He grimaced at his own doubts. "Where am I, anyhow, Nema?"

The girl dumped an armload of clothing on his bed and looked at him with
controlled exasperation. "Dave Hanson," she told him, "don't you know
any other words? That's the millionth time you've asked me that, at
least. And for the hundredth time, I'll tell you that you're here. Look
around you; see for yourself. I'm tired of playing nursemaid to you."
She picked up a shirt of heavy-duty khaki from the pile on the bed and
handed it to him. "Get into this," she ordered. "Dress first, talk
later."

She stalked out of the room.

Dave did as she had ordered, busy with his own thoughts as he discovered
what he was to wear. He was still wearing something with a vague
resemblance to a short hospital gown, with green pentacles and some
plant symbol woven into it, and with a clasp to hold it together shaped
into a silver crux ansata. He took it off and hurled it into a corner
disgustedly.

He picked up the khaki shirt and put it on; then, with growing
curiosity, the rest of the garments, until he came to the shoes. Khaki
shirt, khaki breeches, a wide, webbed belt, a flat-brimmed hat. And the
shoes--they weren't shoes, but knee-length leather boots, like a dressy
version of lumberman's boots or a rougher version of riding boots. He
hadn't seen even pictures of such things since the few silent movies run
in some of the little art theaters. He struggled to get them on. They
were an excellent fit, and comfortable enough, but he felt as if his
legs were encased in hardened concrete when he was through. He looked
down at himself in disgust. He was in all respects costumed as the