 I did my best," the boy Mallory sobbed, but when it came to stepping on all those faces I just couldn't do it. The rent-a-mammican arranged its features into a severe frown, and strengthened its grip on the boy Mallory's arm. "'You knew that they were only painted on the game floor to symbolize the competitive spirit,' it said. "'Why couldn't you step on them?' The boy Mallory made a final desperate effort to gain the bedroom door which his mother had just slammed, and before which the rent-a-mammican stood, then he sank defeated to the floor. "'I don't know why. I just couldn't. That's all,' he sobbed. He raised his voice. "'But I will step on them. I'll step on real faces, too. Just you wait and see. I'll be a bigger get-rich-quick man than my father ever dreamed of being. I'll show her. I'll show her,' the man Mallory murmured. "'Just you wait and see.' He opened his eyes. Safe for himself the bedroom-office was empty. "'Rawina?' No answer. He raised his voice. "'Rawina!' Again no answer. He frowned. The door to the bedroom-office was open, and the castle certainly wasn't so large that his voice couldn't carry from one end of it to the other. His shoulder throbbed faintly, but otherwise he was unaware of his wound. Rawina had bound it neatly. It was said that age of chivalry-gentle-women were quite proficient in such matters, and apparently she had once again got hold of the right counter-agent. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. So far so good! Suddenly he stood up. A wave of vertigo broke over him. As it passed he was as good as new. The blood-restorer pills had done their work well. Nevertheless everything was not as it should be. Something was very definitely wrong. "'Rawina!' he called again. Still no answer. She had removed his armor and piled it neatly at the foot of the bed. He stared at the various pieces, trying desperately to think. Something had awakened him. That was it. The slamming of a door, or a lock!' He took a deep breath. He smelled green things, dampness, a forest at even tide. He knew then what was wrong. The lock of the yore had been opened, and had been left open long enough for the evening air to permeate the interior of the TSB. Long enough, in other words, to have permitted someone to ride across the imaginary drawbridge that spanned the mirage moat. Afterward the lock had slammed back into place of its own accord. He hurried into the wreck-hall. Easy money stood all alone behind the tourist-bar. The black roe-horse was gone. His eyes leaped to the wreck-hall table. The sangrayaw was gone, too. He groaned. The little idiot was taking it back. And after he had forbidden her to leave the castle, too. Well, no, he hadn't forbidden her exactly. He had forbidden her to leave it during his absence. He walked over to the tele-window, nearest the lock, and scrutinized the screen. She was nowhere in sight, but night was on hand, and the range of his vision, while considerably abetted by the light of the rising moon, was limited to the nearer trees. Presently he frowned. Was it still the same night, or had he been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours? It couldn't be the same night. The position of the moon disproved that, and yet he could swear that he had been unconscious for no more than a few hours. Belatedly he remembered his gauntlet time-piece and returned to the bedroom office. The time-piece registered ten-thirty-two. But that didn't make any sense, either. The moon was still low in the sky. He knew then that there could be but one answer, and he headed for the control room post-haste. Over enough the jump-board time-dial had been set for eight o'clock p.m. of the same day. He looked at the space-dial. That had been set to rematerialize the yore one-half mile farther west. He wiped his forehead. Good Lord! She might have sent the T.S.B. all the way back to the age of reptiles. Even worse she might have plunked it right down in the middle of World War III. She hadn't, though. In point of fact she had done exactly what she had set out to do, taken the yore back to a point in time from which the Sangreyal could be returned to the castle of Karbonik less than an hour after it had been stolen. Suddenly he remembered how she had watched him from the doorway of the control room each time he had reset the time and space-dials. Technologically speaking she was little more than a child, but jump-boards were as uncomplicated as modern technology could make them, and a person needed to be but little more than a child to operate them. Grimly Mallory returned to his bedroom office and got into his armor. Then ignoring the throbbing of his reawakened wound he mounted easy money and set out. He had no weapons, but it could not be helped. With a little luck he would have need of none. He was about due for a little luck, if you asked him. He gambled that Rowena would use the same route back to the chamber of the Sangreyal that they had used in leaving it. Actually she had no other choice, and he and Cephalo guided easy money at a fast trot in the direction of the river in the hope of overtaking her before she reached the entrance to the subterranean passage. However, the hope did not materialize, and he saw no sign of her till he reached the entrance himself. Strictly speaking he saw no sign of her then either, but he did discern several dislodged stones that could have been thrown up by the black roe-horse's hoofs. Entering the passage he frowned. Until that moment the incongruity of a sixth-century damsel and Cephalo guiding a twenty-second-century roe-horse had not struck him. After a moment though he had to admit that the incongruity was not as glaring as it had at first