Dragons Of Englor

The attempted humor fell flat. Blade sensed that J's heart was not in it in any case.

«No, I meant-how is Rilla herself? I haven't been let in to see her, so I assume she's still recovering from the transition, but-«

«Richard,» said J quietly, and the soft voice held enormous compassion for the younger man. «Rilla has quite recovered, physically. But mentally-she is not doing too well.»

«How-badly?» said Blade.

«She has no more mind than a six-month-old baby,» said J.

There was a long silence. Blade stared into the fire. He had seldom felt worse in all his life in any Dimension. Rilla's mind was gone, and when all was said and done, it was his fault. He could have left her in Englor.

«Thank you,» he said, and rose to go.

Richard Blade walked along Westminster Embankment. Above him the sky was gray, and from it fell the same kind of snow that had been falling on the London of Englor when he left it. His mood was as bleak and as gray as the weather.

He had done his duty to England and to Englor, and even more effectively than usual. He'd helped alter the course of history in Englor's Dimension, and what he'd brought back might yet do the same here.

Yet, didn't he also have duties to people like Rilla? Wasn't there perhaps a point where they took over? Genetics or no genetics, he would not have been betraying his own country by not bringing Rilla home. The alloys and the fuel would have been worth the trip. Rilla could still be safe and sane, honored and prosperous in Englor instead of helpless in a hospital in England.

He looked up at the tower of Big Ben, looming through the falling snow. No dragons of the Red Flames would perch there again in Englor; none would ever do so here in England.

That was a victory. But was it worth it, when other people so often seemed to pay the price?

Blade didn't know. Perhaps there was no answer. In any case, he would have to go on doing his duty, whether or not he ever found the answer.