Not Always What They Seem The First Day             The last thing he saw was Antoinette’s malicious smile as she bent over his bound and handcuffed body. “This won’t hurt a bit!” she cooed. And it didn’t. It was only a pin-prick, nothing compared to his other discomforts. But it brought the dark down upon him like a tidal wave, pulled him inexorably under.             There followed a long confused rambling dream in which his body was melting and someone was screaming. But he knew it was only a dream, and so he paid little attention to it.             The first thing he saw when he woke was Artie’s face leaning over him, bone-white. He tried to say Artie’s name, but his throat was tight, closed up and strained. He could breathe, but when he tried to speak, all that came out was a squeak.             He tested fingers and toes, and found them tingly, but responsive. So he wasn’t paralyzed, and it appeared that he was no longer restrained either. He managed to turn his head, though the effort brought spasms of pain to his neck, and saw that he was still in Loveless’s laboratory. Still on the marble slab where he had lain before. It would have to have been a marble slab. Loveless couldn’t possibly have laid him out on anything comfortable. But that was a minor consideration at the moment.             He tried again to speak, and again the sounds came out in an adolescent soprano, like a youngster whose voice hadn’t broken yet. Other discomforts made themselves known: his belly twitched with cramps and all his muscles ached. Even his hands and feet throbbed with slow pulses of pain. And his chest felt… he couldn’t say what he was feeling there, only that he’d never before been aware of feeling anything there, and now he most definitely did.             He’d been nude when Antoinette injected him, but a sheet lay over his body now. He was grateful for that. He and Artie had no false modesty with each other, but this unwell state, this distortion of ordinary physical responses, made him feel helpless and vulnerable. Nudity would have made that worse.             Others were in the room, he realized: William Trilby, the officer-in-charge in San Francisco, and Fred Ennis, one of the local agents. They had been looking away from him, speaking in low tones, but when he tried again to speak to Artie, they turned around. Their expressions were self-conscious, embarrassed, furtive. They spoke to Artie without looking at Jim.             “Best take him–I mean …“ Trilby trailed off and swallowed, a flush spreading over his face.             “To the train,” Ennis finished for him. “It’s still dark—nobody’s gonna see anything.”             What was there to see? Jim heaved himself up, ignoring the pain in his arms and back and the instant nausea in his stomach. The sheet fell to his waist. Trilby and Ennis flinched back, and Artie stepped between them and Jim.             “Don’t try to get up by yourself,” he murmured. “You’re not well.” He attempted to draw the sheet up again, but Jim pushed his hand away.             “What’s the matter with me?” he demanded, forcing the words out regardless of how they sounded. He threw the sheet back and looked down.             What he saw was so disconnected from any measure of reality that it didn’t even register at first. Mounds of flesh protruded from his chest. A light thicket of hair covered his groin, but his other body hair had disappeared. His previously muscular thighs protruded from beneath the sheet, soft and white and hairless. If he had seen his body covered with fish scales or an animal’s fur, he could not have been more stupefied. He looked up in utter bewilderment at Artie’s face, and found only pity and torment there.             He looked down again. Nothing had changed. He raised a hesitant hand and touched the soft protuberances on his chest, and recognized what he had been feeling earlier: their simple presence. A circlet of darker skin crowned each one, and crinkled reflexively as his finger brushed across one of them. The sensation was vaguely ticklish …and something more that he didn’t recognize but which made him quiver all over.             He whispered, “What in God’s name has happened to me?”              Artie said in the same soft voice, “We don’t—don’t know. They injected you with something. I found a needle next to you.” He stopped and pulled in a deep breath. “It—changed you.”             Changed him. Changed him into …no. That couldn’t happen. He knew for a certainty that what he was seeing could not have happened. It simply wasn’t possible. He was hallucinating. Nevertheless, as though helpless to stop himself, he touched his groin, willing his hand to find what should be there, what must be there. It was only covered, surely, hidden in the springy growth of soft hair. His finger found a firm and rounded mass, cleft in the middle, moist, inexplicably sensitive—and nothing more. There was nothing more. He began to shiver violently, and Artie stripped off his own coat and wrapped him in it.             “Get the wagon,” Artie said hoarsely over his shoulder.             He would not ordinarily have let anyone carry him—not even Artie—if he could possibly move on his own two feet. But now, with his mind reeling in disbelief, he allowed himself to be enfolded in the sheet, lifted into Artie’s arms, carried up a long flight of steps, and borne out to the wagon in Loveless’s courtyard. The warm night covered his shattered composure, and when Artie climbed into the back of the wagon with him, he let himself be held close while the wagon creaked and rattled over the cobbles to the train. This was a nightmare, he reassured himself. He would wake from it presently, and all would be as before. Or perhaps it was indeed a hallucination, from whatever Antoinette had injected into him.             The wagon bumped over the uneven paving, throwing him back and forth. Artie’s arms tightened around him each time, holding him close against the jerky movement. The ride seemed interminable, and after a time, he let himself relax into the sheltering warmth, let his mind drift. Whatever this was, he would wake from it presently, or recover from it. Artie was near and in control, and Jim felt safe.             But when they reached the train, and Artie was obviously prepared to carry him up into it, he rebelled. He had not wakened from the dream, nor surfaced from the hallucination, and the sky was beginning to lighten. People moved about the platform, waiting for trains. Railroad workers walked in across the tracks, carrying their lunch pails. He felt exposed again, as though everyone’s eyes were drawn to him. “Get me a dressing gown,” he ordered, in the whisper that was all he could bear to use.             “Yes. Yes, all right.”              Artie ran up the steps to the parlor car, leaving him alone with the others. Ennis and Trilby were silent, not looking at him. He didn’t know whether to be relieved at being ignored, or to be angry at their obvious disgust and pity.             “Here you are, Jim.”             The sheet dropped away, and Artie slipped the coat off and replaced it with Jim’s dressing gown, familiar in its feel against his skin, unfamiliar in the way it fell off his shoulders and had to be wrapped far around his waist. He blanked out what he couldn’t change, and struggled to slide out of the wagon onto his feet.             “Shouldn’t he—“ Trilby began. “I mean—I mean …she—“             “Shut up.”             He’d never heard such rage in Artie’s voice before. And then it was gone, and Artie was murmuring to him, “I brought your slippers. Let me put them on you.”             He understood that Artie was deliberately using the same soft whisper as himself, and he was so grateful that he nodded and let Artie take his feet, one at a time, to slip on the shoes. Then he stood, leaning on Artie’s arm and swaying, and tried to take a step. But his balance was wrong, his leg muscles felt like rubber. He breathed in convulsively and tried again, a shorter tentative stride this time. He had no sense of his body, no feel for where his center of gravity lay, but with Artie’s assistance, he managed to lurch and stumble as far as the steps up into the car. The slippers that had fit him comfortably before now flopped loosely, threatening to come right off his feet.             “Hold on and pull yourself up,” Artie whispered in his ear. “I’ll give you a hand if you need it.”             Not with Ennis and Trilby watching, Jim thought. Trilby was a fat, slovenly, petty tyrant, so unsuited to his job that no one had yet figured out how he’d gotten it nor why he was able to keep it. Ennis would actually have been a far better station chief than his boss, if not for his crude language and lack of table manners. It was almost unbearable that they had seen him like this; he wasn’t going to satisfy their no doubt leering faces by having to be boosted up into his own home by his partner.             His sense of himself—that innate knowledge of his own person—was slowly returning. It wasn’t enough to compensate for his lack of strength, but it was sufficient to make him force himself up into the train regardless of the pain in his arms. He felt Artie’s hand at the small of his back, but Artie didn’t push him. The hand was there for reassurance only—Artie’s perhaps, as much as his own.             Artie said over his shoulder, “We’ll talk later.” The door shut with a heavy thud, and Jim swayed into the nearest chair, half-fainting with shock and disbelief and denial.             “Tell me this isn’t happening,” he said, more loudly than before, and the words came out in a hoarse contralto. His hand went to his neck, and he coughed and tried to clear his throat.             “Tell me I’m not—“ he began, and choked on the word.             “A woman,” Artie said it for him, with such enormous distress in his voice and his face that Jim could hardly bear it.             “How?” he demanded, but Artie just shook his head.             “How? How in the name of God do I know!” Jim watched as Artie took one deep breath, and then another, regaining his control. “I don’t know, Jim. I can’t imagine how it could be done at all. There are too many differences in physiology. No one drug could affect all of them. I just don’t know.”             He sounded utterly desolate.             “Come here,” Jim said, back to a whisper. He patted the stool in front of his chair, and Artie sagged down onto it. Jim reached for his arm, ended up with his hand instead, said to hell with propriety and held on to him for a long minute, his small smooth hand almost lost in Artie’s larger one. Jim looked at the hand—his hand, his formerly tanned, muscular, calloused hand. It was pale now, smooth-skinned, long-fingered, soft and feminine. The sight of it so revolted him that the gorge rose in his throat and he pulled the hand back to press it against his mouth, gagging. Artie looked around wildly, seeing what was about to come, but there was nothing within reach to offer as a basin. Jim retched again, and Artie yanked off his hat and held it up-ended against Jim’s chest.             There was something so wholly and unexpectedly gallant in that gesture that Jim mastered the urge to vomit, swallowed the bile in his throat, and gently pushed the hat away. “My God, Artie,” he said, with what was meant to be a chuckle, but came out instead as a strangled squeak. “Not your hat!”             “I didn’t know what else to use.” Artie looked helplessly at the hat, and then put it back on his head as though he couldn’t figure out where it should go. He stood abruptly and walked over to the decanter and glasses on the sideboard. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. Maybe some brandy would help settle your stomach.”             “Yes, please.” Jim couldn’t get used to the voice. His mind still insisted This isn’t really happening! and he shivered intermittently in spite of the warmth in the parlor. He’d never felt so overwhelmed in his life, so out-of-control of himself and everything going on around him. Even the midst of battle hadn’t been as terrifying as this dislocation of mind and body.             “Tell me what happened,” he forced out. “Tell me what you do know.”             Artie brought the glasses back, two substantial tumblers of brandy, and took a hefty swig from his own.             He looked squarely at Jim, and his hand came up to touch Jim’s cheek. There was nothing sensual in the action, and Jim returned his steady gaze as the hand moved to his brow and through his hair to his ear. “Tell me what you see,” he urged Artie.             “Your face is still you,” Artie said, whispering now himself. “I knew you right away, the minute we broke in there and found you. It’s as though—“ he broke off and breathed in shakily. “As though you had a twin sister.” He brushed a finger very gently against Jim’s lips. “Your mouth is the same. Your eyes are unchanged. But your chin is smaller and your cheekbones are more pronounced, and the skin—your skin is smooth and soft.”             Jim nodded slowly. Smooth and soft. Womanly, feminine…weak. But still his own face, Artie said. He could have described Artie with equal accuracy. You didn’t live and work with another person for this many years without knowing his face in all its expressions. Even so, it was deeply reassuring to know that Artie had recognized him immediately.             And he still could not accept that he had turned into a woman, that everything that made him James West was gone. He shook his head violently, as though to throw off a nightmare. The protrusions on his chest jiggled with the motion, a heavy foreign sensation that caught him unaware. He shuddered and slowly mastered the emotion that was threatening to spiral out of control. If this hadn’t happened, he would wake up. If it had happened …well, he wasn’t certain he could accept the reality, but he must at least force himself to deal with the consequences.             “What did you think had happened?” he asked Artie. “When you found me.”             Artie looked away and shrugged helplessly. “From the door, by the light of the lantern, all I could see was your body lying on that slab of stone.” He shuddered. “I thought you were dead. Then I saw the needle. I think they meant it to be found right away, so we would know they had done this to you.” He looked back, with remembered shock and horror in his face. “You were covered with the sheet. I didn’t realize at first…I mean, all I saw at first was your face, and it was in shadow.”             “Were Trilby and Ennis with you?”             “Yes, I’m afraid so.” Artie threw back another gulp of the brandy. “They didn’t think it was you. They thought it must be some other young—young woman. But your clothing was there, thrown over a chair, and then we found the note.”             “Note?” Jim asked sharply.             Artie reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, handing it over silently.             HERE LIES JAMES WEST, it read, in a careful printed hand. WHAT I CAN DO TO ONE, I CAN DO TO MILLIONS. YOU WILL HEAR FROM ME.             “So it isn’t just revenge against me,” Jim said. “It’s blackmail.” But he could scarcely believe it had happened still. He thrust out his arm. “Pinch me, or something,” he begged. “Wake me up, tell me it’s all some monstrous joke!”             Artie took his hand again and held it tightly. “I wish to God it were,” he said in a low voice. “I would do anything in the world for this to be just a nightmare.”             He had always found Artie’s voice soothing. He closed his eyes and said, “Talk to me. Read something, I don’t care. Just help me get my mind off this for a minute or two.”             Artie’s hand tightened on his, and then he felt Artie lean away from him. A moment later, he heard pages turning in a book. Then Artie’s voice, soft and resonant:   When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.   How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.             There was a pause, and then Artie said, with an odd little laugh, “Well—there’s more, but it’s a bit maudlin. Yeats can be that way. Would you like me to read something else?”             Jim shook his head slightly. “Just talk to me.” Inside, he was slowly putting his world back in focus. This could not have happened—but it had. He had to accept it—but even as his mind verbalized the necessity, his internal sense of himself rejected it. This had to be just a nightmare. Even Loveless wouldn’t do something this diabolical. But he could still feel the breasts hanging on his chest, and he knew that if he opened his eyes, he was going to see those small soft hands again.             Again, he fought for control and reason and logic. Nothing he knew of right this minute was going to change him back into a man. They had to find Loveless, but before they did, he would have to figure out how to live in this body and how to face other people. He absolutely could not hide in the train and let Artie do everything for him, that much he knew.             In the silence between them, Artie said, “Jim, no matter what happens, know that I will not walk away from you. We’re still partners, and we will be for as long as you want. Nothing has changed between us.”             Jim nodded again. “Thank you,” he whispered. He trusted Artie as he had trusted no one in his life. If Artie said he would stay at Jim’s side, nothing in the world could tear him away. Jim wasn’t certain he could let Artie do that, if he wasn’t able to regain his own body, but it calmed him to know that for now at least, he could count on Artie’s support.             Artie went on, “I remember the first time I saw you. You looked so damn young, standing there talking to President Grant. Richmond told me you’d been Grant’s aide-de-camp, but I thought it must have been a courtesy appointment, something to please a friend—give the friend’s son a commission to help him get ahead, that sort of thing. And then you turned around and looked right through me, cut right through all my patronizing assumptions about you. I felt like I was about two feet high.”             With his eyes still closed, Jim chuckled softly. “I remember. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that, though.”             He took a long deep breath, and opened his eyes to see Artie looking at him steadily. “My God, Artie, can you conceive of the panic and hysteria there would be if Loveless did this to even a hundred men, or a thousand?” he asked. “He wouldn’t need to infect millions to get what he wants.”             Artie shook his head. “No, he would not. And I’m ashamed to say that it didn’t occur to me to order Trilby and Ennis not to speak about this.”             “Well…” Jim said, “I doubt they’re going to run around telling what they know. No one would believe them anyway. And if you’d said anything, Trilby would probably have given you some lecture about issuing orders to your superiors.” He sighed, thinking about the days ahead. “I suppose we have to let Washington know. God, I hate the thought of that.”             Artie nodded. “Perhaps we can get Colonel Richmond out here without actually giving out any details.” He got up and walked over to where they kept the telegraph key, but paused and then came back. It was clear that he wasn’t ready to send a telegram. “Can I get anything for you?”             “Help me up,” Jim said in a flat voice. “I want to walk. I want to know what I can do.”             “Yes.” Artie bent and slipped an arm around his waist, and supported him as he pushed himself up. It wasn’t quite so strange as before, and as he stood there swaying with the effort to keep his balance, he felt strength and energy returning. He kicked off the slippers, and anchored himself barefoot, feeling the texture of the carpet through his soles of his feet.             “Let go of me,” he ordered. “Just give me your arm.”             