seemed. And cephalopathing was merely a glorified term for thinking, and Rowena, shortly after mounting perfidian steed, must have made the discovery that she had only to think where she wanted to go in order for the roe-horse to take her there. He had not remembered to bring a light, nor did he need one. The infrared rays of Easy Money's eye units were more than sufficient for the task on hand, and overtaking the girl would have been as easy as rolling off a log if she hadn't been riding a roe-horse too. Overtaking her wasn't of paramount importance anyway. He could confiscate the sangriail after she returned it just as easily as he could before. The odd part about the whole thing was that Mallory never once thought of the inevitable overlap till he saw the flicker of torchlight up ahead. An instant later he heard the sound of a woman's voice, and instinctively he and Cephalo guided Easy Money into a nearby shallow cave. The flickering light grew gradually brighter, and presently hoof-beats became audible. The woman's voice was loud and clear now, and Mallory made out her words above the purling of the underground stream. And when he set down the maiden, and was armed at all pieces, save he lacked his spear. Then he dressed his shield and drew out his sword, and bore smote him so hard that it went through his shield and havergen on the left shoulder. And through great strength he beat him down to the earth, and at the pulling of bore's spear there he swooned. Then came bores to the maid, and said, How seemeth it to you of this night ye be delivered at this time? Now, sir, said she, I pray you lead me there as this night had me. So shall I do gladly. And took the horse of the wounded knight, and set the gentlewoman upon him, and so brought her as she desired. Sir Knight, said she, Ye have better sped than ye weaned. For an eye had lost my maiden-head, five hundred men should have died for it. What night was he that had you in the forest? By my faith, said she, he is my cousin. So what! I never with what engin the fiend and chafed him. For yesterday he took me from my father privately. For I, nor none of my father's men mistrusted him not. And if he had had my maiden-head he should have died for the sin, and his body shamed and dishonored for ever. Thus as— At this point the truth behind the sense of deja vu that Mallory had experienced the first time he had heard the tale, hit him so hard between the eyes that he jerked back his head. When he did so his helmet came into contact with the cave wall and scraped against the stone. The roe-horse and its two riders were directly across the stream now. Sh! Mallory the first whispered. Rowena the first gasped. It were best that I thank ye now for thy great kindness, fair knight, she said. For anon we be no longer on live. Nonsense, Mallory the first said. If this fiend of yours is anywhere in the vicinity he's probably more afraid of us than we are of him. Per—per adventure he hath already had meet, Rowena the first said hopefully. The tale saith that on the fiend be filled he becomes a weary, and besets not them the which do pass him by in peace. I'll keep my sword handy just in case he changes his mind, Mallory the first said. Meanwhile, get on with your autobiography. Only for Pete's sake cut it short, will you? On it please, fair sir. Thus, as the fair gentlewoman stood talking with Sir Bors, there came twelve knights seeking after her, and anon—for a long while after the voices fade away—Mallory the fourth could not move. Hearing the story the second time, and more important, hearing it from the standpoint of an observer, he had been able to identify it for what it really was—an excerpt from Le Morte d'Auteur. The Joseph of Arimathea bit had been an excerpt too, he realized now, probably lifted word for word from the text. It was odd indeed that a sixth-century damsel, who presumably couldn't read, could be in such familiar terms with a book that would not be published for another nine hundred and forty-three years. But not so odd, if she was a twenty-second century blonde in a sixth-century damsel's clothing. Remembering Perfidian secretary, Mallory felt sick. No, there was no noticeable resemblance between her and the damsel that hight Rowena, but the removal of a girdle and a quarter of a pound of makeup, not to mention the application of a luster-rich brown hair-dye and the insertion of a pair of plum-blue contact lenses, could very well have brought such a resemblance into being, and quite obviously had. The past police were noted for their impersonations, and most of them had idetic memories. Come on, easy money, Mallory and Cephalopath, you and I have got a little score to settle. When he entered the chamber of the Sangreal, Rowena IV was arranging the red samite cover around the grail. She jumped when she saw him. Mary, fair sir, ye did startle me. May thinketh ye be asleep in thy castle. Knock it off, Mallory said. The masquerade's over. She regarded him with round, uncomprehending eyes. He got the impression that she had been crying. The... the masquerade, fair knight? That's right, the masquerade. You know more of the damsel Rowena than I'm the knight, Sir Galahad. She lowered her eyes to his breastplate. I... I want well ye be not, Sir Galahad, fair sir. It... it happened that a foretime I did see, Sir Galahad, with my own eyes. And when ye did unlace thy unbearer, and I did see thy face, I knew ye could not be him of which ye spake. Finally she raised her head and looked at him defiantly. But I knew from thy eyes that ye be most noble, fair sir, and therefore unye did pretend to be him the which ye were not. Ye did so for noble cause, and it were not for me to question. I