A detailless image of the comforting bulk of the mare rose in his mind. He slowed, rounded into the wind, sniffed for her distinctive scent. He felt his heart pounding slowly, massively, was aware of air snorting in through wide nostrils, felt himself quivering with a fear that drained away as memory of its origin faded from his mind. He tossed his head and trotted back toward the barn. The mare appeared, galloping into perfect focus. She came up to him, nuzzled him—
“T’son! What have you done?”
The words seemed to mean something—almost. But the effort to unravel the meaning was too much . . .
“T’son! Use your training! Pull yourself together! Remember the mission!”
He lunged playfully for the mare, followed as she retreated, inspired suddenly by a vague but powerful urge which impelled him to rear and whinny, renew the pursuit.
“Stop that, you idiot!” Q’nell commanded as he succeeded in shouldering alongside her. She retreated frustratingly. He lunged again.
“Try, T’son! You can do it! Concentrate. Align your parameters!”
“Elsie—you’re beautiful!” Roger succeeded in formulating the thought into word-patterns. “So desirable! So . . . so horsy!”
“I’ll horsy you if we ever get out of this one, you cretin!” Q’nell’s voice penetrated his euphoria. “Remember the Channel? Remember the Museum, and all those people, locked up in it like capuchin monkeys? Remember how you were going to trace the system back to its source and become the savior of us all?”
“Yes . . . I remember . . . sort of. But it all seems so unimportant, compared with that lovely, shapely, inviting—”
“Later, T’son!” Q’nell said frantically. “First, you get us back where we belong; then we’ll talk about my shapely inviting!”
“I don’t want to talk,” Roger capered, pawing the turf. “I want action!”
“The Channel, T’son! Here comes the farmer! He’ll hitch you up to a plow and work you like a horse all day, and tonight you’ll be too tired to do anything at all!”
“I don’t want to plow; I want to—”
“I know!” Q’nell sounded desperate. “But back in the Channel we can be together!”
“Together? In the Channel?” Roger struggled to fix the concept in his cramped, dimly lit mind. He remembered the grayness, the presence that had drifted beside him there. And there it was now, hovering near at hand, a dim blur, and another beyond . . .
“No, T’son! That’s the farmer and another man! Keep looking! Narrow your parameters!”
Roger groped outward, swimming upward. Or was it sideways? Or no, he was falling . . . falling endlessly through the medium that was not space, and there, linked to his outstretched hand was . . . was . . .
“You blundering imbecile!” Q’nell’s voice came through loud and clear. “You’ve gotten us back inside the wrong bodies!”
2
* * *
“How could you ever have made such an idiotic mistake?” Q’nell queried for the thirty-fifth time in four minutes. “Trapping me inside your clumsy, undisciplined, masculine corpus!”
“Well, I’m just as badly off, aren’t I?” Roger replied. “I’m stuck in this silly, flimsy female body of yours!” He felt an unaccountable impulse to cry—not that he felt any particularly poignant emotion; it just seemed like the thing to do. “I was only trying to do what you said!”
“Ha! If I’d only sided with R’heet and gone ahead and dug the Reinforcer out of your skull by force, instead of going all mushy inside and voting to keep you alive.”
“What? You mean that two-faced sneaky little R’heet suggested that? Why, I’ll scratch his eyes out—I mean, I’ll knock his block off,” Roger corrected.
“Don’t start wandering again!” Q’nell warned sharply. “You’re just barely holding us in stasis now! We can’t afford to drop out again!”
“It could have happened to anybody,” Roger said loftily. “Now, please don’t bother me with your petty little complaints unless you have something constructive to contribute.”
“Constructive! If it hadn’t been for me, you’d still have been horsing around, trying to—”
“Please!” At the recollection of his recent emotions, Roger felt what would have been a deep-purple blush if his blood had been circulating. “Suppose we discuss what we’re going to do when we get there,” he hurried on. “Now, my idea is that we just go right up to whoever’s in charge and give them a piece of our mind.”