He extended one foot, wobbling ludicrously on the other one, and leaned into a balancing act on the forward leg. If he hadn’t been hanging on to Artie, he couldn’t have managed it. He forced himself on, one step after another, into a shambling shuffling walk the length of the parlor. But it was exhausting work, and when Artie urged him to sit on the sofa, he acquiesced without argument.             “I’ll rest for a minute,” he said wearily. “You go on and do whatever you need to do.”             “Maybe some breakfast?” Artie suggested. “Do you think your stomach could handle some food?”             The idea sounded surprisingly good, and Jim nodded.. ”It seems to have settled down. Yes, I could definitely eat something.”             “Right.” Artie disappeared into the galley, and Jim could hear cupboard doors opening and pans clanking on the stove. He didn’t want to be alone, but Artie needed some time and space to himself. And the rational thinking part of his mind, beginning to exert some control finally, told him that he needed to examine the situation objectively, decide what he could do and what he could not, and think about the future.             A woman’s body. A woman’s high voice that disconcerted him every time he heard it, as though he was forming the words but they were coming from someone else’s mouth. A bosom. He looked down. Tits, by God, poking out the front of the silk dressing gown. He choked back a semi-hysterical giggle. No…he forced himself to say it. No prick. No male member. Nothing of what made him a man. He thought of the pleasure his own had given him, and his hand ached for the loss. He could almost feel it where it should be, like the phantom pain from an amputated limb, but he resisted the urge to check again. The first time had been shattering enough.             Artie appeared with coffee, hot enough to take away any physical excuse for the shivers. He sat next to Jim, and their legs touched, as they often did when the two of them sat companionably together. Jim had never thought anything of it before, but now there was an odd sensation, an awareness of Artie’s body that he’d not had before. He sat up, holding his legs together, and with a queer wrench, recognized that adjustment of posture from a hundred women he had known. No matter what his mind thought, his body knew it was female.             “My God, Artie,” he said, his voice shaking. “What are we going to do?”             Artie shook his head. “I’ve been trying to figure that out. The Service isn’t going to let you stay in its employ.”             “I can talk them into it, I know I can. They’ll have to see that I’m still the most experienced agent they have, and together, we’ve defeated Loveless again and again. No one else could substitute for the two of us …“             It wasn’t going to work, he saw, and in any case, he wasn’t absolutely sure he believed his own words. Artie looked away, his mouth thinning. “If we stay together,” he said, “we’ll have to do it on our own. Not as agents.”             “Do you want that? You said we would still be partners, but I won’t hold you to that, Artie.” The admission broke his heart, but it was the only sensible thing to say. Regardless of promises, Artie had to be free to continue his career without the encumbrance of a—he didn’t know what to call himself. Freak?             To his enormous relief, though, Artie nodded emphatically. “Of course I do!” But then he swallowed. “No one else would—” He broke off, and then went on, “No one else would treat you as the person you really are.”             And that too was very likely true. “Freak,” Jim murmured. Perhaps he could join a circus. Only trouble was, he’d never be able to convince anyone that he was really a man, inside this strange mantle of flesh. “Freak,” he said a little louder, and Artie rounded on him.             “You. Are. Not. A. Freak!”             Artie was gripping his arms with astonishing strength. “Do you understand me?”             Startled out of his self-pity, Jim nodded jerkily, and Artie let him go. But he was a freak, something new and never seen before, and no fury on Artie’s part could change that. “Artie,” he said softly, “don’t stay with me out of pity.”             Artie wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Pity has nothing to do with it.”             “What, then?”             Artie was still looking away. “You’d do it for me, wouldn’t you? We’ve watched out for each other for years. Why should it be any different now?”             There was some kind of evasion in his voice, but he spoke the truth nonetheless. “Yes,” Jim said. “I’d do it for you.”             They were awkward with each other suddenly, until the odor of scorched meat wafted in from the galley and Artie leaped up to see what was burning.             Jim stood up, determined to get this body under control. If he was stuck with it, he would at least bend it to his purpose. Stuck with it… he said thoughtfully to himself, and then, but suppose I’m not. Would Loveless have created a drug with such a powerful effect without also making an antidote? It wasn’t a question so much as a soundless plea that filled his mind, but he cut it off ruthlessly and concentrated on walking into his stateroom.             Artie found him there a few minutes later, pulling on the tightest pair of trousers he owned. A flannel shirt hung on his shoulders, so large that the breasts were barely noticeable beneath it. He was contemplating the row of boots in the armoire, trying to decide whether any of them could be stuffed with paper or a wad of cloth to accommodate his now girlish feet.             He looked up as Artie paused in the door. “I know I’m not exactly fashionable,” he said, irritated at the look on Artie’s face. “But I can’t go out in that dressing gown.”             “I’m not sure you can go out dressed like this, either,” Artie said hesitantly. “Your face is too mature for you to pass as a boy.”             Jim straightened up from his perusal of the boots. “Jesus, Artie, you’re not suggesting I wear a dress!”             Artie shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Jim! I wouldn’t want to wear a dress. But—” He broke off, looking away. “It might excite less comment.”             Jim looked at the misery in Artie’s face, and slowly sank onto his bunk. “I can’t,” he said doggedly. But Artie was right. An apparent woman in men’s clothing would stand out like—he balked at the analogy, but like the sideshow freak he felt like. The only way he and Artie could find Loveless and stop him, and perhaps return Jim to his own body, would be for him to pass as a woman.             “Come and eat,” Artie said. He sounded on the verge of exhaustion, and Jim looked up at him in concern.             “Are you all right?” he asked, with an inward jeer for the inanity of the question. Of course, Artie wasn’t all right. But he didn’t know what else to say.             Artie shook his head. “No. But I will be. I have to be. Let’s eat, and then we can talk about what we have to do.”             He turned and walked back out into the parlor. No offer of his arm, Jim noted, and was grateful for that.             They got no farther than dishing up their plates, however, before someone set up a thunderous pounding on the outside door. Jim stopped with the serving spoon in the air, and Artie got up and went swiftly to the door. There were loud, but indistinct, voices from outside, and after a moment, Jim stood too and lurched back on painful feet to the end of the car.             Trilby and a man Jim didn’t recognize stood outside with Artie. The other man wore a star on his vest—the local law, then. Trilby was yelling something at Artie. “No choice!” he snarled. “You have no—” He looked up as Jim appeared in the doorway. “Well, if it ain’t Miz West!”             His head snapped back from the impact of Artie’s fist, and he staggered and sprawled backward onto the gravel. “If you ever speak disrespectfully of my partner again,” Artie said in the most dangerous tone Jim had ever heard him use, “I will personally beat you to a pulp.”             “This—um…lady is a Secret Service agent?” The lawman looked Jim up and down, and Jim fought the impulse to leap off the steps and—and what? Slap his face? Call him names? He settled for as formidable a glare as he could manage. The man did have the decency to color and look away.             “My partner was attacked and robbed of hi—” Artie choked back what he’d been about to say. “Of her clothing. She dressed in something of mine to be decent—what else was she supposed to do?”             Jim hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to hear Artie refer to him as “she.” There was no choice, of course, but it was still a blow.             Trilby had picked himself up and was advancing on Artie with a nasty smirk on his face. “I have orders to evict you from this government property!” he claimed, waving what looked like a telegram. “Straight from Washington!”             “Let me see that,” Artie reached for the paper, but Trilby snatched it back and took out an official-looking document instead, handing that to the officer.             “He’s here to enforce the order,” Trilby said triumphantly. “I let Washington know that your partner had deserted and you were entertaining loose women on the train, while Dr. Loveless is threatening our entire country! You’re ordered to cease and desist from any further activity in the name of the Secret Service, and to remove yourselves from the train forthwith!”             “That’s ridiculous!” Artie shouted. “My partner hasn’t deserted. He’s—he’s on Dr. Loveless’s trail right now. And this lady is also an agent of the government.”             The officer stepped between Artie and Trilby. “I won’t say you’re lying, Mr. Gordon, but it does look a bit odd, her dressed like that and all. And this paper is authentic. It’s an order from the magistrate. I recognize his signature myself. I’m afraid you’ll have to take the lady somewhere else.”             “We’re not under Mr. Trilby’s authority,” Jim snapped, feeling as though his future was being decided without him having any say in it. “We work directly from Washington. I can send a telegram right now and get this straightened out.”             “Oh, no, you don’t, little lady!” Trilby advanced on Jim, and seeing the look on Artie’s face, the lawman again came between them.             “I can’t see any reason why Miss—um…the lady shouldn’t get confirmation,” he said reasonably. “You just calm down, Mr. Trilby. They aren’t going anywhere, after all.”             Trilby sputtered indignantly, but he was pushed firmly in the direction of the station. “I’ll be right here,” he yelled over his shoulder. “You’d better not try anything! I’ll have the law down on you in a heartbeat!”             Jim backed away from the door and Artie, his face white and strained, climbed up and closed it behind them. “We do need to get out of here,” he said, and Jim nodded.             “Can you think of a way to raise some kind of ruckus?” he asked. “Something that would distract Trilby and let us get fired up and on our way?”             Artie nodded. “We need to send that telegram too. Not just to get Trilby off our backs, but something that will get Colonel Richmond out here, if possible. You take care of that, and I’ll see if I can give Trilby something else to think about.” He went back out the door, and through the window, Jim could see him striding toward the terminal.             There had been some indefinable shift of power between them, Jim thought, as he took out the telegraph key and connected the cables. He felt…diminished. He felt as though Artie had automatically taken up the reins of command, and he resented it. But he forced that thought out of his mind. He needed to have his full concentration to compose the message to Washington, and to get it coded correctly.             By the time he had finished, sweating over every word, Artie was back, looking grim and battered. His vest hung open, his hair was in wild disarray, and he cradled his right hand in his left as though it hurt. “Trilby won’t be bothering us for a while,” he said, though he didn’t look or sound very happy.             “You beat him up,” Jim said. “You beat him up, for what? My honor?” He didn’t know how to feel about that.             “I beat him up because he’s a bastard and a disgrace to the United States government,” Artie said shortly. He looked at Jim with a set expression. “And yes, for your honor. He insulted you, and you weren’t in a position to do anything about it. So I knocked his nose through the back of his head, and welcome he is to it.” But he looked ashamed of himself, Jim thought, and as if they were mentally attuned, Artie added wearily, “He was no match for me. He had no chance against me at all.”             Jim sighed. “I’ve sent the telegram. Why don’t you go up and tell Barney we need to get fired up? I probably shouldn’t go out dressed like this.”             “The engine is ready to go. I talked to Barney already. He said he’d been told we might need to get under way in a hurry.”             “Told? By whom?”             “He didn’t know the man, but I think it must have been Fred Ennis. Barney said he’d seen him here with us. The description sounded like Ennis, and I can’t think of anyone else it could have been.”             Jim nodded slowly. “I take back every unkind thought I’ve ever had about him,” he said. “All right, let’s get going.”             Artie nodded and went past him to lift the speaking tube and give the order, leaving Jim to ponder how it felt for someone else to fight his battles for him. He didn’t like it much.             They couldn’t go far without clearing their movement with the railroad, but they did manage to put the train on a little-used siding next to a lumber mill, a few miles down the line. Unfortunately, they had no access to the telegraph there. By the time Artie had ridden back to the nearest telegraph line, climbed the pole to hook up the cables and sent another message to Washington telling the Service of their new whereabouts, it was mid-day. Artie returned to the train with sweat running down his face and darkening the back of his coat, and a face so red with exertion that Jim became concerned.             “Lie down and rest for a while,” he urged. “I’ll bet you were up all night.”             Artie nodded, and disappeared into his cabin, pulling off his jacket and dropping it onto a chair as he went. By the time Jim followed him into the little stateroom, he was down to trousers and not much else. His boots had been tossed into the corner, his shirt, vest and stockings lay in a heap, and he was sitting on the bed with his head in his hands.             “Lie down,” Jim said again. “We’re safe here for the moment. Get some rest and then we’ll talk about what to do next.”             Artie looked up, and he couldn’t hide the little involuntary flinch as he gazed at Jim. “I suppose you’ll get used to it,” Jim said, knowing there was no censure behind the look and wanting to spare Artie’s feelings if he could. “If I can get used to it, you will too.”             Artie touched his arm briefly. “I can’t imagine that either of us will ever get used to it, but thank you for not being angry with me.” He sagged back onto the bed with an arm thrown over his eyes, looking infinitely weary and so miserable that Jim would have given anything he possessed to take that worn expression away.             Instead, he backed silently out of the cabin and closed the door. Then he pushed back the furniture in the parlor and began to find out what this new body of his could do. The weights he had formerly used were so heavy that he was afraid he might over-exert himself if he tried to lift even the lightest one, so he grasped a large book in each hand and began to warm up. Ten minutes later, before he had completed a fraction of his normal exercise routine, he was trembling with exhaustion. But he was still on his feet, and he was beginning to regain a true sense of balance and of his center of gravity. It would take many more sessions like this to come anywhere near the level of fitness he had always enjoyed, but he no longer felt as though any man, or even a large boy, could pick him up and carry him off without getting considerably damaged in the attempt.             He had caught flashes of himself from time to time in the large mirror over the sideboard, a wraith-like figure that he glimpsed from the corner of his eye and instantly looked away from. He knew he would have to see himself at some point and try to accept what he found, but he wasn’t ready for that yet.             He put the books back on their shelf with a leaden weariness in his arms. Behind him, startling him, Artie said, “You’ve made amazing progress.”             “I have to get my strength back.” He turned to face Artie. “I won’t ask you to take on a partner who can’t back you up.”             Artie hesitated a long time before answering him, and Jim’s meager satisfaction with what he had accomplished faded to fear that Artie had changed his mind. But Artie said, “Yes, you certainly must try to regain what you had, or as much as it’s possible for a woman’s body to carry. That’s more for your protection than mine. But, you know, there are other methods of fighting than just using brute strength.”             “Stab the crooks with my hat pin, you mean?” Jim asked him bitterly.             “No, I was thinking more of the oriental fighting styles. I know you don’t use Kung Fu much any more, but it might be worth thinking about again. The same agility and technique that gives the oriental frame an advantage against larger men could work well for you too.”             “That’s true,” Jim said thoughtfully. “And the reason I abandoned Kung Fu wasn’t because of the style of fighting. It was just all that grimacing and yelling. If I could throw a man over my shoulder without making silly faces and screeching like a fishwife …“ He glanced over at Artie. “That Chinaman you introduced me to—you think he’d give me a refresher? I’m not sure how many of the moves I remember any more.”             Artie nodded. “I imagine so. He’d have to give you private lessons, but I don’t think he would object.”             He was dressed, Jim realized, complete with gunbelt and spurs. “You’re not going back out, are you?” he asked. “I thought you were going to rest.”             “I’m going to ride down to the station in Colma and get permission to move somewhere else. We’ve got to find a better place than this for a base of operations, someplace where we can get to the telegraph and buy provisions.”             Artie had essentially taken over, Jim thought. He might have said he was willing for them to continue as partners, but he was acting as though Jim really was female, making decisions for them both, setting off to arrange their lives without any discussion with Jim first.             “Jim,” Artie said gently, seeing the look on his face, “these are things that only I can do right now. I know how that must make you feel—I know how I’d feel if I was in your situation. But I’ve got to take care of them anyway.”             “Go on,” Jim said grimly. “We’ll talk when you get back.” He couldn’t argue with Artie’s logic. He couldn’t change society, nor the unreasoning assumptions that people were going to make about him. And with a painful flash of insight, he wondered suddenly if this was how intelligent women had to deal with life, and whether they felt the same helpless fury that he was feeling right now. Most of the women he had known, in recent years, at least, had been no more educated than the average cowboy, and they seemed to accept the condition of their lives as normal. Only a few had been markedly above that station, and they had allied themselves with powerful men, exerting their influence through someone else. He didn’t think he could bear a life like that, if there was no way to change back to himself.             