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Sharts manhandled Blogo into the first entrance on the right. Blogo began whimpering then, but Sharts said, "Now, now, be a man."
The two disappeared around the corner. Hank heard Blogo scream despairingly again, but this time it was cut off. There was a silence. Hank went around the corner and stopped. Though some light leaked through openings high up, this room was somewhat darker than the others. It was not so dim, however, that he could not see that Blogo and Sharts were standing in front of a huge mirror.
"I found it in another room," Sharts said softly. "I cleaned it off and set it here so it would be the first thing you'd see when you came into here. Actually, you didn't see it at all. What you saw was your own reflection."
Blogo sobbed, and he said, "It looked just like the Very Rare Beast to me."
"And so it was. You. Need I say anything more?"
There was a long silence. Then Blogo took Sharts's hand and kissed it again and again. Sobbing, he said, "I owe it all to you, boss. You've cured me!"
Hank was disgusted. The Rare Beast should have kicked Sharts in the crotch.
After leaving the two off at a guerrilla base on the Winkie-Gillikin border, Hank flew on to Suthwarzha. They had taken off from the plateau and landed twice, scaring off the locals and stealing their alcohol, before Je
"It sounds as if you had fun," Glinda said, smiling. "I wish you hadn't dropped the Golden Cap in a river. But, after all, you had given your word."
"It was both interesting and educational. There were times when it was downright exciting. I wouldn't want to set it up as a charter tour, though. And I didn't care for the company I had to keep."
"You often have to put up with your partners in business, war, and marriage. I am very pleased with the mission even if you did not kill Erakna. According to my spies, you really shook her up, and the news of what you did to her has caused many desertions from her army. The people know now that she is not as invulnerable as they had thought."
"There's something I don't understand. I thought all red witches feared water. My mother said, and Baum reported her correctly, that the West Witch was so dry that she had no blood. And she carried an umbrella to keep rain, any water, away. I'll have to admit I found that hard to believe. At least, I did until I found out about the firefoxes. Then I supposed that, somehow the red witches used a firefox to keep their bodies and minds alive even though they should have been as dead as mummies."
"You're mixed up. Erakna is a young witch and bleeds even as you and I. You saw her bleed. The old, very old, red witches do start drying up when they pass on. That ‘pass on' isn't entirely a euphemism, because, when they are close to dying of old age, they do use a firefox to keep them animated. Its energy is also used as food for the witch. They don't eat after they've started to dry up, you know."
"I didn't know," Hank said. "What about the kitchen my mother had to work in when she was the West Witch's prisoner? And the food she stole from the cupboard to feed the Cowardly Lion?"
"They were for the West Witch's servants and soldiers, of course."
"O.K. But why would the West Witch dissolve into a puddle when my mother threw water on her?"
"I suppose that the water broke the electrical bonds holding her atoms together. I wouldn't have any explanation if you hadn't told me about atomic theory. My scientists, by the way, are grateful for your information."
"Which is pretty elementary," Hank said. "Anyway, I'm glad that you weren't too disappointed in what I did."
"I can give you a medal," she said, smiling. "I'll have one made up especially for you and the occasion."
Hank blushed, and he said, "Your thanks will be enough reward."
"Now, I'll give you something that came through the green cloud while you were gone."
She picked up a large white envelope with no writing on it and handed it to him.
He looked at it and said, "You didn't open it."
"Don't be stupid. I can't read English. As yet."
"You fluster me."
She smiled but did not reply:
He slit the envelope with a steel opener. It held two sheets on which were handwriting. He recognized the beautiful Spencerian letters, and he verified it by looking at the name on the second sheet.
"How can this be? How is old Stinky Wright involved in this? How...?"
"We'll find out when you read it. First, though, tell me about this Stinkii Rait."
"We grew up together. His parents' house was near mine. We went to school together; we were best friends. And we were in the same squadron in France. The last time I heard from him, he was a cadet at West Point. That's the American military college. The best. But... O.K. I'll read it."
Dear Hank the Rank:
I'll bet you never dreamed, even with your fertile imagination, that I'd be here and you'd be there and I'd be writing this to you. I'm writing this secretly, no one around, and I'm putting my ass on the line to do it. But friendship, true friendship, triumphs over everything. Besides I don't like at all what they're doing or what's happened. Maybe I'm a traitor for saying that, but I don't think so. I'm not your typical West Point wind-up toy soldier.
I'm a shavetail in the Signal Corps, I got an engineer's degree even if I was at the bottom of the class. Why they assigned a dummy like me to this project, I don't know. No explanation comes to me except that that's the Army for you. Why did I go to West Point when I'd had all that experience with the military mind? I'll tell you why. Because the pater wanted me to and I didn't have guts enough to tell him that I didn't care if I was the eldest son and the eldest son always went to West Point. I couldn't tell the old so-and-so that I loathed Army life and break his heart. But I may resign soon anyway.
I'm in this project but I wouldn't know what was really going on if I hadn't gotten into the secret files. I may be stupid but I do have guts. Or is that just another sign of imbecility?
I'm mad as hell, Old Rank, but I can't go around shooting my mouth off to the newspapers or anybody else for that matter. I'd disappear, end up in Army prison, probably in solitary. Maybe I'd even get shot. It'd be an "accident," but it could happen, believe me, Hank, old buddy.
I wish there was some safe way, any way, that you could answer this. There isn't. As it is I don't know if you'll get this. But I'm taking the chance you will. What I'm going to do tomorrow is take a private plane I've rented and drop this letter through that green cloud called the Sampson phenomenon. After Mark Sampson, the brilliant young guy who made the machine that made the green cloud that opened the way to Oz, though it was an accident. Oz! I can't believe it!
Anyway, I'll be up there when the green cloud appears if it appears. It doesn't always and even then they can't be sure how big it'll be and how long it'll last.
Anyway they're trying some kind of experiment with it, but they won't be trying to fly anybody through. So I should have the sky to myself. I'll zoom up there and strike like old Balloon-Buster Frank Luke himself, drop this through the cloud in a box with a Very flare attached, and run like I saw Richthofen coming after me. I rented the plane under a fake name, paid cash, and I'll be wearing a fake beard and civilian clothes and using a German accent.
If they find out who I am, I'll take off for Brazil. I always did prefer dark-eyed beauties, remember?
When they heard about what happened to their invasion force, they just about crapped in their whipcords. And they sent off a cipher message to Washington. Whoever's handling this deal there sent a cipher message to the President. He was in Alaska on a tour. The message rocked him, he got sick and had to go to bed. He's in San Francisco now, but he's said to be still sick. He hasn't been much help to the people here. They've been told to make the decision about what to do, but you can bet that if it's wrong they'll be blamed. That's the Army way, God bless it!