevan looked around, but saw nothing except the trees. "Where are you?" he asked cautiously.

"Right here," answered the voice. And it did sound as though it was right beside him.

"I can't see you," he said.

"Of course, you can't," snapped the voice. "That's because I'm looking at you. Oh, all right, I'll turn, although I don't know why I should."

Then in front of Kevan's eyes there suddenly appeared a little man, no more than two feet high. His face, in profile, was sharp and pointed.

"How did you do that?" Kevan asked with interest.

"Do what?"

"You were invisible. Then suddenly you were visible."

"I wasn't anything of the kind," the little man said. "I was merely looking at you. When I'm looking at you, you can't see me. When you can see me, I can't see you—but I don't start making nasty cracks about you being invisible."

"Why?"

"Because I'm good-natured," grumbled the gnome.

"No, I mean why can't I see you if you're looking at me?"

"Because I'm one of the Wanagemeswak of Penobscot," the gnome announced with pride. "I'm so thin that mortals can only see me when I'm in profile. So when I turn to look at you, you can't see me. Like this." The gnome's head slowly turned to face Kevan—and then it vanished. "Now do you understand?" asked the voice.

Kevan MacGreene blinked his eyes rapidly and then switched his gaze to one of the more solid-looking trees.

"No," he said, "but don't try to explain it to me again. I'm afraid I'd only understand less than I do now. But, if you will, you can tell me how to find the four kings."

"Oh, sure," said the voice. "Just go straight down this path and turn left at the third snail. You can't miss it after that."

"Thanks," said Kevan, waving one hand toward the spot where he thought the gnome was. He set out in the direction indicated, keeping a sharp watch-out for snails.

As Kevan MacGreene walked through the forest, he became aware of the sounds about him. From every side flooded the songs of birds. Somewhere ahead of him two squirrels barked indignantly at each other. He caught sight of huge antlers as a deer crashed through the underbrush to his right. But having lived all of his life in New York City, Kevan was not attuned to these new sounds.

"Noisy place," he said to himself. "It's interesting to visit a place like this, but I'd certainly hate to live here."

After what seemed like a long walk, he sighted his third snail and turned left. For a moment he considered speaking to the snail, remembering that in all the stories he'd heard speech was standard equipment for all forms of life in fairyland, but he refrained because of the petulant look on the snail's face.

The new path seemed well-worn and he strode along at a fast pace. It wasn't long before he saw an impressive castle ahead. Long before he reached it, he could hear the sound of loud and quarrelsome voices coming from it. He wondered if this was the beginning of the riot he was to quell and hesitated. But only for a minute.

"I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath, "if any two-foot fugitive from a Walt Disney movie is going to scare me." He set his jaw grimly and marched on.

When he entered the castle, Kevan MacGreene found himself in what was obviously the throne room. There were four elegant thrones, all empty. From in front of the thrones came the loud voices, even more shrill now that he was nearer. His eyes became accustomed to the dim light and Kevan saw four little old men. They were alike as four peas in a pod. None of them was more than two feet in height, although each wore a peaked hat which gave the illusion of adding eight or ten inches. Each of them had a long white beard, almost reaching the floor. At the moment, four faces were screwed up in rage, while four fists shook themselves in the air.

"Isn't it a grand brawl?" asked a voice near Kevan. He turned and saw another gnome, his eyes fixed admiringly on the four old men.

"What's wrong with them?" Kevan asked.

"There's nothing wrong with them," the other said. "'Tis but a bit of an argument. They're just working themselves up to the interesting stage."

"What are they arguing about?"

"Sure and it's the same old argument—which of them has the longest beard. It's been going on ever since Finbheara endorsed Macushla's Magic Beard Groom, claiming that he had the longest beard in all Midgard. Iubdan brought suit in the Court of the Leprechauns to prove Finbheara a liar, but then Geanncanac and Daoine Glas called both of them liars and so it started."

"Do you think it'll last long?" Kevan asked anxiously.

"Until there's not a hair left on the chin of a one of them," the gnome said with anticipation. "Then they'll retire for a few hours until their beards grow back—and they'll be at it again. Isn't it heavenly?"

"I was hoping to ask them where to find someone," Kevan said.

The gnome turned and looked up at Kevan, who in turn noted that since he could still see the little man he must not be of the Wanagemeswak.

"You're a mortal," said the gnome in tones of accusation.

"Yes," confessed Kevan.

"Then, by the same reasoning," continued the gnome, "it must be that you were sent here by Brian Shanachie and that it's Alviss you're looking for. Now, that will be a donnybrook for fair when you find him. I've a notion to go with you."

"It'll really amount to very little," Kevan said hastily. "I'm sure you'll find this much more interesting. But you could tell me how to find Alviss."

The gnome seemed to be debating with himself, but renewed shrieks of rage from the other side of the throne room drew his gaze back there. He jerked a thumb in the direction from which Kevan had come. "Across the way and into the hill," he said.

Kevan MacGreene stepped back outdoors and saw a small brass door set in the hill. He walked across and entered. As the door swung shut behind him, he found himself in a tunnel running straight back through the hill. It was dimly lighted, but Kevan managed to make his way along it—with some difficulty, however, since he had to walk stooped over to keep from bumping his head.

After walking for some time, around numerous twists and bends, Kevan heard the murmur of a voice somewhere ahead. As he proceeded, it became louder. Finally, he rounded a turn in the tunnel and saw a small, stocky dwarf busily stirring a huge cauldron with one hand while with the other he kept throwing various ingredients into the steaming pot. It was he who muttered and Kevan could now make out the words.

"A pinch of chlorite, a bit of mica, some biotite, spoon of felspar; a little graphite, and now amphibole, dust with kyanite, and top with idocrase—"

"What's idocrase?" Kevan asked.

"Don't do that!" screamed the little man. He whirled around, molten rock dripping from the spoon in his hand, to glare at Kevan, his bushy red beard bristling with anger.

"I merely asked what idocrase is," Kevan said mildly.

"You didn't have to sneak up on me like that. And any fool knows that idocrase is a hydrous silicate of calcium and aluminum and that you can't bake a decent gneiss without it." His eyes suddenly narrowed as he took in Kevan's size. "You're a mortal," he said.

Kevan nodded. The little man reached behind him, grabbed a pickaxe and came up swinging. Kevan MacGreene leaped to one side only in time.

"Wait a minute," he yelled. "I claim diplomatic immunity."

The dwarf stopped short and glared. "Diplomatic immunity?" he said. "What's that?"

"It means you're not allowed to attack me," said Kevan. "Brian Shanachie sent me here on a diplomatic errand."

It was plain that the dwarf saw no reason for restraining his anger, but he was sufficiently uncertain to hold back. "Brian Shanachie should mind his own business," he growled.

"Now, I'm looking for Alviss...."

"I'm Alviss."

"Good," Kevan said. He had no idea of how to go about adjusting the matter which he'd been sent to fix, but he had determined on a firm course. "Now, what seems to be the matter, Alviss?" he asked briskly.

"Matter?" repeated Alviss, his voice going up a few octaves. For a moment, it looked as if he might succumb to his rage, but he controlled it. "I made the finest gneiss that has ever been formed in the entire history of Midgard. No sooner had it hardened than you mortals came along and cracked it right down the center."

"But it was an accident," Kevan said. "An atom bomb was being tested and it was by accident that they happened to set it off over your work. You see, these atom bomb tests are a part of our national defense program—"

"So it's defending yourselves you are," Alviss said grimly. "Then you can just defend yourselves against me."

"I'm sure," Kevan said, "that the Combined Command would have been more careful but—well, I'm afraid that the truth of the matter is that the Army doesn't officially believe in gnomes."

"They don't, eh?" said Alviss with a nasty grin. "Then they'll have nobody to blame but themselves when their fine bombs bounce back in their laps and when the barrels of their guns turn to rubber and drop the bullets at their feet."