He sighed mentally and went back to his exercises, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion, resting for ten or fifteen minutes, and then beginning all over again. He had to stop once to visit the privy, an awkward business to manage because he couldn’t bear to look down at himself. Couldn’t bear to touch himself, cleaning his privates with a slosh of water from the glass he’d been holding when he walked back there. After a couple of hours, when Artie still had not returned and it was obvious he could not continue exercising without injuring something, he heaved himself up wearily from the chair he had collapsed into, and went into the galley. Their breakfast dishes, and most of the breakfast itself, still sat on the little counter next to the stove. He meant to throw the meal out and wash the dishes, but the sight of the food had him ravenous in an instant. He had cleaned off his plate and worked his way through half of Artie’s when he heard noises outside.             From the galley window he could see Artie’s horse hitched behind a carriage. Artie’s voice, and then that of a woman, came from the rear of the car. My God, he thought, Artie couldn’t possibly have brought home some new conquest of his. Not now!             He gave his face a rough swipe with the dish towel, dipped his hands into the washing-up water and dried them too, and went out into the parlor. A slight woman stood there, an older woman dressed in a subdued chintz gown. She carried a basket in one hand, and behind her, Artie stood holding several bolts of dark fabric.             “Ah …“ Artie was clearly groping for what to call Jim. “Um—this is Mrs. Lamberte. She’s a seamstress. I thought we ought to do something about the wardrobe that was . . um—stolen.”             Mrs. Lamberte clucked sympathetically. “Poor dear!” she said, a French accent audible but not pronounced. “How terrible for you, and to have nothing to put on but men’s clothing. We shall attend to that, indeed we shall.”             Before Jim could react, she had set down the basket, opened the top and whipped out a measuring tape. “Now stand still,” she commanded, “and I shall have your measurements in a twinkling.”             Jim put up a hand and back away. “Just a da— I mean just a minute.” He jerked his head at Artie. “Come in here. We need to talk about this.”             He turned and went into his stateroom, and shut the door firmly behind Artie. Artie said under his breath, “Jim, I know you don’t want this, but you’ve got to be able to go out in polite society. Mrs. Lamberte is a respectable seamstress with a good reputation, not some wharf side floozy who makes gowns for the house girls. You aren’t going to look like—“ he stopped, his expression haggard. ”Like a streetwalker, if that’s what you’re thinking.”             Jim turned away and slammed a fist against the wall. “God damn it, Artie! It doesn’t matter how respectable I look.” The flimsy partition wall felt like unyielding rock against his hand, and he winced and held it to his stomach. Artie reached out and took the hand, and massaged it gently.             “You must be able to move around without attracting attention and derision,” he said softly, and Jim gritted his teeth and accepted the reality of that.             “What am I supposed to call myself?” he asked sarcastically. “I don’t think I can get away with ‘James’ if I’m wearing a dress.”             “I’ve been thinking about that,” Artie said. “What about Jemima? Jim sounds enough like Jem that anyone who heard me call you by your real name might think I was really saying Jem and they had just mis-heard.”             Jemima. He’d known a Jemima in primary school, an impudent little brat with fat pigtails, a freckled face and as independent a spirit as a girl could get away with. She had punched him in the nose one time. There were a lot of names Artie might have picked. Jemima wasn’t the worst. “All right,” he said, feeling another barrier crumble away between him and this strange new world he now inhabited. “All right. I can handle Jemima. But don’t you have something already that I can wear, from one of your disguises?”             “Nothing that would fit you without considerable alterations, and nothing nice enough for you to wear around decent people. You know what kind of personae I’ve used as a woman.”             True enough, Jim thought, and sighed. “It seems I have no choice.”             Artie released his hand. “I’ll put some salve on your wrist later,” he said. “You’re going to have a bruise.”             “I’ll let you know if I want salve on it,” Jim said tightly. He pushed around Artie and marched back into the parlor.             Mrs. Lamberte stood where they had left her, patiently holding the measuring tape. “Shall we take your sizes now?” she said. “You have a very slight figure.” She dimpled suddenly. “Like myself when I was a girl.”             Jim stood with a grim expression while she measured everything she could easily reach, and made notes in a little book. “All your clothes were taken, non?” she asked.             When Jim hesitated, Artie said, “Yes, everything. We’ll need nightclothes and—“ He stopped and shrugged politely. “Everything. You understand.”             “Of course. I shall attend to it.” She turned to Jim. “Now, please to look at what I have brought, and tell me whether you can approve of them. Monsieur Gordon says you do not wish anything gaudy.” She held up a length of fabric, with a little shrug. “These are too dark for anything but day gowns, and even then, you will look more like a shopgirl than a lady, I fear.”             “Like a schoolteacher,” Artie put in. “Respectable.”             The fabric was a dark check, alternating blue and brown blocks. “It’s all right,” Jim said indifferently. “I don’t care.”             She held out another one, a navy calico with tiny white blossoms. He shrugged. “Just don’t put any ruffles or lace on anything.” He could feel his face growing warm. “No ruffles! You understand?”             She was taken aback at his vehemence, but nodded vigorously. “No frills, M’mselle. And no lace.”             “You’re going to need shoes, too, Jim,” Artie put in. “Let her measure your feet. She’ll bring a couple of pairs for you to try.”             Jim took a deep breath, mastered himself, and sat on the sofa while Mrs. Lamberte solemnly applied the tape measure to his feet.             Finally, she straightened, gathered up her basket, and scrutinized Jim, almost at eye level with him. Her dark blue eyes cut into him. “You have had a great shock,” she said. “But you are strong. You will do very well.”             Artie said with an odd little laugh, “I didn’t know you were a psychic, Madame.”             She gave a gallic shrug. “Non, not at all. M’mselle is easy to read.” She glanced back at Jim. “You must relax your shoulders, and let your lips be more easy. If you were a man, I should be afraid of you.”             Jim laughed, though painfully. “Thank you. I’ll remember that.”             Artie picked up the bolts of fabric. “I’ll drive Mrs. Lamberte back to town. I was able to get permission to move the train to Colma, so Barney will be getting under way in about an hour. I’ll wait in Colma—I can check the telegraph office again and lay in some supplies.”             Jim nodded shortly, and Artie swung Mrs. Lamberte down the steps and helped her into the wagon. They drove away with Artie’s horse trotting along behind, leaving Jim alone again with some very unwelcome thoughts.             He was going to have to get over being offended by everything. He would not accept that this was his lot for the rest of his life. He could not. But he would have to force himself to adopt the role for as long as it took to find Dr. Loveless and get himself changed back. He snorted ruefully, thinking that he had told himself that much about three times already today. It was obviously going to take a while for the lesson to sink in.             In the meantime, he knew he must stop punishing Artie for only doing what he had to do. What would he have done in Artie’s place, and Artie in his? Pretty much the same, he acknowledged silently.             He was restless, too sore to try any more exercising, and too wound up to just sit down Riding had always been his comfort when the world was going to hell in a handbasket. Did he dare go off on Dusty now? Not without boots, he decided. But he could at least see to the horses. He swung stiffly down from the parlor car and walked forward to the stable, the sharp gravel digging painfully into the soles of his bare feet. Pulling himself up into the car was almost more than he could do, but the only alternative was to ask one of the crew for help, and that was clearly not an option. He clenched his jaw, forced his muscles to obey him, and managed to half-climb and half-crawl up into the car.             Dusty whickered inquiringly, the same sound he’d have made for anyone coming into the car, and Jim thought, Even my horse doesn’t recognize me. But Dusty snuffled all around his face and his chest, and then in spite of some momentary nervousness when Jim spoke to him, he seemed perfectly happy to let Jim brush him and comb out his mane and tail. The stalls had been mucked out, Jim saw, and there was fresh water in the bucket and a half-eaten armful of hay in the hayrick. He wondered when Artie had found the time to take care of all that.             And make breakfast for the two of us, and worry about proper clothes and an appropriate woman’s name, and where they might best put the train.             He sighed and lowered himself into the thickest part of the hay in the corner of the stall. He wasn’t certain that if their circumstances had been reversed he would have done as well as Artie. He leaned back against the wall, soothed by Dusty’s familiar sounds and scent, and let himself relax fully for the first time since he had waked up this morning.             “Jim! Wake up, Jim!”             Artie’s voice sound almost frantic in his ear. “Jim, please wake up!” He felt himself being lifted, and felt Artie stagger under his weight.             “I’m awake! Put me down.” He pried his eyes open, blinked against the late afternoon light coming through the wide door, and squirmed out of Artie’s arms. Beyond Artie, he could see a train station, and behind the building, the streets of a small town. Colma, his mind supplied, feeling rusty and disused. They were in Colma. He had slept in the corner of the stall while the train ran ten miles down the line. He could scarcely believe it.             “What time is it?” he asked, staggering a little. He evaded Artie’s hand and gripped one of the posts of the stall. “I fell asleep.”             “I couldn’t find you anywhere,” Artie said, still sounding shaken. “I looked all over the parlor and you weren’t there. I suppose I should have guessed you would come here.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s almost six o’clock. Come back and let me tell you what I’ve found out.”             He let Artie help him down from the stable car and back up into the parlor, feeling as though everyone outside was watching them. Once inside, he jerked the curtains together, shutting out the rest of the world.             “All right, what’s your news?” he asked. “And did you bring anything to eat? I’m starving.” He was indeed ravenous, just as he had been that morning.             “I’ve got some cold cooked chicken and a couple of baked potatoes,” Artie said. “Will that do?”             “Anything!” Jim assured him, and when Artie produced a towel-covered basket, he attacked the chicken with more gusto and less etiquette than he could remember ever feeling since some of the really bad times during the war.             “Have you been hungry all day?” Artie asked curiously. “I noticed that you finished your breakfast plate, and it looks like you ate half of mine too.”             “Haven’t eaten since you left,” Jim mumbled, through a half-full mouth. “But I was starving earlier. Ate like I’d never had a square meal in my life.” He licked his lips, realized Artie was watching him, and colored. “I suppose I can’t do that any more,” he said, knowing there was a bitter sound in his voice once again.             “You never used to do it anyway,” Artie said reasonably. “But I was just wondering why you’re so hungry all of a sudden. I think whatever it was that changed you must have taken a tremendous amount of your energy. And if I know you, you were exercising half the time I was gone. It’s probably natural for you to be ravenous now, until you get your strength back.”             Jim nodded. “You didn’t tell me what you found out,” he said, his immediate hunger assuaged for the moment.             “Ah, yes. First, Colonel Richmond is on his way. He was in St. Louis, so he should be here by tomorrow night. Second, Dr. Loveless sent a telegram to the President threatening to turn a million men into women if the government doesn’t return his family’s land to him. He didn’t say what means he would use, and no one really believes him anyway, but everyone is hair-trigger nervous about it, from what I can tell.”             Jim could feel himself pale. “Did he tell them what he did to me?”             “If he did, they didn’t mention it. So no, I don’t think so. I think he’s holding you out as a trump card, to prove what he can do.” Artie hesitated. “I’ve been thinking—it’s a little odd that he left you for me to find. I would have expected him to keep you locked up, so he could trot you out as proof of his power.”             “That was the revenge part,” Jim said with a twist of his lips. “He doesn’t need me in order to prove anything. He can grab any poor bastard to do that.”             Artie nodded. “I expect you’re right. Well, Richmond says we’re to stay put until he gets here. He sent a telegram to the police department in San Francisco, confirming that we work out of Washington, not under the local office. So we won’t be bothered with Trilby again.”             “You didn’t tell him about me …“ Jim said with a sinking heart.             “No,” Artie said heavily. “I couldn’t think of any way to say the words. I’ll speak to him privately before he sees you.”             “Yes, that would be best.” Jim wiped his fingers with the towel that had covered the basket. “Anything else to eat? What’s in that box?”             Artie smiled. “I took the chance that you would still like apple pie,” he said, taking the cover off the box to reveal a high-domed lattice of piecrust over a fragrant interior. “Don’t go after it with both hands, now. Let me dish it up properly.”             Jim obeyed him, but he couldn’t resist leaning over to savor the fresh warm odor of pie wafting up from the box. “I could eat the whole thing,” he declared, but when Artie returned with dessert plates and clean forks, he managed to restrain himself to two pieces.             “So what are we supposed to do until Richmond gets here?” he asked Artie, leaning back from the table. “Just sit on our hands waiting for something to happen? I can’t do that. I’ve got to start looking for Loveless.”             “You can work on getting your strength back,” Artie said, not looking at him. “Perhaps ride up to San Francisco and visit my Chinese friend. Get used to mixing with other people.”             “I can’t do that in men’s clothes,” Jim objected.             Artie got up and went into Jim’s room, coming back with a large basket. “Mrs. Lamberte had some things already made up that she thought you could wear until she finishes your frocks,” he said. “There’s a pair of shoes and a pair of riding boots in there too.”             Jim took a deep breath, trying to keep himself from lashing out at Artie. He had known this moment was coming, and in truth, it was easier for him to look at these garments, and to contemplate having to wear them, with only Artie present. He turned back the cover on the basket, and began to pull out the contents.             There was a simple day gown in a muted blue and cream stripe. No ruffles, he saw, though the sleeves were gathered into puffy balloons. They had narrow pleated cuffs of solid cream, but there was no lace, no gimcrack decoration. Under the dress was something soft and white. He pulled it out, expecting to find a shirtwaist. Instead, it was unmistakably a shift, and pinned to it was a pair of women’s drawers.             He flung the garments down in a heap. “I can’t wear that,” he said flatly. “I can’t, Artie.”             Artie looked down, but didn’t reply, and Jim’s earlier admonition to himself came back to his mind. He wanted to swear at someone, but Artie wasn’t responsible and Loveless wasn’t handy. He reflected grimly that should he come upon Loveless, even in this female body, swearing was the least he was going to do. But he couldn’t punish Artie for what Loveless had done, no matter how angry he was feeling right now.             He took a long deep breath and got hold of himself once again. “All right,” he said heavily. “I suppose there’s no choice.”             He picked up the shift and drawers in one hand and the dress in the other and marched grimly into his room. He resolutely kept his eyes off his bare skin as he doffed the trousers and shirt and slid his legs into the drawers. They fit him perfectly, as soft and comfortable as a pair of well-washed drawers of his own. The shift was harder, since it had no analog in his own wardrobe. At first, he wasn’t even certain how to get it on. He tried pulling it up over the drawers, but he couldn’t stretch the top far enough to get both arms through the straps. With compressed lips, he pushed it off over his hips and then stuck his head through the bottom. It quickly became clear that he wouldn’t be able to get his arms up to put them through the straps that way either, and he yanked it off again. The answer was obvious, once he considered the construction and the relative difference between its diameter and his own. He clenched his jaw, stuck his arms up through the tube of fabric and wriggled it down into place. If Artie came in right now, he thought, he would punch him in the jaw.             But Artie stayed decorously in the parlor, and Jim struggled to get into the dress. He could step into it, he found, but it was one of those with buttons in the back. He fastened as many as possible, but it was obvious that he was going to have to ask Artie for help. Why on earth were women’s garments made that way? He felt like a child asking a parent for help in dressing.             But he opened the door of his cabin and walked out anyway. “You’ll have to get the rest of the buttons,” he said, forcing expression from his voice and face. “And we’ll have to tell what’s-her-name, the seamstress, to make the dresses so I can get into them by myself. This is ridiculous.”             Artie came around behind him and silently did up the buttons that Jim couldn’t reach. “If the shoes fit you,” he said, once he had finished, “perhaps you can tell her yourself. Her house isn’t far from here.”             “Go out, you mean,” Jim said. He found his breath coming fast. He would have to go out, have to look people in the face. There was no way around it, if he wanted to work alongside Artie in finding Loveless. All right, he said grimly to himself. He would go out. He would walk calmly along next to Artie as though he had every right to be there. He would let people call him—what?             “Artie,” he said, “we’ve got to come up with a last name for me. I can’t be Miss Jemima West. I’ve got to be a married woman. There’s going to be way too much talk about us otherwise.”             “Yes, I know,” Artie said. He inhaled, one long harsh breath, and then breathed out and got up. “Just a minute.”             