said, knock it off, Mallory said, but with considerable less conviction. I'm on to you, don't you see? You're a time-fink. A... a time-fink? I what not what? An agent of the past police, one of those do-gooders who run around history replacing stolen goods and turning in hardworking people like myself. You gave yourself away when you lifted that Sir Bors bit straight out of Le Morte d'Arterre, and... But I did say ye sooth, fair sir. Sir Bors did verily sucker my maiden-head. I what not how there can be two of ye and two of me and four hackneys when a four there were but two, and I what not how by touching the magic board in thy castle in a certain fashion that I could make the hour earlier, and I what not how the magic steed I did bestride brought me hither. I what not none of these matters, fair sir? I what only that the magic of thy castle is marvellous indeed. For a while Mallory didn't say anything. He couldn't. In the plum-blue eyes fixed full upon his face truth shone, and that same truth had invested her every word. The damsel Rowena, despite all evidence to the contrary, and despite the glaring paradox the admission gave rise to, was not a phony, never had been a phony, and never would be a phony. She was, as a matter of fact, with the exception of Sir Gallahad, the only completely honest person he had known in all his life. Tell me, he said at length, weren't you afraid to come back through that passage alone? Weren't you afraid the fiend would get you? La, fair sir, I had great fear. But it were not fitting that I bethought me of myself at such a time. She paused. Then what might be thy true name, Sir Knight? Mallory, Mallory said, Thomas Mallory. I have great joy of thy acquaintance, Sir Thomas. Mallory only half heard her. He was looking at the Samite covered sangrayal. No more obstacles stood between him and his quest, and time was a wasting. He started to take a step in the direction of the silver table. His foot did not leave the floor. He was acutely aware of Rowena's eyes. As a matter of fact he could almost feel them upon his face. It wasn't that they were any different than they had been before, it was just that he was suddenly and painfully cognizant of the trust and the admiration that's shown in them. Despite himself he had the feeling that he was standing in bright and blinding sunlight. Again he started to take a step in the direction of the silver table. Again his foot did not leave the floor. It wasn't so much the fact that she didn't believe he would take the sangrayal that bothered him. It was the fact that she couldn't conceive of him taking it. She could be convinced that black was white, perhaps, and that white was black, and that fiends hung out in empty caves and castles. But she could never be convinced that a knight of the qualities she imputed to Mallory could perform a dishonorable act. And there it was, laid right on the line. For all the good the grail was going to do Mallory, it might just as well have been at the bottom of the Mindanao deep. He sighed. His gamble hadn't paid off any more than perfidians had. The real Sir Gala had was the one who had inherited the grail after all, not the false one. The false one grinned ruefully. Well, he told the damsel Rowena, it's been nice knowing you. He swallowed. For some reason his throat felt tight. I imagine you'll be all right now. To his amazement she broke into tears. Oh, Sir Thomas, she cried, in my great haste to return the sangrayal to the chamber and to right the grievous wrong committed by the untrue knight, Sir Jason, I did beret my trust again. For when I aspired ye and me and easy money in the passage, I did suffer a great discomfort, and it so happed that when my steed did enter into a cave that the sangrayal came free from my hands, and Mallory was staring at her. You dropped it? Stepping over to the silver table she lifted a corner of the red Samite. The dent was not a deep one, but just the same, you didn't have to look twice to see it. I missed not what to do, she said. Suddenly Mallory remembered the first sound he had heard in the passage when he and Rowena were leaving the castle of Carbonic. Well, how do you like that? he said. He grinned. I take it that this puts your hands in jeopardy all over again, right? Yay, Sir Thomas, but I would lover die than beseech thee again to which, Mallory continued happily, makes it out of the question for a knight such as myself to leave you behind. He took her arm. Come on, he said. I don't know how I'm going to fit a sixth century damsel into a twenty-second century society, but believe me, I'm going to try. And will ye take easy money to this land whereof ye speak, Sir Thomas? Sir Thomas grinned. Which ye well, he said, and his buddy too. Come on. In the yore he tossed his helmet and gauntlets into a corner of the wreck-hall and proceeded straight to the control room. There with Rowena standing at his elbow he set the time-dial for June 21st, 2178, and the space-dial for the Kansas City time-tourist port. Lord, it would be good to get home again and get a haircut. Here goes, he told Rowena, and threw the switch. There was a faint tremor. Brace yourself, Rowena, he said, and took her over to the control room tellow window. Together they gazed upon the screen. Mallory gasped. The vista of spiral suburban dwellings which he had been expecting was not in the offing. In its stead was a green tree-stippled countryside. In the distance a castle was clearly discernible. He stared at it. It wasn't a sixth-century job like carbonic. It was much more modern. But it was still a castle. Obviously the jump-board had malfunctioned and thrown the yore only a little ways into the future, the while leaving