"You mustn't do that," Kevan said hastily. "The psychiatrists would only pin a label on it which would destroy the morale of our Army. To say nothing to what it would do to the WAC and the WAVE. There must be some other solution."

"No," said Alviss firmly. "My honor is at stake."

"But there must be another way of saving your honor. You look like a reasonable—er—person, Mr. Alviss. I'm sure that between the two of us, we can find a way...."

"Well," said Alviss and there was a shrewd look in his eyes, "perhaps, if you were to bring me Thrud...."

"Thread?" exclaimed Kevan, relief coming with the misunderstanding. "What kind?"

"Not thread," said Alviss. "Thrud. Do you mean, mortal, that you do not know the story of Alviss?"

Kevan shook his head.

"What's your name, mortal?"

"Kevan MacGreene."

"'Tis a good name," said the dwarf.

Alviss sat down on the floor and for the first time his face lost its look of anger. "It was long ago," he said. "More years than you mortals can reckon. But I was an adventurous lad and one night I crossed the bridge Bifrost from Midgard to Asgard. Asgard, you understand, is the land of the old gods, but I was safe there as long as it was dark. While I was there, I met Thrud, only daughter of Thor, god of the yeomen and peasants, dispenser of thunder. Aye, she was beautiful—more beautiful than you'd know, Kevan MacGreene—and I knew she was the lass for Alviss. It seemed that she felt the same way about me, despite the fact that she was three times my height. Hand in hand, we went to see Thor—faith and there's one for whom I would set bear traps every night if he were my father-in-law."

"I gather that he turned you down?" Kevan said.

"Worse," said Alviss. Rage and sorrow intermingled on his face. "By the beard of Daoine Glas, he tricked me. He said that Thrud could marry me and come away if I would answer thirteen questions. Bad cess to him, I agreed. His twelve questions were to give the names for the world, the moon, the sun, the clouds, the wind, the calm, the sea, the trees, the night, fire, wheat and beer in all the worlds of the Aesir, Vanir, giants, elves and gods."

"What are they?" Kevan asked curiously.

"There is no time to tell you, as you will see. But I was then fresh from visiting the worlds he'd mentioned and I knew the names well. We sat there in Thor's palace, Belskirnir, before a great roaring fire—Thor holding his great head in his hands as he listened, Thrud sitting beside me and holding my hand—and I recited the names. It was a long task and I didn't notice that it was daylight as I finished. I spoke the last name and then demanded Thrud's hand. Thor only grinned and pointed. I turned to look in the direction he was pointing and the last thing I saw in Asgard was the sun streaming through the window. As it touched me, I turned to stone."

Two tears streaked down the dwarf's face and were lost in his red beard.

"Why did you turn to stone?" Kevan asked.

"It was the law of the land—and still is," said Alviss. "If the sun shines on any of the Little People while in Asgard, they turn to stone. Thor had tricked me. I would be there still if Hreidmar and Sindri hadn't come to rescue me. As soon as they carried me back to Midgard, the spell was gone and I was myself again. But Thrud was lost to me forever."

"Why didn't you go back some night and get her?" asked Kevan. Being a practical man, he added, "Or why didn't she run away and join you?"

"You're excessively stupid, even for a mortal," snapped the dwarf. "Once the spell had been upon me, I would turn to stone should I ever again set foot in Asgard. And it has been decreed that there are only three ways in which Thrud may ever leave Asgard. Hand in hand with her true love, carried over Bifrost by a mortal, or when she goes to Gimli after Ragnarok."

"Well," said Kevan MacGreene finally, "it's a very touching and romantic story and I assure you that you have my deepest sympathy—but I'm afraid I fail to see how it concerns our present problem."

"Do you now?" asked Alviss. He gazed up from beneath his bushy red eyebrows. "All you have to do, my lad, is go to Asgard and bring Thrud here to me. If you do that, I'll not make war against the mortals. Fail and I'll strike immediately."

"Oh, come now," said Kevan. "You can't seriously expect me to go in and kidnap the girl out from under the nose of her father and I don't know how many other characters. It's not fair."

"Its fair enough and you'll get no more from me," said Alviss. "Be off with you—for if you're not back here by the end of the month, I'll start my war."

"The end of the month? Mortal time or your own?"

"Mine, of course."

"How much time does that give me?" asked Kevan.

The dwarf scratched his head, lost in deep thought. Then he began chanting to himself:

"Junius, Aprilis, Septemq, Novemq, tricenos

"Unum plus reliqui, Februs tenet octo vicenos

"At si bissextus fuerit superadditur unus—" He rolled his eyes toward the roof and seemed to be counting. "That'll give you until tomorrow morning," he finally announced.

"But that's impossible," exclaimed Kevan.

"Not impossible if you stretch your legs instead of standing here stretching your tongue," said Alviss. "Your only problem with time is getting from here to Yggdrasil and then from there to here. The time you spend in Asgard will not count since time there does not exist in relation to our time."

"Yggdrasil?" repeated Kevan. "Where is that?"

"That's part of your problem," said the dwarf. He turned back and began stirring his cauldron and it was obvious that he intended to talk no more. Kevan MacGreene turned and went back through the long, winding tunnel.

III

When he was once more outside, across from the palace of the four kings, he suddenly remembered something that the head of Troubleshooters, Inc. had told him. He looked and saw that the small metal flower was still in his lapel. He put his mouth close to it and shouted.

"Brian Shanachie!"

"Well," said a voice which seemed to come out of the air directly over his head, "I was wondering if I were ever going to hear from you."

"What do you mean?" Kevan demanded indignantly. "I haven't been here more than an hour."

"Time, my dear boy, is relative," the voice said airily. "How did you make out with Alviss?"

Kevan quickly related all that had happened. "What shall I do?" he asked when he'd finished. "Obviously I can't go to—wherever it is—and just steal the girl."

There was a heavy sigh out of the air above his head. "It is a rather difficult task," admitted the voice, "for one of your inexperience. Unfortunately, there are no other agents unengaged at the moment, so I guess there's nothing to do but go get the girl."

"I won't," Kevan MacGreene said grimly. "I've had enough of this. I quit."

"My dear boy," the voice said, "you can't quit. If you're not employed by me, there is no way back here, and without the badge of my office you might find it rather difficult to get along where you are."

Kevan was silent in the grip of frustration.

"Besides," the voice continued sternly, "don't forget that you're a MacGreene. Once removed from the County Ulster 'tis true, but still a MacGreene. Quitting is not for the likes of you."

It was, moreover, the only argument to sway Kevan MacGreene. "Okay," he said wearily, "where do I find this Yggdrasil?"

"Just go due Southeast by Northwest and you can't miss it." The voice sounded pleased with itself.

"And what is Yggdrasil?" Kevan asked.

"The world tree—and that's why you can't miss it. You'll see it miles before you reach it. How much time did Alviss give you?"

"Until tomorrow morning."

There was a thin whistle in the air. "That isn't much time. I guess you'll be needing some assistance. Don't move for the next minute, my lad."

There seemed to be a crackling in the air around Kevan's head and then beside him stood a new jeep. It was painted a pleasant emerald green—which reminded Kevan of Kathleen Culanna's eyes—and lettered on the side were the words TROUBLESHOOTERS, INC.—OUR SPELLS, CURSES AND KNELLS ARE GUARANTEED.

"What's the slogan for?" Kevan asked.

"Oh," said the voice of Brian Shanachie, "that jeep was built to be used only in the land of the Little People and it doesn't hurt to advertise, you know. After all, we do work for both sides in making our adjustments. It helps to build confidence if they know that we guarantee to handle any matter up here which threatens them. But it's getting late. Perhaps you'd better run along. Oh, yes, there is one more thing. That is a new jeep and I didn't have time to install a spell-bumper. Some of the more provincial gnomes are not yet accustomed to our jeeps and may try to throw a spell at you. So if you notice one apparently weaving something in the air, I'd suggest that you dodge as quickly as possible. Good-by—and don't hesitate to call on me if you need anything."