He came back from his cabin carrying a small box. “This belonged to my mother,” he said, seating himself next to Jim and opening the box. A narrow band of gold gleamed in the red interior. “I think she would be honored for you to wear it. She was a strong woman with a wonderful sense of humor. She would see the irony in this situation.”             He took the ring out of its nest of velvet and held it between thumb and forefinger as though he meant to slip it on Jim’s finger.             “Irony?” Jim asked, with a little laugh. “I’m afraid I don’t see any irony in it. But I’m honored to wear your mother’s ring, Artie, if you’re sure you want me to.”             Artie lifted his eyes to Jim. “Yes, I’m sure.”             Jim took the ring and slipped it quickly onto his left ring finger. It was a little loose, but he thought it would stay on. It felt strange, cold and metallic and foreign. “You meant this to be for your wife, didn’t you?” he asked in sudden realization. “Are you really sure you want me to wear it?”             Artie nodded, his face serious. “I won’t tell my wife you wore it first,” he said, with something that sound like forced gaiety in his voice. “If you don’t.”             Jim snorted. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”             He looked at his hand again, with the circle of gold on his ring finger, and shivered. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, whether it was simply the undoubted strangeness of the whole situation or some shade of things to come. If he couldn’t change back, if he was doomed to live the rest of his life as a woman, would Artie let him keep the ring? A crazy thought went through his head—did this mean he was married to Artie? He shivered again and hid his hand in a fold of the skirt.             Artie said, with that strange note still in his voice, “I’ve been thinking. You could be Jim West’s sister. We’d have to think of another last name.”             “Maybe I could be a grass widow, and keep West,” Jim suggested. “I don’t want to give up everything of myself. It’s going to be bad enough to be introduced as Jemima. Why can’t I just be Mrs. West?”             Artie nodded. “That should work. Some people might turn up their noses at you for being divorced, but most won’t pay any attention, especially if you don’t draw attention to yourself. There’s no reason for people to know.”             Drawing attention to himself was the last thing Jim wanted to do. He was going to feel as though everyone was staring at him no matter how unobtrusively he dressed. “Let’s see how the shoes fit,” he said. “Might as well get this over with.”             The shoes looked like they were made for a skeletal child, narrow and pointy-toed, but they slipped on without much difficulty. “You can’t wear those without stockings,” Artie said, looking worried. “It’s not proper, and you’ll get blisters. Your own are far too large—I can see that without you even putting them on. If Mrs. Lamberte doesn’t have any stockings to sell, we’ll have to find them someplace else, or get some when we go to San Francisco.”             “You said we could ride up there,” Jim said. “Did you really mean to ride? I don’t think I could manage a side-saddle. I’m not just being difficult—it takes practice to use one of those.”             Artie shook his head. “There’s a riding habit in the basket,” he said. “One of those split-skirt things. I expect you’ll find it’s a little more difficult to mount than when you’re wearing trousers, but you can still use a standard saddle.”             “Well.“ Jim got to his feet. “I suppose I have to do this. Am I acceptable?”             “Ah… well, no. You can’t go out with your skirt blowing between your legs. You’ve got to wear a petticoat. There’s one in the basket.” He pushed aside the top layer and drew out a long white multi-tiered underskirt. “Here you are. Most women wear two or three, you know, but I thought it would be too difficult for you to manage more than one to begin with.”             Jim resignedly sat down, pulled up the skirt, and slid the petticoat up his legs. He didn’t think about how that might appear until he glanced up and saw that Artie was looking away, slightly pink-faced.             “My God, Artie,” he said. “How many times have you seen my legs before? Just because they look different now doesn’t mean they aren’t still just my legs.”             “I know that,” Artie said stiffly. His voice sounded odd, but he cleared his throat and went on, “You need a hat too.” He dove into the basket again. “We have to return this after we get one for you, but Madame said you could use it for now.” He emerged with a sober black straw hat, its only adornment a narrow black ribbon around the crown.             “I’ll look like I’m in mourning,” Jim said, but stuck it on his head. “Maybe that’s just as well. People will leave me alone.” He took a deep breath. “All right? Let’s get this over with.”             “Um—“ Artie hesitated. “Your hair.”             “What about it?” Jim’s hand went automatically to his head. “Damn. I don’t have any idea what to do with hair!”             “May I?” Artie said, reaching tentatively for the hat. “I do have some experience with costuming and makeup, remember. Arranging one’s hair for a particular effect falls into the same category.”             He stepped back and studied Jim’s face, his expression neutral. “I think you would look best with your hair swept to one side,” he said finally. “It isn’t long enough to wear a woman’s style, but I think I can comb it up in the back if I use enough hairpins, especially if it’s under a hat. Just a moment.”             He disappeared, and after considerable rummaging noises and muttered comments, was back with a comb and a handful of hairpins. Jim stood there trying not to think about Artie’s hands on his hair. There was something unbearably intimate about it. But this was Artie, after all. He could bear anything from Artie.             Artie gently untangled the hair, dislodging a few strands of hay in the process, and combed through it with no more expression on his face than if he had been engaged in any other exacting task, for which Jim was exceedingly grateful. Securing it close to Jim’s scalp took longer, and involved more hairpins than Jim had thought possible, but finally Artie stood looking at him with his head tilted to one side. “That’ll do,” he said. “Especially under a hat. Not perfect, but with the breeze outside today, more than one lady is going to have flyaway hair.” He hesitated. “Do you want to see?”             Jim slowly shook his head. “I’m not ready for that,” he said. “I know I’ll have to look at my face eventually, but—not yet.”             “All right,” Artie said gently. “I can understand that. Shall we go, then? No, wait, your hat.” He placed it back on Jim’s head, secured it with two more of the hairpins, and asked, “Ready?”             Jim nodded, and Artie led him, tottering on the high-heeled shoes, to the door. As Artie opened it, he said a little stiffly, “I know you may resent this, but I think we need to behave in private the same way we’ll have to do in public.” He held up a hand to forestall Jim’s obvious objection. “I don’t mean everything, of course. Just the more public kinds of courtesies. If I don’t open the door for you here, I’ll forget to do it some time in public, and people will take notice.”             Jim nodded, feeling rebellious but knowing Artie was correct. Did all women have to think constantly about how people judged their appearance and behavior? It was something he’d never considered. The world was the way it was, and there had never been any reason to question it. He was uncomfortably aware that Artie seemed to be much more conscious of this sort of thing than he was. But of course, Artie had been in the theatre, where it was natural to analyze behavior and mannerisms.             He let Artie lift him down from the steps and set him lightly on his feet. “Will you take my arm?” Artie asked in a low voice. “It might be a good idea anyway, not just for appearances. You’re not used to walking in that kind of shoe.”             Jim gritted his teeth, slipped his hand under Artie’s arm, and stepped out with determination. The wind swirled the skirt around his ankles, nearly tripping him up, and he teetered uncertainly on the high heels. “Godammit, Artie,” he swore under his breath, “I can’t walk in this get-up!”             Artie waited patiently for him to get his balance back, and then to take another cautious step. It wasn’t as hard as the first, and they made a slow, careful way along the tracks to the platform. “Perhaps we’d better tell people that you’ve been ill,” Artie said with concern in his voice. “I don’t want them to assume that you’re tipsy.”             “I’ll be all right in a minute or two,” Jim said stubbornly. Now that he was out in public view, he would be damned if he couldn’t pull this off. He thought of the times that Artie had disguised himself as a woman. If Artie could do it, he could too. He grimly put one foot in front of the other and concentrated on keeping his balance.             “Hold your skirt down,” Artie hissed at him, as a particularly strong gust blew it up. “You don’t want your limbs to show, do you?”             Jim didn’t particularly care whether his legs stood out for everyone to see, but he pressed the skirt down with one hand while he clung to Artie’s arm in earnest with the other. He would stay in character if it killed him, and by the time they reached somewhere he could sit down for a moment, he wasn’t sure he was going to survive. “Good God, Artie,” he murmured. “How do women stand this? I can hardly keep my head on straight for worrying that my skirt is going to blow up, or my hat is going to fall off, or these damned shoes are going to trip me up and dump me on the ground.”             Artie laughed, though there wasn’t much humor in the sound. “Maybe that’s why women seem so mentally incapable. All their energy goes into worrying about that sort of thing. Who knows, if women could do whatever they wanted, they might rule the world instead of men.”             If Artie had said something like that before, Jim would have laughed and dismissed it as a damned fool idea. “Have you always thought that?” he asked now. “You don’t usually say that kind of thing.”             “I’ve always been aware that most women are more intelligent than they seem,” Artie said reflectively. “But things like not being able to get into their own clothing without assistance—it’s something you know, but you don’t ever really think about it. About how it affects their daily lives.”             He pressed Jim’s hand suddenly. “Look up and smile,” he whispered. “This is Mrs. Sandston, the doctor’s wife. I met her when I was at the station earlier.”             A plump woman was approaching, followed by a young Negro boy carrying a valise. Jim saw what he would probably never have paid attention to before, that she was not only wearing multiple petticoats but a bustle. Thank God Artie hadn’t brought him anything like that, he thought. If her wheezing was anything to go by, she was probably wearing a corset too. Artie had known better than to present him with a corset.             Mrs. Sandston stared at them frankly, an assessing look on her face. Artie stood and bowed, taking off his hat. “Mrs. Sandston,” he said, “may I present Mrs. West? You’ll excuse her for not getting up—she’s been ill and she’s feeling a bit faint.”             Mrs. Sandston’s expression relaxed, and she beamed down at Jim. “I’m very pleased to meet you, my dear,” she said. “You’re white as a ghost, though. You should never be out of bed.” She turned to Artie. “You should take her home directly and have her people put her to bed.”             Artie shrugged slightly. “She’s a headstrong little thing, Mrs. Sandston. She said she would have some air. We’re not going far, only to Mrs. Lamberte’s little shop.”             Mrs. Sandston pursed her lips. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t have to carry her before you get there,” she pronounced. “Well, I’m off to the big city to visit my sister. Doctor Sandston is looking after himself this week. It’ll be a wonder if my house is still there when I get home, with him out at all hours and not cleaning up after himself, and bringing home chickens and pigs instead of cash, but that’s a doctor’s life for you.” She turned around and said sharply to the boy, “Come along, now, Samson, don’t dawdle!” and then she was gone, striding down the platform to where the train would stop.             Jim felt as though a tornado had swept him up, whirled him around, and dumped him back onto the bench. He hadn’t said a single word, and it was probably just as well. He would have been polite to the doctor’s wife, but he wasn’t certain what he might have said to Artie. “‘Headstrong little thing?’” he drawled. “Watch your language, Artemus Gordon.”             Artie flushed. “Sorry. I was trying to establish some character for you. Let people know ahead of time that you’re independent and free-spirited. That way, it won’t look so out-of-place if you say or do something unexpected. It’s protective coloration, that’s all.”             Jim sighed. “All right. I hadn’t thought of that.” He got to his feet again, swaying on the heels. “Let’s go on. You’re right about the blisters. We need to get some stockings.”             Mrs. Lamberte had none that would fit him. “Only too big,” she said dolefully. “I have none for so slender a frame as you. Mr. Betts at the dry goods store may have some in the proper size.” She gave Artie a sharp glance. “M’mselle should not be out of doors without stockings, Monsieur Gordon.”             “I wanted to go out,” Jim said pointedly. “Mr. Gordon doesn’t control my movements. And my name is We—“ He stopped. “Mrs. West. Not Mademoiselle.”             There. He had said it. Mrs. West. It hadn’t been as hard as he had expected. He turned away to leave, but a flash of movement caught his attention, and he glanced up to see his reflection in a full-length mirror in the back of the room. He breathed in sharply, but there was no tearing his eyes away. A fairly tall woman stood at Artie’s side, dressed quietly and wearing a black straw hat. He took a hesitant step toward the image, and the woman swayed forward, her skirt swirling around her ankles. He looked like any other woman he had seen, and the knowledge killed something in him. Somehow, he had thought he would recognize the man within, but if he had passed this woman in the street, he wouldn’t have given her a second glance. He closed his eyes tightly, and felt Artie take a hard grip on his elbow.             “Let’s go,” Artie whispered in his ear. “Come on.”             He shook his head, knowing he had to see this through. “Let me do this,” he grated. Artie wouldn’t let his arm go, though, and he found he was grateful for the support as he walked toward the woman in the mirror. He forced himself to assess her as objectively as he could. She had a strained, pale face, and he didn’t think there was as strong a resemblance to himself as Artie had proclaimed. It was a thin face, with a pointed chin and deep-set blue eyes. His own hair, styled much as it had been before except for being pulled back tightly on the sides, swept over a high forehead, and emphasized a long neck. He was not a beautiful woman, he thought, but not an ugly one either. He was just …a woman, a slight, feminine-looking, modestly dressed woman with no particularly outstanding features, no hint of the turmoil inside. He closed his eyes again, swaying, and felt Artie’s arm come around his waist.             “Do you want to sit down?” Artie murmured.             “No, I just want to get out of here.”             Artie turned him around, and he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Mrs. Lamberte stood there watching them with obvious curiosity, but she refrained from asking what would certainly have been awkward questions. “I’ll be all right,” he said, shaking off Artie’s arm. “I can walk by myself.”             He clenched his jaw, set one foot down after another, and made it to the door without falling. Artie hovered at his shoulder, but didn’t touch him or offer anything more than verbal support, bidding Mrs. Lamberte goodbye for them both. Jim went on up the uneven board walk in the direction that Artie indicated, and in the next block they came to Betts Dry Goods Emporium.             Here Artie insisted that he sit down, and he wearily complied. The original weakness, aggravated by his vigorous exercise and then by the strain of walking in these unfamiliar shoes, certain that everyone’s eyes were judging him, was overtaking him quickly. He slumped against the back of the wooden bench in the ladies’ department, and let Artie tell the shopkeeper’s daughter what they wanted.             “And a pair of garters, too,” Artie said. The girl blushed furiously and went away to dig through a wide drawer.             “These are the finest we have,” she said when she returned, holding several pairs of lisle stockings in one hand and a pair of lacy garters in the other. She carefully positioned herself so Artie couldn’t see the garters, Jim noticed in amusement.             “Don’t you have any plain ones?” he asked. “No lace. I don’t want any lace.”             She looked surprised, but went away to look for another pair. “Get one pair that fits you, and another larger pair,” Artie hissed at him while she was out of earshot. “If you gain muscle in your legs, you’ll need the bigger ones.”             The girl came back with another less ornate pair of garters, and Jim nodded. “I’ll take those, and another pair just like them, but bigger,” he said. “And the stockings too.”             “Both of those, and another pair just like them in black,” Artie said firmly, and the girl nodded and hurried away.             “Good thing I have you along to tell me what I should wear,” Jim said shortly, but he was relieved for once to have Artie directing things. He modified his words with a sigh and a smile. “I don’t mean to be grumpy.”             “I know.” Artie reached over and took his hand and held it gently until the girl returned. He could not have imagined holding Artie’s hand in private at any time before, much less in public, but he had clung to Artie when they first returned to the train that morning, and it seemed perfectly natural now.             That morning. It had been less than twelve hours ago that he woke to find himself in a woman’s body, and here he was already going out in public in a dress, wearing high-heeled shoes, buying garters and stockings and holding a man’s hand. The unreality of it flooded over him again. Surely he would wake up before long and find that it was truly just a nightmare. He leaned against Artie, his head swimming, and heard Artie say urgently, “Hold on!”             There was a confused babble of voices around him—Artie asking whether someone had a buckboard or wagon he could borrow; yes, the lady was ill, she shouldn’t have gone out, but she thought she was better; shouldn’t someone fetch Dr. Sandston; no, Artie was familiar with the case, he didn’t need any help, thank you, he’d just get Mrs. West back to her own bed… It flowed over him without affecting him. He felt Artie lift him, felt himself being carried through the store and out into the cool evening, his head lolling on Artie’s shoulder. He was set down carefully, Artie’s arms tight around him, and then there was the same bouncing, shaking journey as this morning, only a much shorter one. He kept his eyes closed, willing it to be a dream. When the wagon stopped, other hands took him from Artie and lifted him up. He murmured in protest, but Artie’s voice whispered that it was all right, not to worry. They laid him on the sofa in the parlor, and when the room was finally quiet, when all the loud voices had gone away, he opened his eyes.             