it in pretty much the same locale. He returned to the jump-board to find out. Just as he reached it its lights flickered and went out. The time and space-dials, however, remained illumined long enough for him to see when and where the TSB had rematerialized. The year was 1428 A.D., the locale warwickshire. Mallory made tracks for the generator room. The generator was smoking and the room reeked with a stench of shorted wires. He swore. Perfidian! So that was why the man had broken with tradition and invited a common time-thief to a game of gulp. If he had been anyone but Perfidian he would have gimmicked the controls of the yore so that Mallory would have wound up directly in the 15th century Sons Sojourn and the Sith. But being Perfidian he had wanted Mallory to know how completely he was being outsmarted. The chances were, though, that if the man had anticipated the near-coincidence of the two visits to the chamber of the Sangreal he would have seen to it that Mallory had never gotten a chance to use his Sir Galaad suit. According to the control room Mallory saw that the Lumilusion panel had been pre-programmed to materialize the yore as a 15th century English castle. Apparently it had been in the books all along for him to become a 15th century knight, just as it had been in the books all along for Perfidian to become the proprietor of a misplaced hot-dog stand. Mallory laughed. He had gotten the best of the bargain after all. At least there was no smog in the 15th century. Who was he supposed to be, he wondered? Had his name gone down in history by any chance? Abruptly he gasped. Was he the Sir Thomas Mallory with estates in Northampture and Warwickshire? Was he the Sir Thomas Mallory who had compiled and translated and written Le Morte d'Arterre? Almost nothing about the man's life was known, and probably the little that was known had been assumed. He could have popped up from nowhere, made his fortune through foreknowledge, and been knighted. He could have been a reformed time thief stranded in the 15th century. But if he, Mallory, was Mallory, how in the world was he going to get five hundred chapters of semi-historical data together and pass them off as Le Morte d'Arterre? Suddenly he understood everything. Going over to where Rowena was still standing in front of the tele-window, he said, I'll bet you know no end of stories about the doings of the knights of the table round. La, Sir Thomas, ever I saw day of my life I have heard not else in the court of my father. Tell me, Mallory said. How did this round-table business begin? Or, better yet, how did the grail business begin? We can take up the round-table business later on. She thought for a moment. Then list, fair Sir, and I will say ye. At the vigil of Pentecost, when all the fellowship of the round-table were come into Camelot, and there heard their service, and the tables were set ready to the meat, right so entered into the hall a full-fair gentlewoman on horseback that had ridden full fast, for her horse was all beswetted. Then she there alit, and came before the king and saluted him, and he said, Damsel, God thee bless! Sir, said she, for God's sake, say me where Sir Lancelot is. Yonder ye may see him, said the king. Then she went unto Lancelot and said, Sir Lancelot, I salute you on King Pellis's behalf, and I require you to come on with me hereby into a forest. Then Sir Lancelot asked her with whom she dwelled. I dwell, said she, with King Pellis. What will ye with me, said Lancelot? Ye shall know, said she, when ye. That'll do for now, Mallory interrupted. We'll come back to it as soon as I get stocked up on paper and ink. Scheherazade, he added. Scheherazade, Sir Thomas? I want not. He leaned down and kissed her. There is no need for you to watt, he said. Probably, he reflected, he would have to do a certain amount of research in order to record the happenings that had ensued his and Rowena's departure, and undoubtedly said research would result ironically in the recording of the true visits of Sir's Galahad and Lancelot to the Chamber of the Sangriaal, the time slots on which he and Perfidion had gambled and lost their shirts. The main body of the work, however, had been deposited virtually on his lap, and its style and flavor had been arbitrarily determined. Moreover, contrary to what history would later maintain, the job would not be done in prison but right here in the Castle of Yor, with Rowena sitting and dictating beside him. As for the impossibility of giving a sixth-century damsel as his major source, that could be avoided, as in one sense it already had been, by making frequent allusions to imaginary French sources. And as for the main obstacle to the endeavor, his twenty-second century cynicism, that had been obviated during his encounter with Sir Galahad. The book wouldn't be published till 1485, but just the same he was keen to get started on it. Writing it should be fun. Which reminded him? I know we haven't known each other very long in one sense, Rowena, he said, but in another we've known each other for almost nine hundred years. Will you marry me? She blinked once. Then her plum-blue eyes showed how truly blue they could become, and she threw her arms around his gorget. Which ye well, Sir Thomas, said she, that there is nothing in the world but I would lever-do than be thy bride. Thus did the prose epic known successfully as La Mort d'Artur, the most ancient and famous history of the renowned Prince Arthur, King of Britain, as also all the noble acts and heroic deeds of his valiant knights of the round table, and La Mort d'Artur come to be recorded. End of section six, recording by Roger Maline. End of A Night There Was, by Robert F. Young