There was dismissal in the voice, so Kevan MacGreene stepped gingerly into the jeep. It turned out, however, to be quite solid, so he sat down with growing confidence. The first thing that caught his eye was the compass just over the steering wheel. If anyone had told Kevan that a compass could manage to point Southeast by Northwest, he wouldn't have believed him—but this one did.

He stepped on the starter and the motor of the jeep caught with a full-throated roar which was the most comforting thing that had happened to Kevan since he'd left Brian Shanachie's office. He put it in gear and let out the clutch. The jeep leaped forward eagerly.

He was just driving past the palace, from which could still be heard a subdued roar, when he discovered a small gnome standing in the shadow of the building. The gnome was glaring at the green jeep and his hands were making strange passes in front of him. Kevan gazed at him curiously and then suddenly remembered what Brian Shanachie had said. He twisted the wheel and sent the jeep bouncing over a small hill.

Glancing back, he was glad he had remembered, for he was just in time to see a tree turn into some sort of giant pink worm and go wriggling off at a mad pace. The tree was just beyond where the jeep would have been if he'd continued straight. Kevan had no doubt that if he'd failed to turn, he would have been riding just such a pink monstrosity.

He soon got the jeep straightened out again in the direction of the compass needle and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The little car went bouncing over rocks and hills, undaunted by all that was in its path, and Kevan MacGreene grinned happily. This was the sort of magic which gave him a sense of reality.

After what seemed like a couple hours of riding, Kevan found he was approaching the giant tree which he assumed must be Yggdrasil. He'd sighted it more than an hour back and for the past half hour had been driving in the shade of the tree. Now, just beyond it, he could see the huge flat rainbow arching up into the sky.

He arrived near the trunk of the tree and stopped the jeep, while he looked around for the bridge. There was nothing that resembled one—except the rainbow. He noticed that its incline was gradual enough to be ascended and finally decided that it must be the bridge for which he was looking. He was about to put the jeep into gear, when a new voice spoke to him.

"Really, old chap," it said, in the broadest of English accents, "I wouldn't, y'know. Bifrost is composed of fire, air and water. I should imagine the fire element might harm your tyres, to say nothing of exploding your petrol."

Kevan looked around but saw only a huge serpent coiled around the tree, apparently gnawing on its roots, and a sneaky looking squirrel which was just then scurrying up the trunk of the tree. He had about concluded that he was again dealing with a gnome who was too thin to be seen when he noticed that the serpent's eyes were fixed on him and that there seemed to be a friendly gleam in them.

"Were you addressing me?" he asked.

"Yes," said the serpent. "I'm aware that it was forward of me, y'know—we haven't been introduced and all that—but, dash it all, one just can't let a chap rush into danger."

Kevan found himself grinning at the accent. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Nidhoggr, the serpent of Yggdrasil," the snake said.

"I'm Kevan MacGreene. How do you do."

"Charmed, I'm sure," said the serpent, with what was obviously meant for a friendly smile. The effect was modified unpleasantly by the appearance of his fangs.

"If you're a part of this set-up," Kevan said, with a wave which included the tree and the rainbow bridge, "I should guess that you must be Teutonic in origin, yet you seem to have a rather marked English accent."

"Do you like it?" the serpent said eagerly. "I think it sounds rather cultured myself. I picked it up from an English sparrow who occasionally visits me. He's taught me some rather jolly songs too—especially one, I believe it's called 'The Base-born King of England.' Would you care to hear it?"

"Some other time, perhaps," Kevan said, smothering a desire to laugh. "Although I believe you have the title slightly wrong. Now, what were you saying about not crossing the bridge in my jeep?"

"I don't believe it's safe," the serpent said. "I understand that fire and petrol do not mix well. You can walk across, y'know—it makes a splendid little outing. I believe the water and air keep the fire cool enough not to burn and I understand, in fact, that it's rather invigorating."

"Well, I suppose there's nothing to do but walk," Kevan said. He shut off the motor and climbed out of the jeep.

"You're quite sure it's safe?"

"Positive, old chap. It's safe for everyone except Thor. He's been forbidden to step on it because of his heavy tread—he's a peasant, y'know. It's not as if he were a gentleman." The serpent glanced up toward the trunk of the tree, where a squirrel could be seen now scurrying downward. "There comes Ratatosk again," he said, lowering his voice. "He spends all his time between Vedfolnir, on the upper branch, and myself trying to stir up trouble. An officious little blighter. You'd best hurry along or he's bound to think there's something subversive in our little chat."

"Okay," Kevan said with a grin. "Thanks for the advice." He waved to the serpent and started up the rainbow bridge. To his surprise, the mere touch of the bridge was invigorating. Through the soles of his shoes he could feel a combination of heat and coolness and it seemed that strength flowed up into him. He strode briskly along.

When he was well up over the curve of the bridge, he stopped a moment and looked back. By stretching his neck, he could make out the top of the tree and he caught a glimpse of a golden rooster perched on the very tip. It looked like a tiny spot of gold in the midst of the evergreen leaves.

In only a few more minutes, he was nearing the other end of the rainbow bridge. In the far distance, he could see the turrets of a number of huge castles.

The rest of the way was mostly down hill and he completed it at a fast pace. He stepped off the bridge and stopped to look around, wondering about his next move, when he was startled by a loud roar of pain. It seemed to come not far from his right, so he turned in that direction. After a moment's walk, he came around a small hill and found himself in front of a large cave.

A young man stood in the entrance of the cave. He was clad in golden chain mail, but wore no helmet so that his bright yellow hair fell to his shoulders. He was handsome beyond the highest standards set by mortal movies, yet his beauty was all masculine. There, Kevan found himself thinking, stands one who looks every inch a god.

He'd been staring at the blond man for several minutes before he realized what was represented in the full picture. The young man was standing in the mouth of the cave because he was chained here. Huge golden chains ran from his arms and legs, and from a collar around his neck, to the walls of the cave. The chains were tight so that he had little room to move about. Directly above the cave a large serpent was lying. Its open mouth was just above the entrance to the cave and its venom was steadily dripping from the gleaming fangs toward the man below. But standing alongside of the cave was a beautiful blonde—and, Kevan noted with some embarrassment, scantily-clad—young woman. She held a silver cup in her hand in which she caught the dripping venom just before it reached the young man.

"By Gimli," the young man was saying as Kevan arrived, "you took long to empty that last draught, Signe. I thought a sea of venom had struck me. Now—" He broke off as he caught sight of Kevan. His bright blue eyes moved swiftly as he looked Kevan over.

"What manner of a one have we here?" he said. "Although it's been immortal long since I've seen a mortal, I could swear this is one. And in Asgard." He raised his voice. "Are you a mortal, strange one?"

"Yes," Kevan said, trying to be polite enough not to show that he found anything strange in the scene before him. "My name is Kevan MacGreene."

"Welcome to Asgard, Kevan MacGreene," the blond young man said. He grinned merrily and rattled the chains that held him. "It may seem strange to you to be welcomed by one so carefully chained, but after all I am a son of Odin and I presume I can still shout a welcome. I am Loki and this is my wife, Signe. As you can see, she's busy."

"Welcome to Asgard, Kevan MacGreene," the blond young man said, grinning merrily and rattling the chains.

The young woman glanced quickly around to acknowledge the introduction with a smile, then turned her attention back to the cup she held.

IV

Now Kevan MacGreene was not especially accustomed to travel—before this day his travels had been limited to a few trips to Coney Island, once or twice to Canarsie, and once to Staten Island when he'd made the mistake of asking a girl for a date before finding out where she lived. As a result, he was none too sure how to act in the present circumstances. In the travels already mentioned, he'd never come across a god imprisoned in golden chains—he wasn't even sure he'd ever read of such a thing before. Yet it was rather foolish to act as if nothing were unusual. At the same time, the god might be sensitive to strange remarks about his condition.