Artie sat close to him, watching him with the same deep distress that had been there in the morning. So it was not a dream. Whatever had happened to him, it was not going to go away.             His voice cracking, he said, “I thought it must be a nightmare. I thought I would wake up and everything would be back to normal.”             Artie bowed his head, saying nothing, and there was, in truth, nothing to say. “Never mind,” Jim murmured. “I’ll be all right after a while. I just ran out of steam.”             “Let me get you something to eat,” Artie said. “There isn’t much I can do about this, but I can at least feed you properly.”             He shoved himself to his feet, looking as weary as Jim had ever seen him. “Don’t,” Jim said without thinking, and then more deliberately, “I’m not hungry. Just stay with me for a while. Do you mind?”             Artie shook his head and sank back down. Jim saw that he was sitting on a cushion on the floor. “Are you comfortable there?” he asked. “You could pull up a chair.”             “No, I’m all right.” But he let his head sink down to rest on the edge of the sofa. Jim resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, but after a moment, he gave in to it, reasoning that it would soothe them both.             And it did. He did nothing more than stroke Artie’s hair, but the repetitive motion eased his tension, and the feel of Artie’s hair under his fingers, fine and crisp as silk fabric, was a pleasure to someone with as strong a tactile response as himself. Like stroking a horse’s mane, he thought fancifully.             Artie stirred after a moment and looked up at him. His eyes were bleary but the lines in his face had smoothed out. He laid his hand lightly on Jim’s brow. “You’re not as hot as before,” he said, sounding much relieved. “You were fainting with fever.”             “I feel much better too,” Jim said. “Though I’m not ready to get up and start exercising again.”             Artie laughed, a short humorless bark. “I certainly hope not. We don’t know what the drug may have done to you besides—“ He gestured vaguely at Jim’s body. “I shouldn’t have let you push yourself so hard.”             “I don’t know what you might have done to stop me,” Jim said tartly, “considering that you weren’t even here part of the time.”             “I shouldn’t have left you alone—“ Artie began, but Jim interrupted him.             “Don’t be an ass, Artie. You had to take care of things. We both know that. Don’t be sorry for doing what had to be done. And I’ve got to come to the point where I can function on my own, you know that.”             Artie nodded silently, and Jim said, “Tomorrow we’ll ride down to San Francisco. I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.”             Artie swallowed, but didn’t argue with him. After a moment, he took a deep breath and let his head rest on the sofa again, his tousled hair brushing against Jim’s bosom. Jim turned a little so he could more easily massage the back of Artie’s neck, and they stayed that way in companionable silence until Jim found his eyes drifting shut.             “Mmm …think I’m going to sleep,” he mumbled, He felt like a block of wood. The hand that had been caressing Artie’s hair lay limply on Artie’ shoulder, and he didn’t think he could move a muscle.             “Maybe that’s a good idea,” he heard Artie say, from a long distance. “Roll over toward me, now, and let’s get you out of this.”             He was moved gently onto his side, and Artie’s hand progressed down his back, undoing buttons.             “Can you sit up?” Artie asked him, and he did try, but felt himself swaying forward. Artie caught him, slipped the dress off his shoulders, and then lifted him bodily. He felt the dress slide away, and with some kind of gymnastic manouevre, Artie managed to divest him of the petticoat too. His head nestled comfortably into Artie’s neck, and he let himself be carried to bed.             “There’s a nightdress in the basket, but I doubt I can get it on you,” Artie said. “You’re going to have to sleep in your shift.” His hands were under the shift at Jim’s waist, pulling off the drawers.             “I have to piss,” Jim murmured, too exhausted to wonder whether it was all right for him to use that word.             “Oh, God,” Artie said, sounding as weary as he felt himself. “I can’t carry you back to the necessary. You’ll have to use a pot. Just a minute.”             Artie went away for a moment, came back, half lifted him into a sitting position and helped him slide down onto the chamber pot. He relieved himself, and was going to try to stand on his own, feeling as though he should be doing at least something to help himself. But Artie stopped him. “Wait a moment,” he said. “Can you sit there by yourself for just a minute?”             Jim nodded, propping his eyes open. He was in his own cabin, he saw. The basket of clothing took up most of the floor space and he was occupying the rest of it, sitting legs akimbo on the pot and leaning back against his bunk. He ought to close his legs, he thought, wondering why he should feel so strongly about it, and when Artie came back in with a cloth in his hand, he made an attempt.             Artie stopped him with a hand on one knee. “Let me clean you first,” he said. “You’ll learn how to do it without getting yourself wet, but I don’t want you going to sleep like this now.”             His touch was impersonal, and Jim closed his eyes again and allowed it. He didn’t have much choice, after all. He seemed to be saying that to himself a lot. No choice. If there was any one thing that he was beginning to loathe about being a woman—besides the loss of his physical manhood—it was that phrase. No choice.             Artie was speaking again. “Come on, let’s get you back in bed.” He tried to comply, but his legs were like rubber. Artie chuckled softly. “Anyone would think you’d been out on the town. Come on, now, I can’t lift you any more.”             He tried again, and with Artie’s assistance managed to get himself more or less onto the bed. Artie lifted his legs and pushed them away from the edge, tucked the sheet and blanket in around him, and put out the lamp.             “I’ll be right here if you need me,” Jim thought he said, but he didn’t realize how literally Artie had meant that until the sun, streaming through the window over his bunk, woke him, and he found Artie lying on the floor, his head pillowed on his arm. The Second Day             He tried to sit up, found that he could do it easily, and climbed carefully over Artie’s snoring body. He felt energized, in fact, far better than at any point in the day before, though the first thing he had realized upon waking was that he was still a woman. He hadn’t miraculously changed back overnight. It was a blow, but a momentary one. He felt more himself than he had for …well, what seemed like a very long time. With Artie’s help, and his own determination, he could do what he had to do, female or not.             Artie woke, mumbling incoherently, when Jim tried to slip a pillow under his head. He sat up, looking bleary and unrested. “How are you?” he asked. He squinted up at Jim. “You look like you feel better than yesterday.”             “Much better,” Jim assured him. “Far better! I could ride to San Francisco right now, in fact. I’m hungry, though. Starving again. No–“ He put out a hand to forestall Artie getting up. “You aren’t going anywhere, except your own bed, if you want. Why did you sleep on the floor? You go back to bed and I’ll fix breakfast.” —             Artie pushed himself up, grunting. He yawned hugely, and said, “I wouldn’t have rested in my own bed. I’d have been worried that you might need me. I’m all right.” He stretched, and Jim could hear joints creaking. “You can make breakfast, though, if you really want to. There’s coffee already ground in the white pot, and a basket of eggs in the cupboard. Some of that ham, too, that we had yesterday, though it hasn’t been soaked yet. It’ll be too salty if you cook it like it is.”             “Yes, Artie,” Jim said meekly, smiling inside. That was much more like the Artie he knew than the pale, worried stranger of the previous day. He made coffee, put the ham on to soak in a pan of water, and carried a cup of coffee for each of them into the parlor. His bare feet were cold on the floor, and the shift was too light a garment to keep him warm this early in the day, but other than those minor discomforts, he felt like a new… he stopped himself. Like a new person. Some of the distress of the day before crept back, but he forced himself to be cheerful whether he felt that way or not. Smiling in the face of disaster had raised the spirits of many a man on the battlefield, and this was just a different kind of battle. He could make himself believe that.             After breakfast, after his awkward solitary visit to the little privy at the back of the car, they saddled the horses—or, rather, Artie saddled the horses. Jim couldn’t lift his saddle off its rack, much less swing it over a horse’s back. Nor could he mount without Artie’s help. The riding habit felt like it weighed a ton, but once in the saddle, the familiar joy of riding came back. This was one thing Loveless hadn’t taken from him, he thought to himself. On horseback, he was nearly the same person he’d been before, and with a little more exercise and muscle development, he might almost feel like himself again.             They rode up Mission Street toward San Francisco in the early morning haze, savoring the earthy scent of the woods around them and not speaking much. Jim was hatless, because his own hat wouldn’t stay on his now smaller head, and the black straw, Artie declared, was entirely unsuitable for a riding outfit. The moving air felt good on his face and blowing through his unsecured hair, and he felt more free than he had at any time since the change.             It was after noon by the time they reached San Francisco, and they were obviously not going to be able to ride back that day. “We’ll have to find a hotel,” Artie said worriedly. “And some more clothes for you. You can’t go to dinner in a riding habit.”             The seamstresses on Bank Street were all a-twitter over something, and Jim eventually made out what everyone was talking about. “A fat big woman in men’s trousers!” one of the helpers was saying confidentially to a customer. “She wanted Miss Annie Lawson to fit her out in ladies clothing, but she didn’t have no idea what she ought to be wearing. La! I thought we’d die laughing when we heard about it.”             Jim gave Artie, sitting rather self-consciously in a corner, a significant look, and Artie nodded to indicate that he had heard as well. It was the first indication they’d had that Loveless might have infected someone else.             Jim beckoned to the girl. “Do you know what became of this woman?” he asked. “My associate is a—a journalist. I think he might be interested in finding her.”             The girl glanced over at Artie. “She didn’t come in here—it was down the street at Miss Annie’s. But I can ask around, if you like. They let out a gown to fit her and fixed her up some underthings, and she went off down the street with them under her arm. Wouldn’t put them, can you imagine?” She shook her head, her face pink with the memory.             Jim chose a dress that was far more fancy than the one he had worn the day before, but it was the plainest the establishment had that was already made up and that would fit him. After much coaxing from the clerk, he agreed to try on another one, even more elaborate, to wear that evening. He adamantly turned down anything else. Another pair of shoes, stockings for the evening, a nightdress and a proper hat, and the owner produced a bill of sale. Jim reached for a pocket, realized in stupid awareness that he had none, and stood there feeling like a child as Artie took out his purse and paid for the garments. “We’ll have to get you a reticule,” Artie murmured to him. “I should have thought of that already. You have to be able to carry money.”             “Oh, I don’t know,” Jim said acerbically, “I can always put it in my bosom.” Artie turned red, to his amusement, and a moment later they were going out, arm in arm, with Artie gallantly carrying the huge box of new clothing.             They had left the horses in a livery stable and taken a cab into the downtown area of the city. Artie waved down another one, and in a few minutes they were standing in the lobby of the Imperial. While Artie booked their rooms, Jim wandered around picking up newspapers, to the mild disapproval of the gentlemen who were reading portions of them. His diligence paid off, however. The headline on the previous day’s front page read, “California Scientist Threatens Government.” He skimmed through the article, a highly sensational account of some of Dr. Loveless’s earlier activities, and then carried the paper over to Artie.             “Here now!” one of the men called. “That’s my paper, miss.”             “You won’t mind if I show it to my companion,” Jim said equably. He turned and smiled, and was astonished to see the scowl on the man’s face transform itself into a kind of simpering grimace. My God, he thought, was that how he looked at women? There wasn’t time to consider the implications, though, and he held the paper out to Artie.             “Look at the headline,” he said.             Artie took the paper, skimmed rapidly down the column of text, and nodded. “I wonder where the information came from,,” he said in a low voice. “This mentions some things that I didn’t think were general knowledge.”             Jim returned the paper, turned his back on its now bowing, over-friendly owner, and followed Artie up the stairs. Artie had managed to obtain adjoining rooms, he found; Artie said with a grin that “the lady had been ill, and he needed to be able to attend her promptly if required.”             Jim snorted, but he was grateful when it became obvious that the dinner gown was going to require even more assistance than the dress he’d worn the day before. The shirtwaist and riding skirt were simplicity by comparison. There were the anticipated buttons up the back, a complicated hook-and-eye arrangement above the buttons, a sash that even Artie needed several attempts to tie perfectly, and a sort of fichu that insisted on shifting out of its proper place every time Jim turned his head. And all of that was after their argument over the multiple petticoats and a camisole stiff with whalebone that lifted and emphasized his bosom.             “It’s a corset!” Jim protested. “I’m not wearing a damned corset.”             Artie finally told him that he could either dress in a way that didn’t draw unwelcome attention to them both, or have his dinner sent up to the room while Artie ate in the dining room by himself. And Artie appeared to be prepared to enforce the threat, smoothing down his jacket and jerking his tie into place.             “If I didn’t look like I do now, you’d never say something like that to me,” Jim said in a low, dangerous voice.             “Would you have gone down to dinner with your tie hanging loose and your shirt unbuttoned?” Artie demanded. “It’s no different. You observed the conventions for men when you were in a man’s body. Why can’t you do the same thing as a woman? I know the rules are more restrictive, but they’re just rules, Jim! They don’t mean anything between us.”             He had looked away, his chin set in an expression Jim seldom saw in him, and it shamed him. Artie would take on any disguise that a mission required, no matter how bizarre or ridiculous, and here he was whining over a wisp of cotton and whalebone.             “I’ll wear it,” he said humbly. “I’m sorry, Artie.”             Artie took a deep breath and said, “I apologize as well. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”             They were stiff with each other for a few minutes, but the contact between them required by dressing, and by fixing Jim’s hair, brought back their usual familiarity. Artie finally stepped back, gave him an assessing look, and reached into his pocket.             “You’re still missing something,” he said, his voice deeper than usual. “I didn’t make the mistake of expecting you to wear earrings, but you can’t go to dinner in a decent hotel with nothing around your neck.”             He took out a long box. “There was a jeweler around the corner from the ladies’ shops,” he said. “I don’t know whether you noticed that I stepped out for a few moments while you were trying things on.”             Jim nodded. “I did, but I thought you were probably just bored with sitting there.” What could Artie possibly have bought? He prayed that it was something simple, not ostentatious.             His voice husky, Artie said, “Turn around for a moment.”             Jim complied, wondering why Artie didn’t just hand him the box, or at least its contents. Most likely, he thought, it was something else that required help in putting on. If he had to live out his life as a woman, he would probably have to become a suffragette, if for no other reason than to promote some kind of rational clothing for women.             He felt Artie’s fingers at the nape of his neck, moving aside some wayward strands of hair. Something cold touched his skin, and something heavy slid around his neck. He looked sharply down, and there was a sapphire, big as a quail’s egg, hanging in the cleft of the breasts from a heavy braid of gold.             “My God, Artie! You didn’t buy that!”             Artie took his arms and turned him around. “You’ll do very nicely now,” he said with satisfaction. “Any woman who wants to take exception to your hair or your figure will take one look at that and drool with envy.”             “But, Artie— “             ”It didn’t cost what you’re probably thinking,” Artie said calmly. “It’s on loan, that’s all. The jeweler is an old acquaintance, and he repaid a long-standing debt. to me by letting you wear this tonight.” The laugh lines around his eyes crinkled suddenly. “Take good care of it, though, or I’ll be paying for it the rest of my natural life.”             Jim looked down at it again, and had to swallow hard against a wholly unexpected surge of erotic sensation. The brilliant sapphire, almost exactly the same color as the gown, emphasized the exposed swell of pale flesh between the gem and the fabric, and hinted at what was hidden. My God! he thought. Am I getting aroused by my own bosom? It was a bizarre enough notion in itself, but he realized that he hadn’t really thought of the breasts as his own before this. They had just been there: attachments on an equally impersonal body. He shivered, and Artie said solicitously, “Are you cold? That bodice doesn’t cover much.”             Jim said, shortly, “No. It’s just strange, that’s all. Are you ready to go?”             Artie nodded, and opened the door for him. “Take my arm going down the stairs,” he said, and then, “I know it’s strange. I’m not sure I could pull this off half as well as you.”             “What do you mean? You’ve dressed as a women more than once. You’d do a lot better.”             “No,” Artie said slowly. “That’s not the same. If I knew I might never have my own body back again, I’m not sure what I might do. Loveless miscalculated. He’d have done better to have given me that drug if he wanted to put us out of commission as a team.”             “I still think you would deal with this at least as well as I have,” Jim insisted. “But I wouldn’t wish this on you, that’s for da—“ He choked back what he’d been about to say. “That’s for sure.”             