The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens by L. Sprague de Camp Page B

length of heavy wire into a shorter bail, and installed it so that it pressed the lid tightly down against the gasket. Finally he made a little conical adapter of sheet copper and brazed it to the spout of the kettle, and brazed the whistle to the adapter. He then had an air-tight kettle whose spout ended in the whistle.
    Then it was time for dinner.
    Sirat seemed in a rollicking good humor and drank more moikhada than usual.
    “Tomorrow,” he said, “tomorrow we cast the die. What was that ancient European general who remarked about casting the die when crossing a river? Napoleon? Anyway, let us drink to tomorrow!” He raised his goblet theatrically. “Will you not weaken, Elena? Regrettable; you do not know what you miss. Come, let us fall upon the provender, lest my cook decamp to the revelers before we finish.”
    From outside came Dzlieri voices in drunken song, and sounds of a fight. The high shriek of a female Dzlieri tore past the palace, followed by the laughter and hoof beats of a male in pursuit.
    These alarming sounds kept the talk from reaching its usual brilliance. When the meal was over, Sirat said: “Adrian, you must excuse me; I have a portentous task to accomplish. Please return to your quarters. Not you, Elena; kindly remain where you are.”
    Frome looked at the two of them, then at the guards, and went. In passing through the breezeway, he saw a mob of Dzlieri dancing around a bonfire. The palace proper seemed nearly deserted.
    Instead of going to his room, he went into the machine shop. He lit a cresset to see by, took the big copper kettle out to the pump, and half-filled it with several liters of water. Then he staggered back into the shop and heaved the kettle up on top of the forge. He clamped the lid on, stirred the coals, and pumped the bellows until he had a roaring fire.
    He hunted around the part of the shop devoted to the repair of tools and weapons until he chose a big spear with a three-meter shaft and a broad keen-edged half-meter head. Then he went back to the forge with it.
    After a long wait, a faint curl of water vapor appeared in the air near the spout of the kettle. It grew to a long plume, showing that steam was shooting out fast. Although Frome could hear nothing, he could tell by touching a piece of metal to the spout that the whistle was vibrating at a tremendous frequency.
    Remembering that ultrasonics have directional qualities, Frome slashed through the matting with the broad blade of the spear until the forge room lay open to view in several directions. Then he went back into the palace.
    By now he knew the structure well. Towards the center of the maze, Sirat had his private suite: a sitting room, bedroom, and bath. The only way into this suite was through an always-guarded door into the sitting room.
    Frome walked along the hallway that ran beside the suite and around the corner to the door into the sitting room. He listened, ear to the matting. Although it was hard to hear anything over the racket outside, he thought he caught sounds of struggle within. And from up ahead came Dzlieri voices.
    He stole to the bend in the corridor and heard: “. . . surely some demon must have sent this sound to plague us. In truth it makes my head ache to the splitting point!”
    “It is like God’s whistle,” said the other voice, “save that it comes not from God’s chambers, and blows continually. Try stuffing a bit of this into your ears.”
    The first voice (evidently that of one of the two regular guards) said: “It helps a little; remain you here on guard while I seek the medicine man.”
    “That I will, but send another take your place, for God will take it amiss if he finds but one of us here. And hasten, for the scream drives me to madness!”
    Dzlieri hooves departed. Frome grinned in his whiskers. He might take a chance of attacking the remaining guard, but if the fellow’s ears were plugged there was a better way. Sirat would have closed off his bedroom from the