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"You won't be walking around the city in daylight and among the crowds. The main reason I picked you and Sharts and the others is that you have the best chance of pulling this off. I know that you are the best. I can read character, and I can calculate probabilities to a degree you might find incredible."
Hank sighed again, and he said, "Very well. But what if the Americans invade again?"
"I'll handle that. I didn't need you the last time. Though I was, of course, grateful that you were available if I did need you."
"I can't leave until the day after tomorrow. I have to flight-check Je
Glinda smiled and said, "And you should have more time with Lamblo."
Later, Hank wondered if Glinda could tell what Lamblo was going to do just by the subtle attitudes of her voice and body or if Lamblo had confided in Glinda. He certainly had had no warning that the little blonde was going to propose marriage to him.
"In my country," he said, when he had rallied from the shock, "the men ask the women to marry them."
"But you're not there," Lamblo said. They were clad only in robes and slippers and were eating a snack before returning to bed. She was sitting in the high chair which had been built for her. Even so, she had to look up at him across the table.
"Anyway," she said, "that's beside the point. You're dodging my question. Don't do that just because you don't want to hurt me. You surely know whether or not you want me as your wife. You can't tell me that you haven't thought about it."
Hank put down the half-eaten piece of buttered bread smeared with honey. He would choke if he took another bite.
"Don't be afraid to admit that you're in love with Glinda. All the men are. But they can't have her. You can't have her. If you had any sense, you'd know that by now. You'd also know that if you could be her husband, you wouldn't be happy very long. She's three hundred years old, Hank, and she's a witch. You'd never be equals. You'd be her shadow. Or a mortal coupled with a goddess. You'd..."
"I know all that!" he said. "I have more sense than you credit me with."
He drank some milk, and he said, "Only..."
Lamblo was not smiling now; her eyes were slitted.
"Only... if you can't have her, you don't want anybody?"
"No. That's not it."
"I love you, Hank."
Something that had been hard and cold within seemed to soften and melt. He broke up inside, and, though it hurt him, it also made him sob, just once, but violently. It was as if something had torn itself loose from deep within him and had flown up through his throat and out of his mouth. Almost, he could hear it wailing as it flew out into night.
"I love you, Lamblo, but..."
She waited. She was smiling now, her eyes were wide, but tears were filming them.
"Well, but, now's no time to talk of marrying! I'll be leaving very soon on a dangerous mission... I might not return..."
"I don't give a damn!" she said. "No, I don't mean I don't care that you're going to be in danger! I care very much; I don't have to say that. I mean that it doesn't make any difference! I'm willing to take a chance I'll be a widow, and if you love me you would, too. Hank, I want your child."
He gripped the edge of the table.
"But it should have a father."
"Will you marry me? A yes or a no will do. As far as words go, anyway."
"Yes. As soon as I get back," he said. "We don't have time to get married. And I'll be very busy tomorrow getting ready for the journey. We couldn't even have a honeymoon."
"Oh, I think Glinda will manage to marry us, first thing in the morning. After breakfast. As for the honeymoon, you might say that we've had that."
He got up from the chair and walked around the table and picked her up and kissed her.
"I didn't force you to say yes, did I?" she murmured.
"I'd not be much of a man if you could."
"You're a big man, as big as they come and larger," she said. "We Quadlings have a saying: A big man is not necessarily a big man. It has a double meaning, but I'm talking about strength of character. About a strong man."
"Listen, Lamblo. I've got guts enough to tell you I didn't want to marry you if I didn't. I'll tell you the truth. I've not met any other woman here—of course, I haven't met many—whom I'd rather marry. And I do love you."
"But Glinda?"
"She's more goddess than mortal. I realized that some time ago. I just don't want you bringing her up when you get mad at me. It wouldn't be fair. I don't care what else you reproach me with, but just don't taunt me about her."
"That depends upon how angry you make me."
But she giggled.
The marriage did not take much time. Instead of a priest or priestess, Glinda conducted the ceremony. Glinda said a few words, a question to and an answer from each, and the bridegroom and bride exchanged golden rings, Glinda blessed them, and that was that. Later, when there was an opportunity, there would be a reaffirmation, a big formal wedding with priests and priestesses, Lamblo's parents and relatives present, a band, dancing, much drinking, and many bawdy jests.
The honeymoon lasted an hour. Hank had not taken the anti-fertility drink, but since its effects had not yet worn off, he could not make Lamblo pregnant. He would not have to worry about his child being fatherless if he did not return from the mission.
The final landing was on a farmer's meadow ten miles north of Wugma, the Gillikin capital.
Hank had flown only at night, and he had followed a circle which took him far west of Wugma over a hilly, thinly populated area. Glinda had arranged for guerrillas and spies to light beacon fires at fifty-mile intervals to guide him. Even with these he would not have been able to fly in the dark if it had not been for Bargma the owl. She was familiar with the mountain ranges he had to pass through, and she guided him safely through them.
The weather had cooperated, though the skies were usually cloudy. Bargma attributed the lack of rain and high winds to Glinda. Hank did not believe this because he could not see how any witch could summon up and control the vast amount of energy involved. But he did not argue with the owl.
Je
Hank cut the ignition. Figures appeared out of darkness. At his order, they pushed the plane under the branches of a huge oak and turned it around. A man holding a bull's-eye lantern stood by the cockpit. He was as tall as Hank. Sharts the Shirtless. Behind him was the three-foot-two-inch-high figure of Blogo the Rare Beast. His crested head and the knobbed cylinder of his nose were outlined by the dying fire.
Hank greeted them, then climbed out to supervise the refueling of Je
"Everything's set up and going well?" Hank said to Sharts.
The man's tone bristled. "Of course! I made all the arrangements! To the last detail!"
"It was just a rhetorical question," Hank said.
He was already irritated at having to be so careful with this prima do
Some day, he would ask how the giant had earned his title. He certainly would not put the question to Sharts, however. At the moment, Sharts was wearing an elegant brocaded and frilled shirt with a high neck-ruff. An unbuttoned sleeveless jacket hung from his broad shoulders. It looked like leather but probably was not. Leather was far more rare and costly than gold or diamonds and was illegal in all nations unless the owner could prove that he or she had the deceased's permission or the relatives' to skin the deceased. Sharts's pants were jodhpurs; his boots, conventional wooden shoes with felt leggings and rolled tops. These would be replaced later by all-linen shoes.