They were shown to a table with another couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Tice. Tice was a man of obvious substance, fawn cashmere coat over a silk weskit, heavy gold chain supporting a bulbous watch. He might be a ship owner, Jim thought, reading the air of authority about him. Mrs. Tice wore diamonds in her ears, but she was sweet-faced and pleasant, and though she gave Jim’s sapphire an appreciative glance, she seemed entirely unmoved by his lack of other jewelry or the less than modish styling of his hair.             “Do you live in San Francisco?” she asked Jim, diverting his attention from what her husband and Artie were discussing.             “No, we’re just here overnight,” he said. He realized from her raised eyebrow that it wasn’t polite to be so short, but he really did need to hear what Tice was saying to Artie, something about a friend whose son was missing.             “Is he afraid it may have something to do with this Dr. Loveless, who’s in all the news?” Artie asked.             “Do you come to the city very often?” Mrs. Tice persisted. “Mr. Tice and I dine here every Saturday. Cook has the evening off on Saturdays, you see. The Crab Louis is exquisite.”             “Um, yes, I’m sure it is,” Jim said, a bit desperately. Here was another facet of a woman’s life that he had never really taken note of. In mixed company, the sexes didn’t talk to each other. The men spoke about their business and interests, and the women talked about—what? He really didn’t know.             Mrs. Tice enlightened him. Through the salad, the soup, the fish, the meat, the fruit and the dessert, she made it clear what he could expect in the way of women’s conversation. She asked if he had children, whether he was a native or had come from back East, if he liked the climate—and wasn’t the fog so inconvenient when one wished to go out? Did he have Mexican servants, or Chinese, or Irish? She admired his gown, commenting on the quality of the fabric, the size of the buttons, the number and width of the tucks in the sleeves, the delicacy of the lace at the cuffs, and the amazing match in color with the sapphire. Having exhausted the qualities of his gown, she hinted delicately at the nicer towns nearby, trying not very subtly, he thought, to find out where he lived. She could recommend a good laundry, she said, if Mrs. West had need of one, and by the way, what did Mr. West do for a living?             Artie intervened before Jim could think of any way to answer that one. “Dear Mrs. Tice,” he said, “Mrs. West is in my care, and I must insist that she go upstairs. The heat is making her faint, I fear.”             He practically pulled Jim up by the elbow, excused them both, and hurried Jim out of the dining room. “I’m going to have to see someone,” he said softly as they went up the stairs. “This fellow that Tice was talking about—he’s sure his son has been kidnaped. There’s no evidence that Loveless had anything to do with it, but Tice’s friend is a prominent business owner with political connections, just the kind of person who could put pressure on Washington.”             “What do you mean—you have to see someone?” Jim asked suspiciously. “Why aren’t both of us going?”             “Because he’s a lot more likely to be honest with me if I’m by myself,” Artie said, as though that ought to be obvious. He glanced at Jim. “Don’t look like that. I can’t change people’s prejudices overnight. And you don’t have appropriate clothing for this kind of visit.”             “What’s wrong with the dress we bought today? Or the riding habit? Why do I have to wear something different, anyway? You’re not going to change, are you?” He knew how petulant he sounded. And he knew exactly what was wrong with what he was presently wearing, and with each of the other outfits. The frequency with which respectable women changed their clothing was another of those things he had been subliminally aware of, but had never really given any thought to. How did they find time to actually do anything?             “Never mind,” he said, interrupting whatever Artie was about to say. “Go meet this person. You’re right—I don’t have anything to wear that wouldn’t look odd. Finding Dr. Loveless and stopping him is more important than my feelings right now.” Besides, he thought to himself, while Artie was gone, he just might do some scouting around himself. The riding habit was a plain and utilitarian outfit, not anything that would draw unwelcome attention to himself.             Artie took out the key to Jim’s room and unlocked the door for him. “Will you promise me to stay here and not take off on your own anywhere?” he asked, as they went inside.             “How could I go anywhere? I don’t even have my own key to the God damned room,” Jim said coldly. Artie knew him far too well.             Artie took the key back out of his pocket and pointedly handed it to him.             “No, I won’t promise,” Jim said flatly. “You don’t have a right to demand that. But I am aware that the most important thing is to find Loveless. I won’t deliberately make that any more difficult.”             Artie swallowed hard and looked away. “I’m sorry.” He hesitated, and then took Jim’s elbows and drew him close. It was not an embrace, but after a moment, Jim slipped his arms around Artie’s waist. It felt more natural to do that than he had expected. Artie rested his cheek against Jim’s forehead and his hands at the small of Jim’s back, and drew in a deep breath.             “I made a promise I couldn’t keep,” he said unevenly. “I shouldn’t have said things would be the same as before.” He leaned back a little, to look at Jim’s face. “I want that,” he said urgently. “It’s like an empty space next to me, for you not to be there as you’ve always been. But I can’t change the way society works, or the way people think.”             Jim leaned his forehead on Artie’s shoulder. “I know,” he said, his voice half muffled in Artie’s shirt. “It’s hard on you too.” He looked up. “Go on, then. Be careful.” It seemed to him that in his voice was the echo of eons of women sending their men out to fight for them. He clenched his jaw and turned away, as Artie straightened his collar and went out the door.             But he couldn’t stay there doing nothing. Artie had known that. And hadn’t tried again to make him commit to it, Jim thought, with a long sigh. He couldn’t blame Artie for being protective. He couldn’t imagine how he’d be feeling right now if Artie were the one standing here in a dress and high-heeled shoes, and that damned sapphire hanging between his tits.             He looked down at it, recalling the feel of Artie’s fingers on his neck. There was no reason whatever for the shivery sensation that swept over him. They touched each other all the time, both from necessity—considering how cramped their quarters were—and out of friendship. Why should it seem different now? It was almost as though this female body had a will of its own, reacting to Artie’s proximity as though the mind inside it were female as well. He had never been so naive as to assume that women were indifferent to sex, whatever polite society believed. But he had always imagined—like most other men, he thought—that they were more in control of their desires than men seemed to be. The sensations he was feeling at the moment were very much not under his control.             But physically affected or not, there were things he had to do. Getting out of this damned revealing gown and into something less attention-getting was the first of them. He had forgotten that he would need Artie’s help with that, and cursed under his breath. What in God’s name did women do when no one was around to help them dress? His mind supplied the image of a servant carrying hot water to one of the rooms—he and Artie had passed her going up the stairs. Of course. They so seldom stayed in a place like this that he hadn’t considered the availability of servants. He turned to open the door to see whether he could summon anyone, when he remembered the sapphire. No use tempting anyone, he thought, and put it back in its velvet-lined case, and the case in the bottom of the dress box. He turned back to the door, but then stopped and slowly took the case back out. There was no reason for anyone to search their rooms. His initial caution had been just to avoid tempting a low-paid servant. But if anyone were to come into the room, the huge dress box would be an obvious target. He went through the adjoining door into Artie’s room, and shoved the case far down into the toe of one of Artie’s riding boots, grateful that his ingrained caution seemed to still be in working order.             Ten minutes later, undressed by the young female servant who’d been loitering at the end of the hall—and who wasn’t happy when Jim realized he had no money to tip her with—and clad in the riding habit with all its buttons within easy reach, he glanced out the door and up and down the corridor. No one was in sight, and he went swiftly down to the servants’ stairs at the end. He didn’t want to encounter the girl who had helped him out of the gown, but he wanted even less to run into Mr. and Mrs. Tice, or anyone of their social class. He hadn’t tried to fix his flyaway hair, and his boots were scuffed and the skirt wrinkled. He didn’t look as though he belonged in the Imperial, which was exactly what he wanted.             He emerged into a dark and malodorous yard behind the hotel, and stood there for a moment until his night vision improved. A tall fence surrounded the yard, but he could see the gate standing ajar. A dog barked in the distance, and from the street he could hear the clip-clop of horse’s hooves. He took a deep breath and stepped out into the cool night air, on his own as a woman for the first time.             Less than an hour later, back in the hotel, he flung off the now filthy skirt and shirtwaist, and sat on the bed in trembling fury in his drawers and camisole, nursing his bruised ribs. He had been accosted within a minute of leaving the hotel, grabbed by an idler leaning against the wall in the alley. A well-aimed kick had taken care of that one, but even on the lamp-lit main street, which had seemed like a safer route, he had been hooted at, pawed by a party of drunks who tumbled him back and forth between them until they tired of it and let him go, and a few blocks farther on, away from the brightest light, attacked with serious intention by a dark-clad figure he’d never really gotten a good look at. His arms had been pinned behind him before he ever saw his assailant, and in a second he was on his knees on the ground with the man yanking at his clothing. Only the fact that he wore a divided skirt saved him. His attacker couldn’t pull it up, and in the brief time he spent in the attempt, Jim got his wits about him again and let out a shriek that echoed off the surrounding buildings. The man grabbed him by the nape of the neck and shook him hard, snarling, “Shut up!” But he screamed again, surprising himself with the volume of the sound, and in a moment, there were running footsteps and men’s voices. His assailant shoved him hard, kicked him in the ribs for good measure, and took off down a nearby alley, leaving Jim to pick himself up out of the mud just as his rescuers came thundering up.             He was all right, he protested, no real damage, just shaken and bruised. He allowed two of the men to walk him back to the rear entrance of the Imperial, not correcting their assumption that he worked there. “Not safe out here at night,” one of them admonished him severely, with a disapproving look at his short hair. “Not walkin’ along swingin’ yer arms like you was spoilin’ fer a fight. If’n you need to go out, you put on a cloak and a bonnet, and walk like a lady, now, hear?”             Jim was so angry that he couldn’t do more than nod, and if it wouldn’t have been boorish, in light of his rescue, he couldn’t have managed that much. He stumbled up the stairs to his room, unlocked the door with shaking fingers and slammed it behind him. The plush carpet and upholstery and the soft lamp light that had been so welcoming when they first arrived now seemed like a prison to him—not a refuge or a safe haven, but a wall beyond which he wasn’t allowed to pass. He was still shaking from the attack itself, alternately furious and terrified.             Fear was not an emotion he managed well, so unaccustomed he was to dealing with it. Even in situations where most other men would have been afraid, he had always been certain that his wits or his sheer physical strength would get him clear. And except for a few times—occasions when Artie had come to his rescue—they had. No one could stop him and Artie, he had thought. But tonight he had been within seconds of being raped, and there was absolutely nothing he could have done about it if no one had responded to his screaming.             He wasn’t sure whether the mingled fear and cold anger was due to having been overcome so easily, or from the prospect of being raped, or a combination of the two. Or from the humiliating words of his rescuer—“put on a cloak and bonnet, and walk like a lady…” How dare the man have insinuated that his own behavior was at fault, that it was he who had been in the wrong?             The worst of it, when he calmed down enough to start thinking clearly again, was that he knew he might well have said the same thing to any woman who strode along like a man, with her hair uncovered and her arms swinging freely. He hoped he wouldn’t have used the same scolding, patronizing manner. He hoped he would have been motivated wholly out of concern for a woman who so placed herself at risk. But he would probably have said the same thing.             He gritted his teeth and set himself to examining the problem as though it were just another work-related matter. If his demeanor as a woman was faulty, he would change it. He might have to clench his jaw the whole time to keep his opinion to himself, but he would do whatever was necessary to perform his job. He was not going to be a woman the whole rest of his life, he promised himself. He would not believe that. So this was temporary. This was just part of the job, like any other unpleasant, but necessary, procedure.             He closed his eyes and tried to visualize how women walked. They took short steps, to begin with. That was due in part to the construction of their garments, he knew. If he had been wearing one of Mrs. Lamberte’s’ gowns, he wouldn’t have been striding along as confidently as he had been in the riding habit. Short steps. And they held their arms in close to their bodies. He got up and took a tentative, mincing step. No, that wouldn’t do—it felt more like a caricature of a woman’s gait.             He’d had no trouble when he’d walked along holding Artie’s arm, he recalled. But he’d been dressed in a confining gown then, and wearing uncomfortable shoes. Perhaps that was the answer—women walked as though their feet hurt. He snorted under his breath, put on the shoes he’d worn to dinner, and made a slow careful circuit of the room, trying to remember not to swing his arms. That was better, but it wasn’t perfect.             He stopped for a moment with his eyes closed, thinking. Women tended to hunch over a bit, he thought. Protecting their bosoms? Making sure nothing jiggled too provocatively, more likely. He took one step, eyes still closed, and then another, holding his shoulders still and his arms close in, trying to recreate in his mind’s eye, and in his body, how a typical woman walked. He was so focused on the task that when he bumped into Artie, he startled like a spooked horse, with a very feminine squeal of shock.             “My God, Artie! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”             Artie was obviously finding it difficult not to smile. “I though you heard me come in,” he protested.             Jim gave him a sour look. “Right up to the point where I ran into you?” he asked. “I must have looked like some kind of idiot.”             “I did wonder what you were up to,” Artie admitted, letting a bit more of the smile touch his lips. “You didn’t go out dressed like that, I hope?” He gestured mildly at the camisole and drawers, bare legs and high-heeled shoes.             “The skirt got muddy,” Jim said shortly and uninformatively. “I took it off.” He retrieved it from where it lay in the middle of the floor and tossed it and the increasingly uncomfortable shoes into the bottom of the room’s large armoire.             “You don’t want to tell me how,” Artie said thoughtfully. “No, I see you don’t. Do you want to hear what I found out?”             “Yes.” He straightened his shoulders and stretched, grateful that he could use his body naturally in Artie’s presence, at least. “Tell me.”             “Well, to begin with, I don’t think Dr. Loveless had anything to do with this fellow’s disappearance—Tice’s friend’s son, that is. There seems to have been a lot of friction between the boy and his father—the son wanted to go to sea and the father was determined he was going to college. Speedwell, Tice’s friend, is convinced he’s going to get a ransom note any second, but everyone else in the household thinks young Winston just ran away.”             “Mm,” Jim grunted. He was happy for the young man’s sake that he hadn’t fallen foul of Loveless, but sorry that one possible link to Loveless hadn’t panned out.             “However,” Artie added, and then paused. “You’ve got mud on your forehead and in your hair. What on earth were you up to?”             Jim reached up to touch his forehead. Sure enough, there was a mud-encrusted spot right at the hairline. He had been so furious at first, and then so single-minded about learning to walk properly, that he hadn’t even noticed it. Artie went across to the water pitcher on its ornate stand.             “I’ll get it,” he said. He came back with a moistened face cloth and tipped Jim’s face up to the light, murmuring, “Hold still.”             Jim couldn’t have moved if war had broken out around them, pinned like an insect between Artie’s fingers under his jaw and and the gentle swabbing of the face cloth in Artie’s other hand. He shivered. What the hell was going on here? He had no clue what women felt in the throes of sexual desire, but if one’s heart beating fast and one’s breath being short had anything to do with it, he was clearly in trouble. The worst of it was that nothing about the idea revolted him. He should have been disgusted with himself, incredulous that he could react to Artie this way. Instead, what filled his mind was the unexpected sensuality of Artie’s full lips, and the pleasure of having Artie’s intent expression focused upon himself.             He couldn’t bear the silence in the room, and blurted out, “I did go out, Artie,” though that must already have been clear from the condition of his clothing And then, of course, he had to give at least the bare details of what had happened to him. Artie stood silent, the face cloth hanging forgotten from his hand, until Jim finished, and then he looked away with a twist of his lips.             “I don’t know what angers me more,” he said, to Jim’s surprise, “that you were attacked, or that you think you’ve got to change who you are in order to—to pass some kind of test for womanliness.” He went back to the pitcher with quick, hard steps and set the face cloth down, crushed into a wad of fabric. With his back still to Jim, he said, “We must certainly go to see Li Hong tomorrow.”             Jim said slowly, “You would use the right kind of movements and stride if you wanted to convince someone you were female.” He couldn’t quite understand Artie’s obvious fury.             “But I’d take off the wig and the dress when I was through,” Artie said, still not looking at him.             Jim walked over to him on silent bare feet. “It really troubles you that I can’t, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Sometimes I almost think it bothers you more than it does me.”             