It needed a diplomacy which Kevan MacGreene wasn't sure he possessed. Should he (he wondered) offer his help or would such an offer coming from a mere mortal be considered an impudence.

"I'll wager," said Loki with a laugh, "that the mortal caught sight of your ruby lips, Signe, and is wondering if you'd reward him for rescuing your husband." He laughed louder as Kevan MacGreene blushed. "She would at that, Kevan MacGreene," he said, "but I fear you'll go unrewarded. I was put here by my father and brothers and no mortal can undo their work. But it shall be undone in time, never fear. As it is, I don't find it too bad except for the moments when Signe goes to empty the cup. Although it is a bit confining." He laughed again in appreciation of his own wit, rattling the chains to the accompaniment of his laughter.

"You're a brother of Thor?" Kevan asked.

"Aye, that I am. If you're looking for Thor, I can tell you one thing. He'll bore you to tears trying to show you how strong and smart he is. I'd rather be in chains than with Thor."

"Well," said Kevan, "the truth of the matter is that I don't want to see Thor, but I'm afraid I have to."

"Ah," said Loki, "is it a matter of asking Thor for some sort of intercession on behalf of the yeomen or peasants? I wasn't aware that we were still worshipped among people. It seems to me I remember Hermod returning from one of his trips with the news that other gods now had the concession among you mortals. But then I suppose that new gods are a bit like wine—all fizz and not very much kick."

Kevan had been embarrassed by the turn of the conversation but saw no way of stopping it once it had started. When the god finished speaking, he cleared his throat nervously and tried to straighten things out.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Loki," he said, "but I'm afraid that you aren't worshipped by mortals—at least, by none that I know. In fact, most people know nothing about you." He thought he saw a look of sorrow cross the face of the chained god. "I must confess I'm not very familiar with the facts about you myself, but I do know there are a number of written records about all of you. I believe some of them are quite complete, although of course they usually add that you were only superstitious myths."

"Oh, well," Loki said, laughing softly, "I don't care what you call me so long as you spell my name right."

Kevan was pleased that the god was taking it so well.

"But," Loki continued, "if it's not a matter of arranging a sacrifice, what does bring you here? I cannot remember when a mortal last visited Asgard."

Kevan quickly debated the matter in his mind and decided there could be no harm in telling this god the reason for his visit. It even occurred to him that since Thor had helped to chain him in the cave, Loki might be anxious for revenge and would be willing to furnish him with valuable clues.

"Do you remember a dwarf named Alviss?" he asked. "He once visited here, although I believe it was quite some time ago."

"Alviss," mused the god, staring into space, although still managing to keep one eye on his wife to be sure she didn't shift the cup. "Wasn't that the one who became infatuated with Thrud?"

"That's the one," said Kevan.

"I remember him now," said Loki. "He's the one that Thor tricked into staying around until morning and he turned to stone." Loki laughed until the cave rang with the merry sound. "Thor was always a tricky one. Oh, a fine fellow when it came to drinking or wenching, but tricky. I well remember the time he and I met two little redheads at a convention of—OUCH!" The last was a bellow of pain as his wife moved the cup just enough to permit a drop of venom to fall on him. He strained against the chains until the pain subsided. Then he grinned ruefully at Kevan. "Sorry," he said. "It must have been two other fellows."

"Well," said Kevan, rushing to fill what he thought was an embarrassing gap, "Alviss is still in love with Thrud."

"Even as a stone," exclaimed Loki. "Oh, I remember now—he was stolen from Thor's palace a few nights later. I suppose his friends unstoned him, as it were."

Kevan nodded. "Exactly," he said. "Now, there's a small matter with Alviss which needs adjusting and his price is that I bring Thrud to him."

"Hmmmm," said Loki. He re-examined Kevan, with something like admiration in his gaze. "I could better understand it if you were after Thrud yourself—she is a winsome wench. But to do it for this Alviss—well, you've sliced yourself a bit of a job."

"I'm well aware of it," Kevan said modestly. "Naturally, I'd appreciate any advice...."

"Naturally," Loki said, not unkindly. He looked at Kevan again. "I admit I wouldn't mind seeing you put one over on Thor. Maybe...."

"Loki," the god's wife said sharply, speaking for the first time, "you promised to keep out of politics."

"But this isn't politics, honey," Loki said. "It's romance. In a way, it's legitimately part of my business. If love is a fire kindled in the heart, then surely the god of fire can concern himself with it. Tell me, Kevan MacGreene, is there anything in your mortal world which Thor might consider flattering to himself?"

Kevan thought for a minute and then suddenly remembered something. "I believe so," he said. "One of the days of our week is called Thursday. I believe that it was originally named after Thor."

"Just the thing. When you leave here—wait, do you come from a particular province in the mortal world?"

"Not exactly a province. I'm from New York City in America. It's the largest and greatest city in the world, located, I might add, in the greatest country in the world."

"Of course," Loki said amiably. "Now, when you leave here you will stop at the first station you come to and send Thor a ravengram. You'll tell him that you're the American ambassador and—"

"But I couldn't say that," protested Kevan. "It's not true."

Loki encouraged him. "You're an American, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"And didn't you tell me that this Alviss had sent you here as his ambassador to get Thrud?"

"Y-yes."

"Well, then, you're an American ambassador," Loki said with finality. "Tell Thor that you want to see him about presiding at a dedication ceremony for this day. It's been so long since a mortal asked Thor to preside at anything he's bound to fall for it. That will get you invited to Belskirnir."

"I guess I could do that," Kevan said doubtfully. "But getting out will be harder than getting in, won't it?"

"Nothing to it," said Loki with confidence. "Do you know any good riddles?"

"Riddles?" repeated the amazed Kevan. "You mean things like—like 'What flies forever and rests never?'"

"The wind," Loki said promptly. "That's the general idea, although you'll need to get newer ones than that. The really old ones Thor will know. Can you manage some more modern ones?"

"I'll try," Kevan said. He remembered that his mother had often read riddles to him as a child and he thought he could recall some of them.

"About three good riddles should be about right. When you get to Belskirnir, the first thing you'd better do is tip off Thrud why you're there. Then you challenge Thor to guess your three riddles. If he fails—and he will if you use good ones for nobody ever accused Thor of being bright—then he lets you take Thrud away."

"That sounds all right, except for one thing. What if Thor doesn't accept the challenge?"

"I'm coming to that," Loki said thoughtfully. "At the same time you send the message to Thor, you send one to my father."

"Your father?" Kevan asked, wishing he could remember more of the old legends. He resolved to brush up on them if he kept this job.

"Odin," Loki explained. "He's Thor's father too and he's still the head of the family. The old man is a stickler for convention, so you merely send him a message asking to call on him first before visiting Thor. Better not mention that you've already met me. The old man will be pleased that a mortal recognizes that he's still the head of the house. While you're talking to him, casually mention that you're going to challenge Thor to three new riddles. Be sure to stress the new."

Kevan nodded. He could see little sense in any of this, but was willing to grant that this was possibly because he was a stranger in the land.

"My father," continued Loki, "is a real pig for knowledge. He'll try to pump you for the answers to the riddles. If you refuse then he'll show up at Belskirnir and he'll make Thor accept the challenge, just so he can hear the answers."

"You're sure?" Kevan asked.

"Positive. The old man will go through anything just to learn something new. He once gave up one of his eyes just for one drink from Mimir's well of knowledge. Another time, he hung in a trance from Yggdrasil, with his head in Niflheim, for nine days in order to learn to write runes. You can't miss if you do as I tell you."

Some of Loki's confidence surged through Kevan. "This is mighty nice of you, Mr. Loki," he said. "Isn't there something I can do to repay you?"

"I guess not," Loki said sadly, "There is only one way in which these chains can be broken and I doubt if you could manage it by yourself. It's really not too bad—although I do get rather bored at times just standing here and seeing the same things all the time. It was a pleasure to talk with you."