“Don’t try to think, T’son!” Q’nell boomed. “Leave that to me. Your job is just to keep us focused while I do the actual work. As for what we do when we get there, inasmuch as we haven’t the faintest idea what we’ll find, suppose we play it by ear, eh? You just take your cue from me.”
“Well! What makes you so superior?” Roger came back.
“Say!” Q’nell cut in. “It just dawned on me! If I’ve got your body, I’ve also got your limited brain!”
“Don’t you dare use my brain!” Roger ordered sharply.
“Quiet; I’m checking out the circuitry,” Q’nell ordered. “If I’m stuck with it, I may as well see what I have to work with . . . ” There was a momentary pause. “Say—you’ve got a lot of unused capacity here! I might be able to use it!”
“You just stick to our orders,” Roger insisted. “Now that I’ve gotten us back where we belong—well, practically back where we belong—don’t go spoiling it all experimenting!”
“Orders are made to be broken,” Q’nell said callously. “I’ve got a notion that if I just nudge this parameter here—and then twist this one over here—”
Roger felt the insubstantial frame of reference about him tilt suddenly, flip upside down. “Stop!” he cried. “You’re doing it wrong!”
“Oops! Hold on tight; looks as if maybe I should have twisted that one instead!”
There was a sickening sensation as space turned inside out. Roger felt himself expand instantaneously to infinite size, shrink as suddenly to minuteness, and disappear, to reemerge on the other side. Light burst in his face, sound roared. He was whirling, falling, sinking into cold syrup—
He fetched up with a thump, rolled over twice, and opened his eyes. He lay on an expanse of waving grasses which glowed eerily like an aquarium lit from below, under a sky of total velvety black. His body, he saw, shone in the dark, a soft, lightning-bug green. He looked across at the frightened-looking luminous man with rumpled hair who was sitting up nearby, rubbing an unshaven jaw.
My God, do I really have that bewildered look? he wondered, watching himself staring at the scenery.
“Well, don’t lie there staring at me,” Q’nell said over the roar and crackle of the sky. “Start having ideas!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
1
“Where do you suppose we are?” Roger inquired, gingerly brushing sparkling dust from the unaccustomed curves of his borrowed form.
“How do I know?” Q’nell snapped. She stamped awkwardly up and down like a spotlit performer, swinging Roger’s arms and staring out across the shining landscape to a row of phosphorescent hills. “How the devil do you balance this infernal body? These feet weigh a ton—and the hip joints are too close together.”
“Well! I’d trade back in a minute! I feel like my rear is a mile wide—and what do you do about the topheavy feeling?”
Q’nell glanced at him, then looked again, her gaze lingering. “Say, you know, that’s not a bad-looking little form, if I do say so myself.” She sauntered closer. “There’s something kind of appealing about the way it sticks out here and there—and when it moves—” She broke off, a startled look on Roger’s face. “Good heavens!” she murmured. “Is that the way it feels to be a male?”
“Keep away from me, you onanist!” Roger shrilled, backing up, noting in passing that the sensation of alarm coursing through him had curiously pleasurable overtones.
“You poor thing,” Q’nell said. “Imagine going around reacting like that to the mere sight of a female!”
“I’m no female! I’m Roger Tyson, one hundred percent red-blooded male man! And you keep your sticky hands to yourself! I mean, you keep my sticky hands to yourself!”
“Are you sure you want me to?” Q’nell advanced.
“Get back!” Roger yelped. “You’re ogling again!”
“Well, why don’t you cover yourself up, you—you exhibitionist! How do you expect me to keep my mind on the problem at hand with you undulating around? You’re doing it on purpose! I suppose it gives you some kind of sense of power or something!”
“For the first time I’m getting an insight into the origin of Puritanism,” Roger muttered. “It’s dirty-minded voyeurs like you that are responsible for all the prudery in the world! It’s not my fault if the sight of me upsets you!” He felt his—or Q’nell’s—right hip execute a flawless grind, ending in a modest bump that set his superstructure quivering.
“Hey!” he yelped. “I didn’t do that—it was this troublemaking body of yours! Suddenly I’m beginning to understand a lot of things about the battle of the sexes!”