Artie gave him a swift slanting glance and turned away again. “When you make yourself into someone else, it changes you inside. Not much, especially if it’s only an act and you know you can regain your own identity before long. But when you don’t have that assurance, when you have no choice but to be someone else for an indefinite period of time, you begin to take on that other identity. Sometimes… “ He broke off, and then said with a lightness belied by the words themselves, “Sometimes you forget who you really are.”             “What are you trying to tell me, Artie?”             Artie shook his head, and tried to smile. “I might have been wrong in urging you to pass as a woman. I wasn’t thinking.” It wasn’t an answer to Jim’s question, but it didn’t feel right to push Artie for more right then.             He slipped his hand into Artie’s. “No, you were right. I may be less effective as a woman than as a man, but I’d be completely useless if people thought I was just crazy.” He squeezed Artie’s fingers. “C’mon, Let’s hit the hay. You’re so tired you’re hardly staying on your feet, and I feel like hell. We both need sleep.”             Artie jerked his hand away, swivelled around and took Jim by the shoulders. “Jim … is there anything you’re not telling me?”             The feel of Artie’s hands on his bare shoulders confused him, and perhaps it was that hesitation, and the rush of color in his face, that sparked Artie’s words, a low murderous,. “If he raped you, I’ll kill him.”             “No. Christ, Artie, I’d tell you.”             “Would you? You wouldn’t hide it from me, would you?”             Jim shook his head, still not quite understanding Artie’s intensity, especially in view of the fact that the man was long gone and Jim had never really gotten a good look at him anyway. “It might be hard to say the words. I don’t know if I could talk to someone else about it. But I’d tell you.”             Artie nodded and dropped his hands. “Forgive me. It’s been a long day for both of us.”             “That’s what I keep trying to tell you,” Jim said with a smile. “What is it women are always saying about us? We don’t listen?”             He patted Artie’s arm, and went back into his own room, pausing in the doorway to say, “I’ll see you in the morning.”             Artie nodded silently, and Jim threw off his clothing, dug around in the bureau drawer for the nightgown they had bought that day, blew out the lamp, and climbed up into the high bed. It wasn’t until after he was lying down, trying to relax, that he realized he’d left the connecting door open and had disrobed in full view of the other room. He wasn’t sure why that bothered him. As he’d said to Artie the day before, his legs were still just his legs, even if they looked different. Same for the rest of him. How did suddenly having breasts mean that Artie shouldn’t see him nude, when they’d never been artificially modest with each other before? Regardless of any amount of analytical reasoning, it did bother him, and he was damned if he knew why.              The bruise from the vicious kick was bothering him too, though in a different way. He’d been careful not to let Artie see any evidence of it—the skin wasn’t discolored yet and he had far more than enough experience in pretending something didn’t hurt to fool even Artie. But it did hurt, not enough to be worrisome, just enough to keep him restless and awake.             In the other room, Jim heard the rustle of bedcovers as Artie turned over, a long exhalation, more sounds of fidgeting. Then there was an odd, rhythmic rustling sound, a gasp of breath, dead silence, and more of the jerky rustle-y noises. Artie was pleasuring himself, Jim realized with a little shock. Not that he’d never known Artie to do it before. On the train, the partition between their staterooms, between their bunks, was so thin it almost might not have been there. He’d heard Artie polishing the silver more than once, had felt the vibration of his movement through the wall, and Artie must certainly have been aware of him as well.             And now, of course, knowing what Artie was doing was having a predictable effect on himself. He’d never wondered how sex felt for women. He liked to give his partners a good time, but it had never occurred to him to wonder about the specific sensations they experienced. But he… he tingled. He didn’t know how to characterize it in any more descriptive language.             Almost of its own volition, his hand crept down his belly to the thicket of soft hair. Even through the nightgown, his skin quivered. What had Artie said? Sometimes you forget who you really are. He knew he was going to do this, knew it with an inevitability that frightened him. If he couldn’t resist the physical urges of his body, how could he keep it from taking over his mind as well? Would the day come when he began to think of himself as female? In the other room, Artie’s breathing had roughened. Jim jammed the back of one fist against his mouth and gave in to the overpowering urge to touch.             Even the act of drawing up the gown made him shiver, as his fingers brushed against his thighs. Moisture flooded him. He could feel it soaking into the sheet beneath him, an unexpected reaction that he shrank from with distaste, even knowing its purpose and recalling how that slick fluid had felt to his cock at other times. And God, just touching the hair was enough to make him tremble. He should stop. Some things a man didn’t need to know. In a last ditch attempt to salvage some dignity, he rolled over to his stomach, buried his head in his pillow and thrust against his hand, remembering the feel of a woman under him, pretending he was fucking some faceless body. He thought he’d gotten away with it, and then his traitorous mind threw up the memory of Artie’s hand on his hair, and he climaxed violently, soaked in sweat, trembling. Melting.             When he had his breath back, he thought with surprise that it hadn’t felt as different as he’d assumed it would, sensation on the inside instead of the outside, the feelings more diffused and less focused. Shame touched him though, partly from his own inability to resist his body and partly from the realization that if he’d been able to figure out what Artie was doing, Artie could probably have heard him as well. He couldn’t hear Artie’s breathing any more. He couldn’t hear anything but the thudding of his own heart.             His body calmed slowly, and he drew a long breath and rolled over, feeling sticky and unclean. Eventually he got out of the bed, walked across the room in the dark and found the discarded face cloth, mostly by feel. He washed himself, touching his groin for the first time with bare fingers. Whether for now or for good, this was his body, he thought, and he might as well get to know it. He stifled a snort: he still couldn’t bear to see his face in a mirror, but here he was exploring his privates like a randy boy.             Did girls do that too? He wouldn’t have thought so before, but none of his previous assumptions were holding up. The only constant in a world turned upside down was Artie, and even Artie seemed uncertain of his role, vacillating between the Artie he’d always known and a dark and strong-willed personality that had only been glimpsed before.             And again Artie’s words came to him: Sometimes you forget who you really are. Who, he had to ask himself, was the real Artie? The jovial, disarming, endlessly inventive partner? Or the brooding stranger who had inhabited Artie’s body tonight? Which of them was lurking behind the other, trying not to lose himself in the pretense of his other self? It wasn’t a comfortable thought.             He returned to the bed and tried one more time to relax enough to sleep, and again, his mind spiraled into an endless whirl of conflicts and problems. Where was Loveless? The man must have a dozen hideaways. Every time they found and destroyed one, he turned up somewhere else, fully equipped and turning out new terrors. Poisoned drinking water, deadly germs. Now this. Jim had no illusion about the ability of the government to withstand this threat. They would give him California, and anything else he wanted along with it.             Beyond the national problem, there was his own. Could the transformation be reversed? And if it could, would he actually be himself again, or some new version of his previous self? Above all, how could he be so affected by Artie, when he’d never felt that way before?             As he lay there trying to find some logic in the chaos, it slowly dawned on him that he’d always held back to some extent with Artie, careful not to touch him in any way that might be misunderstood. What he was feeling now must be just the female body’s recognition of what had been there all along, but with no socially acceptable means of expression. That didn’t mean he had wanted Artie sexually before, of course. He’d just enjoyed their physical familiarity more than his staid and proper upbringing thought right. He liked sitting close to Artie, liked the warmth and the scent of his body, liked to touch Artie’s arm or pat his back. Now he could touch Artie, and no one would disapprove. There was some essential fault in that argument, he knew, but with the illusion of having solved the problem, he relaxed and was suddenly overcome with sleep. He slipped away with a smile on his face, remembering Artie’s hands on his shoulders and in his hair. The Third Day             Dawn came early this time of year. The room lightened imperceptibly as he lay there, drowsy and warm. After a while, he realized that one reason for the warmth was the presence of another body. He turned his head to find Artie lying next to him on his side. Artie’s eyelids twitched and his lips moved as though he was addressing some inner turmoil. His breath caught jerkily, and his face was strained and unhappy. Whatever had driven him into Jim’s bed hadn’t loosed its hold on him, that was evident.             Jim rolled over on an elbow, watching him. Artie was always so particular about his personal grooming that Jim seldom saw him like this. Even after a roaring fight, Artie’s natural curls kept his hair no more than a bit tousled. Now, like a sleeping boy, it stuck out here and there, endearingly mussed. As Jim gazed at him, he took in a long shuddering breath, opened his eyes, blinked, and stared up at Jim in bleary surprise.             “Why are you—” He took a startled look around and modified his question. “Why am I in your bed? I don’t remember coming in here.”             Jim smiled and shook his head. “I have no idea. I just woke up myself. I was sleeping so soundly I didn’t know you were here.”             Artie flushed and turned away. “Sorry,” he mumbled.             He was embarrassed, Jim thought in surprise. “You don’t have to get up. Sleep a while longer if you want.”             “No.” Artie’s voice wasn’t cold or dismissive, but it was emphatic. He stood and walked into the other room. Jim watched for a moment, puzzled, and then followed him.             “Have I done something to upset you, Artie?”             “Upset? No, of course not.” Artie shot him a look of self-deprecation so perfectly contrived that if Jim hadn’t seen him use it on others, he might well have been taken in by it himself. “I just feel exceedingly foolish to have wandered into your bed like that. Heaven knows where I may find myself some day if I’ve taken to sleepwalking.”             Jim had an incredulous “Whaaat?” on the tip of his tongue, when he thought better of it and closed his mouth. Whatever Artie wasn’t telling him was quite likely none of his business. But their absolute trust in each other was based in part on their unfailing truthfulness to each other, and it troubled him deeply that Artie would dissemble with him. Let Artie play whatever part he wanted with other people, but Jim needed the partner he’d depended on for years now. And as quickly as that thought came into his mind, his ruminations of the evening before supplanted it. Did he really know Artie at all? Who was to say this Artie, smiling ruefully at him from the distance to which he’d removed himself, a careful two steps away, wasn’t more genuine than the apparently open and sincere Artie he thought he knew?             He turned away and went back to his own room, but thinking of the night before had reminded him of something else, and he stopped in the doorway to ask, “What were you starting to say last night when you noticed the mud on my face?”             “What?” Artie sounded completely puzzled.             “You said the Speedwell boy had probably just run away, and then you said, ‘However—‘ But you stopped and asked me how I got mud on my face. You never finished whatever you were about to say.”             “I’m not sure… ” Artie’s face cleared, and he exclaimed, “Oh, yes. Speedwell is giving a dinner and dance. He has political aspirattions, it seems. He invited me and whomever I cared to bring, so I accepted for both of us. According to him, most of the region’s influential men will be there. It’s an ideal opportunity to sound them out about Loveless. The only threat we know of is the one he made to the government in Washington, but it would be foolish to think he hadn’t approached local leaders as well. If he proved to them what he can do, they would add their pressure to his, and quite possibly force Washington to give in.”             “How about what they would be likely to lose?” Jim asked dubiously.             “I believe that most of the local landowners’ property is right around here and farther north. Some of them might lose a bit of acreage south of here, but I’m certain they would give that up to avoid the risk of being turned into a woman, or losing a son and heir that way.”             Jim nodded. It made sense. “When is the dinner?”             “Friday night. There’s plenty of time to make preparations. Today we need to visit Li Hong, and then we should get back to the train before Colonel Richmond arrives.”             Jim wasn’t certain what preparations Artie had in mind, other than getting their tuxes cleaned and pressed—and then it hit him all over again that preparations for him would involve some new female gown, something probably more gaudy and revealing than anything he’d worn so far.             Friday. That would be five whole days since he woke up as a woman. Could he bear it if he was still in this body then? The last two days had been so physically wearing that he’d been able to keep some of his reactions at bay. Now they were sinking in, and the realization that he might still be in a woman’s body even by the end of the week hit him hard.             “Artie,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “let’s have breakfast sent up to the room. We need to talk about what we’re going to do next. We can’t do that in the dining room.” What he was thinking was, I cannot stand to put on an act in front of other people right now. He didn’t want to say that, but Artie seemed to understood, as he so often did.             “Of course. Let me get my clothes on, and I’ll go down and order something.”             He came back with a newspaper in his hand. “Look at this.”             The headline screamed, “Man Turned Into Woman!” A pen and ink drawing showed a man’s rough face, complete with five o’clock shadow, under a woman’s frilly bonnet. The article was equally misleading and sensational, but the basic facts were there. A tall heavy woman claimed she was actually Billy Watson, aged 49, a hostler, and Billy’s friends confirmed that she knew facts only Billy could have known. She was said to look like a feminine version of Billy as well—the same height, and the same hair and eye color. She’d been kidnaped, she claimed, by a giant and a dwarf, subdued and forced into a carriage, and knocked out with some pungent liquid on a handkerchief. She had awakened in an alley, still clad in her own clothing, but in a woman’s body. She was, the article’s writer commented with some irony, “understandably hysterical.”             “Does it say when this happened?” Artie was reading the paper over Jim’s shoulder, and his shirt front brushed tantalizingly against Jim’s back, half bare in the low cut nightgown. Jim could feel gooseflesh spring out on his arms.             “No,” he said, glancing back to the beginning of the article. “Must have been some time in the last couple of days, though. This has to be the woman the seamstresses were talking about yesterday.”             What was he to do? Shifting away from Artie seemed too pointed and obvious a move, one that could be misunderstood. He settled for leaning back slightly against Artie’s body. That increased the contact between them, but stopped the unbearable tickling against his bare skin. And Artie didn’t seem to mind. His solid strength supported Jim easily, and his arm came around Jim’s to turn the page. “Is there more?” he asked, his breath warm against Jim’s ear and shoulder.             “No, I don’t think so.” He did turn away from Artie then, handing him the paper and walking back into his own room. “I should get dressed,” he said over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t look very good for me to be in your room in my nightdress when breakfast comes.” He turned toward the wardrobe, and only then remembered the state of his riding habit. “Damn. I don’t have anything clean to wear except that gown we bought yesterday. I can’t do anything with Li Hong in that.”             Artie came to the doorway. “You’ll probably have to strip down to your drawers and camisole anyway if he agrees to give you a lesson today. But we can find a laundry for the riding habit—there ought to be one in Li Hong’s neighborhood.”             “You’re right. I almost can’t stand to put on another dress, though.” But he opened the door of the wardrobe, and standing in its shelter, stripped off the nightgown and put on drawers and a shift. Closing the door between their rooms would have been an affront to Artie; changing in front of him again was impossible. He lifted the dress down from its hanger and donned it without help, its buttons a neat line down the front of the bodice. It was far more modest and warm than what he’d worn to dinner the evening before, and the color was subdued enough for him to feel comfortable with it. Yet passing in front of the mirror still gave him a violent internal wrench of denial. How could he face Colonel Richmond in a get-up like this?             A knock on Artie’s outer door interrupted his thoughts. Artie opened it to let in a girl with a huge tray. Behind her, a child carefully bore a coffee pot wrapped in a towel. Artie took the tray and set it on the table between the room’s two chairs, and Jim came in to relieve the little one of her hot burden, ignoring the older girl’s curious stare at his bare feet. Artie took out his purse and gave the girl a generous coin, and then solemnly handed a penny to the child.             She blushed and curtsied. “Thank ‘ee, sir!”             Jim liked kids, and this one was particularly appealing, a mop of curly hair over a smiling faceful of freckles. “What’s your name, honey?” he asked, bending down.             “Peggy, miss.”             Even from a child, it jolted him to hear that ‘miss.’ He stood abruptly and turned away, fighting an unaccustomed and unwelcome rush of tears. He didn’t cry. But this new body apparently did. Behind him he heard Artie say gently, “You’re a very pretty little girl, Peggy. Run along now.” He didn’t turn around until he heard the door close.             “Sorry,” he said roughly, though he wasn’t sure why he was apologizing to Artie.             “Come and eat.”             