"Wait a minute," Kevan cried. "I think I have an idea. I'll be right back." He ran around the side of the hill. As soon as he was out of sight and hearing, he stopped. He put his mouth close to his lapel and called: "Brian Shanachie."

"Midgard to Asgard, over," said the voice from above his head. The tone and the words seemed to indicate that Brian Shanachie was in good humor.

"I believe," Kevan said carefully, "that there may be a good chance of my being able to get Thrud for Alviss. I've just met my first inhabitant of Asgard and he's been very helpful. In fact, I'd like to repay him in some way, which is why I called."

"A friend at court, eh?" said the voice. "Who did you meet?"

"He said his name is Loki."

"Loki?" said the voice. "Isn't he in durance vile, or some such thing?"

"He's chained in a cave, if that's what you mean," Kevan said. "I can't imagine why they would treat him like that. He seems very nice."

"What did he tell you about himself?"

"Nothing. I did gather from some reference he made to his wife that he's the god of fire."

"That's right," said the voice. "Also god of mischief and evil. You understand, my boy, we make a practice of not interfering with an agent in the field, but if I were you I'd go rather easy on making gifts to Loki. No files baked in a cake, or that sort of thing. If Loki ever breaks loose from his chains, it means the end of the world."

"I find it very difficult to believe that Loki is evil in any way," Kevan said with dignity. "However, I was merely thinking of providing him with some entertainment. He told me that he gets bored just standing there, always with the same view."

"Well—do whatever you think best. What sort of a gift did you have in mind? Dancing girls?"

"No," Kevan said indignantly. "I don't think his wife would approve and I doubt if we could morally justify such a gift. But didn't you mention that you had once made a gift of a radio to one of the gnomes?"

"That's right."

"I was wondering how such things would work here," Kevan said. "After all, they are electrically powered and I doubt if they have many modern conveniences here."

"No problem at all," the voice said cheerfully. "Electrical objects become so charged during teleportation that they run for a long time. Did you want to give Loki a radio?"

"No, I was thinking of a television set. Perhaps one with a twenty-four inch screen. Now, after your information, I'm even more sure that this will make a superb gift for him. If you are correct in saying that he's the god of the evil, some good wholesome entertainment may be good for him. Television, you know, is an excellent way of keeping the children off the streets and—"

"Spare me the commercials," snapped the voice. "You want it right there?"

"No, wait until I get back to the cave. You might also include a remote control tuning device. I imagine he might find it difficult to handle the controls otherwise."

Kevan hurried back to the cave, whereupon Loki stopped trying to guess how full the cup was that Signe held and watched him with interest. Kevan stood at a spot where he judged that Loki could get the best view and once more spoke into the flower in his lapel.

"Okay, send it along," he said.

Once more the air seemed to crackle around him and there was a solid thump as the television set came to rest only a few inches from Kevan's foot.

"In the name of Garm, what is that?" demanded Loki.

"A television set," Kevan said. "I think you will find that it will do much to relieve your boredom." He bent over and turned on the switch and was pleasantly surprised to see the screen light up. He fiddled around with the controls until he got a station tuned. It was a news broadcast, which normally would have interested him, but he was more curious to see Loki's reaction. The god was staring at the screen with bulging eyes. Satisfied, Kevan turned the volume down so that he wouldn't have to compete with the announcer's voice.

"That," he said, "happens to be what we call a news broadcast. That is, the man is telling what is actually happening in the world of the mortals. But you will find other things that are more amusing. In fact, there are a few comedians you might find highly entertaining—I imagine that you are of a sufficiently ancient period to find their jokes new."

Kevan went on to explain to the god how the remote control device could be used to change stations and to raise or lower the volume. A look of speculation crept into Loki's face as the explanation was being given.

"This is really very nice of you," he said when Kevan had finished. "I wonder if I might impose on you for another favor?"

"Of course," Kevan said promptly.

"I have three children," Loki said, "two boys and a girl. Would it be possible to get such a machine for each of them? I'm sure they would enjoy it."

Kevan nodded. "Television is wonderful for children," he said. "I understand they have some very delightful children's programs on, too. Do you think table models might do for them?"

"Anything," Loki said.

"And where would you like them delivered?" Kevan asked. "I could go to wherever they live, so the sets would be delivered there."

"No, I wouldn't think of putting you out. Right here will be fine. I'm sure we can arrange for them to be picked up."

Kevan nodded again and bent his head to speak into the metal flower. "Three more television sets," he ordered. "Table models, if you don't mind."

He thought he heard a grumbling grunt from the air above his head, but a moment later three small television sets were dumped on the ground beside the larger one.

V

After accepting Loki's profuse thanks, Kevan MacGreene went on his way, feeling virtuous for having performed such a good deed. It did occur to him that he should have recommended a few good programs for Loki, perhaps one or two of a spiritual nature, but he decided against turning back to correct it. There was a possibility that a god might resent being instructed by a mere mortal.

Kevan walked rapidly along the broad path he discovered and it wasn't long before he arrived at what Loki had called the first station—although in reality it was little more than a thatched hut. Kevan entered and soon composed the two messages which he wanted to send to Thor and Odin. He handed them over to the old man who ran the station and almost immediately two ravens darted from the hut. Kevan retired to a corner to await their return, but much to his surprise he had barely seated himself when the ravens were back.

Impressed by the service, Kevan toyed with the idea of learning more about the method, thinking that it might be knowledge he could take back and sell for a reasonable price to the various telegraph companies. But he dismissed this as probably being unfair to Brian Shanachie.

While the answers were brief and to the point, it seemed that both Odin and Thor would be happy to see the mortal ambassador. After some dickering with the old man who ran the ravengraph agency, which involved handing over his wristwatch, Kevan received a horse and instructions on how to reach Odin's local castle. As he rode off, the old man was holding the watch to his ear and nodding in time to the rhythmic ticking.

It was a pleasant ride over the rolling hills of Asgard, and Kevan soon arrived at the huge, sprawling castle. The guards evidently expected him, for he was immediately shown into the throne room of the chief of the gods.

Odin, bald-headed and gray-bearded, slouched on his throne and regarded his visitor with interest. It was a mutual attitude, with Kevan finally deciding that Odin must be something of a local character. There were two ravens seated on his shoulders and they seemed to be constantly whispering in his ears. On either side of the throne a gigantic wolf was crouched. Except for his costume, Odin reminded Kevan of an aging Hollywood producer ready to have his picture taken for the press. But, of course, he permitted none of this disrespect to show in his manner.

Kevan delivered a carefully-rehearsed speech, in which he praised Odin's great knowledge, then fell silent.

Odin nodded, as though agreeing with all the points made. "And what are your plans now, mortal?" he asked.

"I thought of visiting Thor," Kevan said.

"My son?" the old god asked, blinking in astonishment. "Why should you visit him? You seem interested in knowledge. I'm afraid you'll find my son rather dull company. Or were you planning to ask for a thunder license?"

"I want to challenge him to answer three riddles," Kevan said. "If he fails to answer them, then I will claim his daughter, Thrud."

"Thrud, eh?" Odin said. A crafty look came into his eyes. "If it's only a matter of a woman, why not stay here and expound your riddles. I'll let you have one of the Valkyries. It'll be a much better bargain. They are all quite skilled in the arts of love and Thor is rather strict with Thrud so she may be a little too innocent for a man of the world such as yourself."

"No, it must be Thrud," Kevan said, deciding there was no use in defending the purity of his own intentions.

"Jaded appetites, eh?" the old god said, shrugging his shoulders. "What riddles are you going to try on my son? Perhaps I can advise you."

"I'm sorry, sir," Kevan said, "but I'd rather not say. You know the old saying, 'the walls have ears'?"

"Of course they do," Odin said a trifle impatiently. "They're battle trophies. I removed every single one of them myself."

At first, Kevan thought the god might be a little mad, but then he realized that the walls of the throne room were indeed covered with ears. And not very attractive ears at that. "No, no," he said, averting his eyes, "I meant that someone might overhear the riddles and tip off Thor."

"And he wouldn't be above using the information," Odin agreed. "Well, I'll tell you what—I'll ride you over to Thor's."

"I wouldn't want to trouble you," Kevan began, but was stopped by a wave of Odin's hand.

"No trouble. After all, we seldom have visitors here. I wouldn't want it said that Odin lets visitors just wander off by themselves—maybe even be eaten up by a stray dragon. Besides, I wouldn't mind seeing that son of mine taken down a notch or two." He looked pleased at the prospect.

The mention of dragons was enough to keep Kevan from protesting further. Within a few minutes, he was again mounted on his horse while Odin rode beside him. As they galloped through the gate, they were joined by a dozen of the Valkyries. These beautiful young women, their charms not sufficiently concealed by the armor they wore, immediately began casting covetous glances at Kevan. He was careful to ride close beside Odin.

Their arrival at Thor's castle, Belskirnir, was filled with confusion for Kevan. The palace was swarming with various lusty gods, their wives, mistresses and children. He was introduced to so many that he could remember the names of none. He did, however, catch the name of Thrud when he was introduced to a shapely blonde girl, with a sullen face. He managed to whisper to her, telling her who he was and the purpose of his errand, whereupon the sullenness fell from her face. The result was so startling that Kevan found it difficult to remember that he was there on behalf of Alviss.

It seemed that they were just in time for a banquet and Kevan found himself forced to go through what seemed like a hundred course meal, consisting mostly of half-cooked venison, and so many cups of mead that his head was swimming.

Kevan had tried several times to get Thor's attention to bring up the matter of his challenge, but found it almost impossible to make himself heard above the roar of voices in the banquet hall. But the matter was finally settled for him by Odin, whose curiosity could no longer stand the strain.

"Quiet," shouted the chief of the gods, leaping to his feet. He struck the table a mighty blow with his hand, causing the mead cups to jump and spill. "Silence!" He waited until the shouting and talking died down. "The mortal who is our guest would like to challenge my son, Thor, on three riddles."

Thor looked up from the head of the table, but there was no evidence of pleasure in his face. He was dressed in a peasant costume and Kevan had secretly decided that the costume was an affectation.

"I'm not interested in riddles," Thor grunted. "I know enough of them anyway."

"Well, I am," retorted Odin. "So you'll accept the challenge or I'll take the thunder concession away from you and give it to Sif."

There was a burst of laughter from around the table and Thor frowned. He didn't really care about the thunder concession, but if it were taken from him and given to his wife, the symbolism would be one he'd never live down. "All right," he growled. "Where is this mortal?"

"Here," Kevan said, standing up. He had expected to be nervous but the mead had bolstered his courage. "But there's more to the challenge. If you fail to answer two of the three riddles then I get to take Thrud away with me."

"You mean you want to marry her?" Thor asked, scowling.

"No," Kevan said. The sudden silence that followed made his ears burn, but he was afraid to explain more fully. If Thor knew that there was a chance that Alviss might finally triumph over him, there was a possibility he would brook his father's anger. So Kevan ignored the knowing glances and kept quiet.

"That's the trouble with you mortals," grumbled Thor. He cast a quick glance at his father and decided not to risk arguing about it. "All right, I agree," he said reluctantly. "What do you pay, if I answer the riddles?"

Kevan was taken aback. "I—I hadn't thought about that," he admitted.

"Well, think about it," Thor snapped. "I have it. If I answer your riddles, you'll stay here as my personal goatherd."

Kevan had gone too far to back down, so he nodded. He thought, a little ruefully, that the next job of Troubleshooters, Inc. might be to rescue a former agent turned goatherd. It also occurred to him that perhaps Brian Shanachie didn't bother rescuing agents, but he pushed the thought away.

"Okay," he said, "here is my first riddle." He'd finally decided on a first riddle which he suspected was too old, but it was the weakest of his three and he wanted to get it over with. He cleared his throat and began: "What we caught, we left behind; what we brought, we cannot find."

Thor's expression of worry vanished and he burst out laughing. "I learned that one so long ago," he roared, "that when I first knew it, it went: Hos' helomen lipometha, Hos' ouk helomen pherometha. The answer is a flea."

Kevan MacGreene nodded, feeling the first pangs of fear. It suddenly dawned on him that he had little business pitting wits with a god—even a discarded one—and he could only hope that his next two riddles were new enough. In terms of mortal life they too were old; it was so difficult to tell what was new for a god.

"Here is my second riddle," he said nervously. "I have an apple I can't cut, a blanket I can't fold, and so much money I can't count it." If Thor guessed this one, he was finished.

There was a long silence. Kevan sneaked a glance at Odin and the older god's puzzled expression gave him more confidence than Thor's frown.

The silence stretched into minutes.

"Enough of this," shouted Odin. "Give up, you idiot, so he can tell us the answer."

"All right," Thor said sullenly. "I give up."

Elation flooded over Kevan. "The apple is the sun," he said, "the blanket is the sky, and the money is the stars." He grinned happily at the expression of rage on Thor's face. "Here's my third and last riddle," he said. "A long white barn, two roofs on it, and no door at all, at all." He almost held his breath as he waited.

Thor looked around the table as though he thought someone there might know the answer and signal him. But the other faces were as blank as his own.

"By Gimli," shouted Odin, "I think he's got you, son. And a good thing, too. It's high time that daughter of yours was getting out and learning a thing or two. Go on—confess you're licked."

His face red with anger, Thor nodded.

"It's an egg," Kevan said triumphantly.

The other gods around the table leaped to their feet and slapped Kevan on the back in token of victory. He had just started to take a drink of mead, however, and the result was that he choked.

Before Kevan could stop choking, the door to the banquet hall broke down. A horse and rider came through the door, the horse rearing and plunging, scattering gods before it. An armored god was astride the horse, swinging a short-handled axe in his right hand.

In a minute all of the gods were on their feet, shouting. It was Odin who quieted them with a bellow that shook the rafters. "Well, Hermod?" he asked as the others quieted.

"It's Ragnarok," the newcomer shouted. "Loki is on his way, with Jormungandr, Fenris, Hel, Garm, and the Hel-brood. To battle!"

The gods shouted in response and before Kevan had a chance to ask a single question, the banquet hall was emptied. Only Kevan MacGreene still sat at the table, staring at the door through which they had all rushed.

"Better not to get mixed up in any strange fights," Kevan said to himself, remembering something his father had always told him. He got up from the table and left the room.

Some fifteen rooms later, he found Thrud and told her of his success. She nodded, smiling.

"I am ready," she said. "I was sure that anyone Alviss sent would succeed. Where is my father?"

"They all rushed out to battle," Kevan said. "I didn't catch the details, but I expect it's just some local argument. Maybe we'd better hurry before your father returns and changes his mind."

VI

With Thrud leading the way, they went down to the courtyard. There was a single gray horse standing there patiently. At first, Kevan thought that it was the horse on which he had arrived, but he changed his mind when he noticed that this one had eight legs. He counted them three times to make sure but each time it came out eight.

"It's a good omen," Thrud cried. "This is Sleipnir, Odin's favorite horse."

Kevan was in no mood to haggle over the ownership of a horse, so he helped Thrud mount and then leaped on in front of her. He was no sooner in the saddle than the gray horse sped through the gates. When the eight legs really got to working, Kevan realized that they were traveling faster than he'd ever gone in his life.

"I must remember," he thought to himself, "to look for eight-legged horses the next time I go to the riding academy."

Back over the trail toward Bifrost sped the gray horse. Once far off to the left Kevan caught sight of a warrior who looked like Odin battling with a giant wolf.

They were almost to the rainbow bridge when their way was barred by another horseman, with drawn sword. The gray horse reared, six legs threshing the air, which kept Kevan busy for a few minutes just staying on. When that was finally accomplished, he recognized the horseman as Loki.

Recognition came to Loki at the same moment and he lowered the sword. "Hello, Kevan MacGreene," he said with an odd smile. "I owe you too much to bar your way. Go on—as far as you can."

"Well, Mr. Loki," Kevan said. "I thought you'd be home—er—watching television. What happened?"

"Thanks to you, I'm free," Loki said. "It was decreed that there was only one way that I could get free—when the greed and lust and vice and warfare of men became great enough that it would give me the strength to break my chains. But it is long since we've had contact with mortals. Then, due to what you call television, I was able to see the men of your world. There were men whose greed robbed other men. There were men whose lust destroyed all before them. There were men whose vices corrupted the innocent and enslaved the free. And there was warfare on such a scale as never imagined by gods. As I watched, my strength grew."

"You watched the wrong people," Kevan said. "There are many good people—although I suppose you don't hear much of them. Still, I'm glad you were able to get free."

Loki's gaze switched to Kevan's companion. "Thrud," he said, "I'm sorry, but Ragnarok cannot be held back by a mere romance.... Goodbye, Kevan MacGreene." He spurred his horse and was gone.

The gray, eight-legged horse was half way over the rainbow bridge before Kevan realized that the girl behind him was no longer the happy person who had started with him. He twisted in the saddle and looked at her. The tears were streaming down her face.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's Ragnarok," the girl said between sobs.

"But why are you crying?" Kevan asked, bewildered. "Your Uncle Loki seemed happy that it was Ragnarok."

"He would be," the girl said bitterly. "Don't you understand, Kevan, Ragnarok is the end of the world."

"Oh, pshaw," scoffed Kevan. "People are always predicting the end of the world whenever there's a little argument."

"But I'm not people," Thrud said. "I'm the daughter of Thor, the granddaughter of Odin, and I tell you that Ragnarok means the complete destruction of the universe. Only Lif and Lifthrasir will be left to start a new world. But I will have to go to Gimli with my father and the others, while Alviss will have to go to the Nida Mountains with the rest of the dwarfs and I'll never see him again."

"And where will I go—no, don't answer that," Kevan added quickly. "My goodness, this is a mess. You're sure this is the end of the world?"

"Positive," Thrud said. "And you caused it by giving Loki whatever it was that you gave him. Without that, he would not have learned of the evil of mortals and he'd still be chained.... I'm sorry, Kevan," she added in a softer voice, "I know that you didn't realize what you were doing."

"I'd heard a lot of criticism of television," muttered Kevan, "but I never thought it was that bad. The destruction of the universe...."

The eight-legged horse galloped off the rainbow bridge and came to a halt near the trunk of Yggdrasil, sniffing with disdain at the parked jeep.

"Well," said Kevan with sudden energy, "we'll have to do something about this. Don't you worry, my dear, Alviss and I will think of something." He raised his voice. "Oh, you—whatever your name is!"

"Were you addressing me?" the serpent asked, raising its head from the roots on which it gnawed. "Oh, it's you, old boy. I was just thinking of that song I wanted to sing to you—"

"Not now," Kevan said hastily. "There's a lady present. Besides I want you to do me a favor. Something called Ragnarok has started and I'm in rather a hurry to stop it. I wonder if Miss Thrud might stay here with you until I get back."

"Of course," said the serpent. "Glad to have her. As a matter of fact, I have a song which might amuse her. I believe it's called Britannia Waives the Rules. It's a jolly song—"

"Never mind," said Kevan. "Just see that nothing happens to her. I'll be right back." He leaped from the back of the horse and climbed quickly into the jeep.

"If you're thinking of stopping Ragnarok," called the serpent, "you had better hurry, old chap. Surtr and his men will be coming along any minute to join the battle and I'm very much afraid that Bifrost will collapse beneath their weight."

"I'll hurry," promised Kevan. He waved to Thrud and started the jeep. Within seconds, he had it traveling at top speed.

Alviss was still stirring his cauldron when Kevan MacGreene came bursting back through the tunnel. "Oh, it's you," he said. "Where's Thrud? Don't tell me you didn't get her!"

"I did and I didn't," panted Kevan. He quickly explained what had happened, neglecting only to make it clear that the television set had been entirely his own idea. The dwarf's face paled throughout the recital.

"I don't know if Ragnarok can be stopped," he muttered when Kevan had finished. "But maybe we can find out. I've long had a suspicion...." He walked over to one of the tunnels leading from where they stood. "Fialer," he bellowed at the top of his voice. "Galar!"

There was a distant answering shout and Alviss came back to where Kevan stood. "If anybody will know," he said, "it will be Fialer and Galar. They're the two who killed Kvaser, the god who knew all answers. You may remember hearing of the mead which they made of Kvaser's blood and honey, one draught of which would create a great poet."

"I'm afraid I never heard of it," confessed Kevan, at a total loss.

"Never mind," said Alviss. He stopped as two white-bearded dwarfs came running into the chamber. He reached out and grabbed each of them by the beard before the startled dwarfs had any idea of what was happening.

"Remember when the two of you killed Kvaser?" he asked.

"Hey, that's old stuff," one of the dwarfs said. "It's not fair dragging it up now."

"Besides," said the other, "the statute of limitations has run out."

"I don't care about that," growled Alviss. "I've always had a hunch that before you made the mead, one or both of you drank his blood straight and gained his power of all knowledge. I want to know if that's true and I'm going to find out or I'll knock your heads together until there's an earthquake up above."

For a minute the two dwarfs met Alviss' gaze, but one of them finally weakened. "It was him," he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of his companion.

"Is that true, Fialer?" Alviss asked.

"Yes," the dwarf gulped. "But—"

"I don't care about the reason," snapped Alviss. "Ragnarok has started and I want to know if there's any way it can be stopped?"

"Yes," said the dwarf.

"How?"

"A special brew of the same forces which permitted Loki and his children to escape will imprison them again," said Fialer. "I can write out the prescription for you in a few minutes."

"All right," said Alviss. "Get busy and write it out. Galar, you get going. I want every available gnome, dwarf, fairy, leprechaun, brownie—in short, everyone here as quickly as they can make it. As for you," he added, whirling on Kevan, "you get over in the corner and stay out of the way until I'm ready for you."

Kevan MacGreene got over in the farthest corner and huddled against the wall. He had no idea of how much time passed, but the tunnel was suddenly choked with the comings and goings of Little People. He noticed that some carried pickaxes, some were armed with huge needles, and others carried bags. While some were still going out on the orders of Alviss, others were returning and mysterious objects were being dropped in a new cauldron. Alviss was already stirring and chanting before the last of the workers returned. It was only a little later that Alviss looked up and beckoned to Kevan. The latter hurried over, conscious of a horrible stench coming from the cauldron. As he arrived, Alviss was pouring the contents into a tiny bucket.

"A magic bucket," he explained, seeing Kevan's stare. "Now, listen carefully. You must take this bucket and go back into Asgard. First, get into position where the wind will blow from you toward all of the gods. That will stop the fighting. Then if you advance with the bucket you will be able to drive the Hel-brood, Loki, Garm, Jormungandr, Fenris and Hel before you. When each is back in the place where they were originally imprisoned, pour the contents of this bucket over Loki's chains, the silken cord that bound Fenris, the water in which Jormungandr coils, and the door to Niflheim. Then you can bring Thrud safely here."

"What's in it?" Kevan asked.

"There's no time to tell you now," Alviss said. "But I guarantee you that this will stop Ragnarok if you get there before the fighting has stopped. If you do as I say, it will also keep Loki and his pack chained up. There will be only one way they can ever get loose in the future—and that will be all right. Now, hurry."

Kevan MacGreene ran down the tunnel, swinging the bucket at his side. If anything, the odor from the bucket spurred him on to greater speed.

The great bridge Bifrost still stood when he once again braked the jeep beside Yggdrasil. Thrud sat sadly beneath the tree, but the serpent looked up in excitement as Kevan jumped from the jeep.

"You may just have time," he said. "I can hear the hoofbeats of Surtr's horses, but they still have some distance to come."

"Thanks," said Kevan. He waved encouragement to Thrud and leaped on the back of Sleipnir. He dug his heels into the great horse's side and Sleipnir took off up the bridge with the speed of the wind.

As the horse leaped madly from the other end of the bridge, Kevan caught a glimpse of the fighters. He saw Thor battling valiantly against a serpent so huge that there seemed no end to his coils; saw Vidar warding off the slashing leap of the giant wolf that earlier had been fighting with Odin; saw the one-armed Tyr drawing more blood from the already stained watchdog, Garm. Then Sleipnir was circling around the fight, traveling at such speed that the figures blurred. Kevan held to the saddle with one hand and with the other held high the bucket.

After a moment, he became aware that the giant horse had slowed down, that he no longer heard the sounds of battle. He looked around and saw all the battling gods stiff and unmoving as though suddenly frozen in action.

Kevan touched his knee to Sleipnir's neck and the gray horse headed for the group. Kevan held the bucket in front of him. Slowly, some of the figures came to life, began to move backward ahead of him. Fenris the Wolf slavered and snarled and Jormungandr's hissing was like the sound of a tornado, but they moved steadily before him. Garm growled threateningly; curses spilled from the lips of the black and white Hel, but they too gave ground. Only Hel's army of the dead and Loki remained unmoved in the face of their defeat.

One by one, Kevan MacGreene put the legion of evil back in their prisons and sealed the chains and the doors with the contents of the bucket. The last one was Jormungandr, who slid his giant coils back into the ocean and waited with flattened head. Kevan poured the last of the bucket into the ocean, heard Jormungandr twist and splash, saw the ocean turn a strange and fearsome blue. Then he flung the bucket from him and, weak-kneed, rode back toward Bifrost.

As the gray horse came down off the rainbow bridge, Kevan heard a strange noise and realized that it was the serpent singing "For he's a jolly good fellow" only slightly off key. He collapsed over the horse in hysterical laughter.

As he fell off the horse, Thrud rushed up and kissed him on the cheek. At the moment, that seemed a greater reward than the fact that he was alive.

Kevan and Thrud said goodbye to Nidhoggr, the serpent, who furtively shook a tear from his eyes and went back to gnawing on the roots of Yggdrasil as the jeep bounced away.

For the third time that night, Kevan MacGreene walked up the tunnel in the hill across from the four kings' palace. This time, Thrud walked ahead of him. As they reached the chamber, Alviss was nervously waiting. With a little cry, Thrud rushed ahead, picked the dwarf up from the ground and hugged him to her breast.

It was a long and passionate clinch. While it was going on, Kevan suddenly realized that his job was finished and that he was tired. It had been a long night's work. Finally, when he could wait no longer, he leaned over and tapped the dwarf on the shoulder.

Alviss tore his lips from Thrud's and looked over his shoulder, scowling. "Go get your own woman," he said.

"I was about," Kevan said with dignity, "to announce that I was leaving. I wondered if perhaps you might know of a shorter way back than the way I came. I'm rather tired and would like to get home as soon as I can."

"Put me down, dear," Alviss told Thrud. She obeyed and the little dwarf seemed to listen a moment. Then he picked up his pickaxe and strode over to the wall. With a few swings, he'd opened a fairly large hole.

"There," he said to Kevan, "that'll let you into a subway passage that's right beneath Shanachie's office. I must admit that I'm grateful to you, Kevan MacGreene."

"Think nothing of it," Kevan said. He started to step through the hole, then hesitated. "There is one thing I'd like to know," he said.

"What?"

"What was in that mixture that stopped Ragnarok and is strong enough to hold the evil gods of Asgard?"

"Just what the recipe called for," Alviss said proudly. "All of the pitch-blende in the world. The egos of a general, a dictator, and a number of lesser persons. The vanity of some American Congressmen. The greed of an infinite number of men. One drop of blood from the left thumb of a communist, a capitalist, a religious fanatic, a censor, a racist, and from every man in the world who would like to be a little better than some other man. A drop of marrow, as a substitute for blood, from all executive vice-presidents. One page each from a contract, a mortgage, a promissory note, an international cartel agreement. Three corporation charters. One lobbyist's expense account. Finger-nail cuttings from every politician in the world. All of these boiled together in the juice of man's inhumanity to man. Your world is now minus all of those things, but we achieved a brew which possessed more evil than Loki and his pack could stand."

"I can still remember the odor," Kevan said nodding.

"What it contained that may be of value, if used differently," said Alviss, "can sometime be regained by a world in which the mortals cannot misuse them. Although such action will also release Loki, it will then do no harm. When men are not evil, then their gods dare not be. Now, be along with you, Kevan MacGreene—I have a spot of courting to do."

Kevan stepped through the hole and found himself in a subway station. He hurried up the stairs and a moment later stepped out on the streets of New York.

While he'd been sure that it was almost daylight when he'd left Alviss, here it was only approaching evening. Although he did not look closely, being in a hurry to check in, it seemed to him that there was something different about everything in the city.

He finally arrived at the corner of Fourth and Twelfth Streets and stopped, puzzled. There ahead of him was the sign TROUBLESHOOTERS, INC., but it was on a fine modern building that looked as if it were made from spun glass. He could have sworn that it had been on an old brownstone building. Deciding that it must have been the hangover, he hurried inside.

"Kathleen," he shouted to the dark-haired girl at the desk.

She looked up with a friendly but distant smile. "I beg your pardon," she said.

Kevan looked at her and frowned. She looked almost exactly like Kathleen Culanna, even to the emerald green eyes, but she was different. "You're not Kathleen Culanna," he said.

The girl shook her head. "No," she said, "I'm afraid that she left some time ago. You must be one of our men, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Kevan. "Kevan MacGreene's the name. You can be telling his nibs I'm back." The more he looked at the girl the more he thought he'd recover from the disappointment of not seeing Kathleen. "And what's your name?"

"Colleen Dannan."

"A pretty name to go with a pretty lass," Kevan said. "Is his nibs in?"

"Yes, Mr. Shanachie is in," the girl said. "He asked me to give you your salary check if you came in this way." She held up a pink oblong of paper.

"Salary, then, is it?" said Kevan, reaching for it. "It must be that he remembered I said that I was broke. You know I never did learn what this job pays."

"I believe the pay for agents is ten dollars a week," said Colleen.

"Ten dollars a week?" said Kevan, feeling the rage grow in him. "Why, of all the doublecrossing, thieving—" He broke off and gulped. He'd just looked at the check and saw the figure that was written on it. Pay to the order of Kevan MacGreene $468,000.00. "There must be some mistake," he said in a weak voice. "This check is for almost a half a million dollars."

"No mistake," the dark-haired girl said with a smile. "You were working in the land of the Little People, weren't you?"

Kevan nodded.

"And you were there for a whole night?"

Kevan nodded again.

"Then there's no mistake," the girl said. "One night in the land of the Little People is the same as nine hundred years here. This is the year 2852 and that represents your back pay."

For a moment, the room spun about Kevan MacGreene's head. He gripped the desk hard and hung on and after a moment he could see a pair of emerald green eyes clearly. They looked friendly—and soothing.

"Colleen Dannan," he said, "would you have dinner with me and explain all of this again while you're holding my hand to protect me from the shock?"

"He's waiting for you," the girl said, indicating the door. "Ask me when you come back. If I'm still here, I will."

Kevan MacGreene took two steps toward the door and then came back, shaking his head.

"No," he said firmly. "If I've been working nine hundred years then I'm entitled to a night off. And I lost one girl by walking through that door. I'm taking no chances on this one. Come with me, Colleen—you're going to dinner."

And that is how Colleen Dannan, a descendent of Macha De Dannan herself, came to have dinner with Kevan MacGreene, but one generation and nine hundred years removed from the County Ulster.

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