He splashed water on his face first, and when he returned to the other room, he found that Artie had arranged the food and plates on the table, and had poured a cup of coffee for him. “I don’t know why this seems to be bothering me more now than it did at first,” he said, seating himself and spreading a napkin over his lap. He lifted a piece of toast to his lips and then set it back on the plate. “Artie, I don’t think I can see Colonel Richmond dressed like this.”             Artie gave him a look of mingled sympathy and concern. “Do you think it will make any difference to him how you’re dressed?”             “Yes, I do,” Jim said slowly. “It’s still going to be a shock for him to me to see me as a woman, but… “ He paused, trying to work it out in his mind before he said the words. “If I’m wearing my own clothes, or something like them, he’ll see me, but me as a woman. If I’m wearing a dress, all he’s going to see is some woman who looks a little bit like me. Am I making sense, Artie?”             “Yes.” Artie took a deep breath. “Yes, you’re right. No matter what I say to him beforehand, he’s going to expect to see you. A different you, yes, but not some complete stranger.” He set his coffee cup down and sighed softly. “Another advantage of being a man, I suppose. There are any number of emporiums where we can get trousers and shirts for you.”             “Will you mind being seen with me like that?”             Artie shook his head emphatically. “No, certainly not. There may be some talk, but we can deal with that if it happens.” He hesitated, and then went on, “In some ways, I suppose, it will be easier for me as well, not just Colonel Richmond.”             Jim nodded, though he wasn’t certain what Artie meant. “I’ll need a hat, too.” He grimaced. “I hope you’re keeping track of what all this is costing you.”             “Don’t worry about that,” Artie said lightly. “We can settle up later. What about Speedwell’s dinner, though? If you wear men’s evening dress and attend in your own name, you’ll make Loveless’s argument for him, that’s for certain.”             Jim shuddered. “No, I don’t think I can do that. Not if I ever want to show my face in this town again as a man. I’ll have to be Mrs. West, and dress to match my appearance, little as I like the idea.”             He didn’t want to pry, but he was still wondering what Artie had meant by his earlier remark. “What were you talking about when you said it would be easier for you too if I dressed as a man?”             Artie hesitated. “Most of the time,” he said finally, “I have no trouble seeing the person you really are inside, regardless of how you look. But I confess that it is more difficult when you’re wearing a dress. It’s natural for me to respond as though you really were female.” He glanced at Jim and added, “Helping you down from the train, I mean. Opening doors for you.”             A little confused, Jim asked, “But you said you should do those things for me anyway, so you wouldn’t forget and not do them in public.”             With more than a little irony in his voice, Artie said, “It appears that I’m not having any problem remembering them.”             There was something he still wasn’t saying, but it didn’t feel right to Jim to pester him, so he just said, “Well, I’ll be more comfortable in my own clothes too, so that’s fine.”             They polished off the breakfast, and Jim put on his stockings and shoes, sitting on the chair in his room. He heard an exclamation from Artie, and looked up to see Artie holding one of his riding boots in his hand. “What’s in here?” Artie pulled out the jeweler’s box and opened it. “What on earth?”             Amused, Jim explained, “I stuck it in there last night before I went out. Just in case anyone decided to have a look around the room.”             Artie shook his head. “Perhaps it says something about my state of mind that I completely forgot to ask you about it.” He looked up with a rueful smile. “Let’s take this back before we do anything else. And thank you for your care of it.”             Looking at the jewel dangling from Artie’s fingers, Jim couldn’t help remembering how it had felt against his skin the night before, and shivered. “It’s a beautiful gem, and I’ll be happy not to ever wear it again.”             “You’ll need something at least as impressive as this to wear to the Speedwells’ dinner.” Artie sounded troubled. “Diamonds would be preferable, of course, but I’m not sure how far my credit extends with my jeweler friend.”             “Diamonds!” Jim exclaimed, with a strangled laugh. “I can’t wear diamonds, Artie. I’d feel like an idiot. What about—I don’t know, what about rubies?”             Artie considered him. “Your coloring would support rubies. And it would be less conventional, certainly. Just the kind of image we’ve tried to establish for you. Let’s see what Jaime has. And we’ll have to do something about a gown, of course. I expect Mrs. Lamberte can manage something acceptable. ” He shrugged. “First things first, however. Let us go to Li Hong.”             Artie ran into the jeweler’s shop to return the sapphire, while Jim waited in the cab. After dropping off their laundry, they walked down to the next block of Chinatown where Li Hong lived and had his school. They were the only Westerners on the street, and Jim, in particular, drew curious looks. He stared them all down defiantly.             Li Hong was a very old man by Western standards. Before Jim met him the first time, Artie had told him that even Li didn’t know for sure how old he was, though he was at least eighty. He looked like a healthy fifty-year-old. He had come to America with the first wave of immigrants in the 1840's, and unlike most of his countrymen, had established himself as an intellectual rather than a laborer. He was a monk, Artie had said, a Buddhist monk. He held a place of enormous respect and esteem in the Chinese community, often being asked to mediate disputes or to arrange marriages.             He looked up from a scroll he was reading as they tinkled the bell at his entry, and then stood with a huge smile. “Artemus!” He and Artie bowed deeply, and Li Hong turned to Jim. His face stilled from its smile and his eyes narrowed. Jim had met him only once before, and it seemed unlikely that Li Hong would have recognized him even in his own form. But Li said slowly, “You are not what you seem.”             Artie laughed ruefully. “All my acquaintances are psychics, it seems. Whom do you believe this to be, Honored Teacher?”             Still studying Jim, Li said, “You have a woman’s body. But you do not have a woman’s spirit.”             “Am I a man in disguise?” Jim asked, wondering exactly what it was that Li saw, when he couldn’t even recognize himself in this body.             A slow shake of Li’s head. “No, you have a woman’s form. But the energy is different. You have a man’s… “ He gestured vaguely with his hands, a troubled look on his face.             “This is James West,” Artie said. “He was changed into a woman by a means we don’t yet understand.”             They had talked on the way to Li’s home about whether to tell Li the truth. Artie had wanted to be completely open with him. Jim had been reluctant. Now he saw what Artie had known, or at least suspected, that Li would perceive the profound disconnect between body and soul.             “Ah.” Li nodded, looking no less troubled. “It is true, then, what everyone is saying?”             “That Dr. Loveless has found a way to change a person’s sex? Yes,” Jim said soberly. “We intend to find him and find out how to change me back. But in the meantime, I need to be able to defend myself. Would you be willing to show me some of the Kung Fu methods? I know I wasn’t very interested the last time I was here—“ He broke off, with a little laugh. “Its value is more apparent to me now.”             Li gave him another assessing glance. “I could not teach you much in a single lesson. Perhaps only enough to keep you from being taken by surprise.”             Thinking of the night before, Jim gave a short humorless laugh. “That would be more than enough to begin with. If I can regain my body, I shouldn’t need more than that. And if I can’t… “ He shrugged. “I’ll be back.”             Li nodded. “What do you know of the forms of Kung Fu?” he asked             “Only a few of the throws and blocks. I learned them mostly by watching others fight. I’ve never had any formal training.”             “Ah. I will tell you then of the White Crane. But first, sit, please.” He gestured at the ornate rugs on the wood floor. “I shall prepare tea, and then we will talk.”             He blew on the coals of a charcoal brazier in the back of the room, while Jim and Artie arranged themselves cross-legged on the rugs. Jim found that his shift was too narrow to allow him to sit that way at first, and with an annoyed grimace, while Li’s back was turned, he jerked it up over his thighs, to Artie’ obvious amusement. “No smart remarks from you, Mr. Gordon,” Jim muttered, and Artie obediently composed his face before Li turned around.             Li set a translucent teapot on a low table and poured steaming water into it. A flowery fragrance floated up to perfume the air, and Jim sniffed appreciatively. He’d never cared much for tea; coffee had always been his preference. But this seemed unlike any tea he’d had before. On their previous visit, Li had been teaching a class and had not been so formal with them. Jim found the ritual and the atmosphere calming in a way he hadn’t felt since his transformation, and was grateful all over again for Artie’s wide circle of acquaintances. Artie let out a long sigh, and Jim thought that perhaps Artie was relaxing completely for the first time as well. They hadn’t really spoken much about how this was affecting him, and on impulse, he reached over to touch Artie’s hand.             “I haven’t been paying enough attention to you. Too caught up in my own problems, I guess. I know this is hard for you too.”             Surprisingly, Artie withdrew his hand and avoided Jim’s eyes. “I’m all right,” he said, shrugging a little. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”             Once again, Jim felt as though he was missing something important, but Li was handing him the cup of tea, and he had to concentrate on taking it without spilling anything. Whatever was going on with Artie would have to wait until they were alone.             He thanked Li and sipped the steaming tea.             “Blow a little on it,” Li said, demonstrating. “It is too hot to savor the taste at first.” He drank more deeply from his own cup and then set it aside.             “The White Crane,” he said in a thoughtful, story-telling voice. “The accounts differ. But the one from my tradition seems the most authentic to me.” He looked at Jim with a slight smile. “It concerns a young woman named Fang Qi Niáng, the daughter of a farmer. Through her father, she knew the martial arts of southern China. In that day, it was not uncommon for girls to learn, as well as boys, at least in the country provinces.” He blew gently on his tea, and sipped again before continuing.             “One day while Qi Niáng was working in the field, a white crane alighted nearby. She tried to frighten the bird away by thrusting at it with a stick, but the bird countered every move, just as if it were an adept of the art. She tried to hit it on the head, but it blocked her move with its wings. When she tried to hit its wings, it leaped aside and struck at the stick with its claws. Finally, she attempted to hit its body, but it stepped back and knocked the stick away with its beak. It seemed to Qi Niáng that instead of fighting the crane, she should observe its movements and learn from them. And so the White Crane school of Kung Fu began.”             He glanced at Jim again, with an eyebrow lifted in some inner amusement. “The Tibetans say that a monk witnessed a fight between an ape and a white crane. But our version is more civilized, and it is certainly more pertinent for you.” He rose and gestured toward the rear of the room, where a door opened into a larger room. “If you will come into the wu shu guan, I will demonstrate what Qi Niáng learned from the white crane.” He gave them an ironic smile and added, “My poor little schoolroom hardly merits the name of wu shu guan, but I call it by that title to honor the original training hall.”             He put up a hand to stop Jim. “Please remove your shoes, Mr. West. I see that Artemus remembers.” Artie had already bent to loose the buckles of his boots, and Jim knelt and undid his laces, surprised and grateful that Li had used the masculine pronoun. He hadn’t expected such a direct acknowledgment, as accepting as Artie had been.             They went into the schoolroom, empty and quiet when Li closed the door against the bustle of the street, lit with a soft diffused glow from windows high on the walls. Li walked a few paces away on the padded matting and turned to face them. “Perhaps I should say, Mr. West, that Kung Fu, and the White Crane school in particular, is not just a way of fighting. It is a way of life, a way of being alive, if you will. Permit me to tell you the four cornerstones of White Crane before I show you any of the forms.”             Jim had been eager only to learn the movements when they arrived, to feel assured that he could defend himself if it became necessary again. But the tea, the quiet, Li’s soft voice, the mythic quality of the story, all had relaxed him to an unexpected degree. He nodded, and Li began, “First is shan xiu qi shen, the care of one’s body.” He tilted his head on one said, and added, “In Chinese, it means actually to perfect one’s body, to bring it to the highest state of which it is capable.”             Jim nodded again; that was certainly consistent with his beliefs and with his exercise routines.             Li went on, “The second is shan zheng qi xin, to perfect one’s heart—one’s intentions, that is to say. To be pure in mind.”             Jim wasn’t certain how pure in mind he was ever going to be, but right now he felt as though he would swear to almost anything to be able to protect himself effectively. And if Li meant a purity of purpose, he had no quarrel with the idea at all.             “The third of the chi si shan—the four righteousnesses—is shan shen qi xing, literally to perfect one’s behavior, or to be mindful of one’s actions. Some say to be cautious, but I think mindful is the better word. To be aware of one’s actions and their consequences.”             Jim breathed in deeply, in tune with Li’s resonant voice. ‘To be aware’—yes, that described his own philosophy perfectly, he thought. He did things in an unorthodox way sometimes, and had been criticized for it, but he was always conscious of his actions, and of their possible consequences. “Yes,” he murmured. “Go on.”             “Last, there is shan shou qi de, to perfectly defend one’s virtues. That does not mean, Mr. West, that one fights to defend virtue, not at all. It means that one’s being and actions and intention are in harmony at all times with what is right, so that one’s virtue is always defended from blame.” But he cocked his head to one side, and added with a slight smile, “Admittedly, it is sometimes necessary also to fight. But this last rightousness is not an aggressive one.” He looked Jim in the eye. “Are you willing to accept the four chi si shan? I will not teach you if all you want is to fight more effectively, or even just to defend yourself.”             “I accept them,” Jim said steadily. “You’ve said nothing I could disagree with.”             Li nodded. “Let us begin, then.” His gaze swept over Jim’s gown. “Your garb would not ordinarily be appropriate, but if you wish to defend yourself as a woman, it may be as well to learn how to do it in women’s clothing.”             Artie had stood quiet while Li was speaking, but he put in, “He’s right, Jim. If you’re attacked again, whoever does it isn’t going to wait for you to change clothes.”             “You have been attacked?” Li asked. “Show me what happened.”             “Yes, last night. I was lucky—I hollered out, and the fellow took off when he heard people coming. I was walking down the street and someone jumped out at me from an alley. He had my hands pinned behind me before I even knew what was happening.”             “So?”             Before Li finished speaking, Jim’s arms were pulled back and his hands immobilized again. But Li released him immediately, and Jim nodded and rubbed his wrists.             “Yes, so. Exactly so, in fact.”             “Ah. Now you shall take my wrists the same way. See, I am walking along and you shall leap out of the alley and catch me by surprise.”             “All right,” Jim said slowly. He stepped back, and watched as Li strolled along as though walking down a street. When Li passed him, he jumped out, the best he could with his skirt swirling around his ankles, and pulled Li’s wrists back behind him. Li made no attempt to resist Jim’s grip, though he could certainly have broken free. Instead, he fell forward, as though he’d fainted. Jim, still grasping Li’s wrists tightly, fell right down on top of him with an “Oomph!” of surprise. Li rolled out from under him and leaped to his feet.             “Aha!” he cried. “You see? Now you are on the ground and I am free.” He reached out and helped Jim up. “You could not surprise me that way, nor anyone trained as I am. But most of the criminals you will meet are mere thugs. They will not expect such a move from you. Try it with me again, now. You walk along and I shall try to subdue you.” He brushed a streak of dust from Jim’s skirt and stepped back. “Be careful that you fall forward. Do not just go straight down. If your attacker is much larger or heavier, your arms could be pulled back far enough to dislocate a shoulder. Walk along now, and I shall leap out at you.”             They repeated the maneuver, and this time Jim threw himself forward and down when he felt Li’s hands pull his wrists back. Sure enough, Li kept hold of his wrists and was pulled down with him. Jim rolled over and got to his feet as quickly as he could with the confining skirt, and grinned down at an equally smiling Li, sitting on the mat.             “Very impressive,” Artie commented. “But what if the attacker is so large that he just hangs on and doesn’t fall down?”             Li rolled over with his forehead on the mat, stuck his hands behind his back as though he were being held, lifted one foot behind him and smacked Artie smartly in the shin.             “Ow!” Artie leaped back and rubbed his leg. “All right, I see what you mean. That’s going to take some practice, though.”             “Yes. And it will be less easy for Mr. West, in woman’s clothing. But the important point, Artemus, is to keep the other person off balance, both physically and mentally, to do what is not expected.” He rose as easily as if he’d been a small athletic child and stood there smiling at them. “Allow me to show you one other maneuver, Mr. West.”             He held out his arm. “Grasp my wrist, as tightly as you can. Yes, the inside of my wrist.”             Jim did so, gripping tightly. Li immediately opened his hand, spreading his fingers wide. “Do you feel what is happening?” he asked.             “Your wrist got much larger, yes. A useful trick.”             “Now observe.” Li swept his hand out in a counter-clockwise arc, turning his wrist so his hand was on top of Jim’s. At the top of the arc, he grasped Jim’s wrist and pulled his own elbow in sharply. Jim’s body swivelled around in the grip of Li’s hand, and before he knew what was happening, he was bent over at the waist with Li’s hand chopping at his shoulder.             Li released him quickly and he straightened up with a laugh. “Show me that again. I can do that.”             They went through the maneuver several more times. “Now you grab my hand,” Jim ordered Artie, knowing Artie wouldn’t hold back with him. He closed his eyes as Artie took his wrist, to concentrate better on the move, and to his surprise and Artie’s, had Artie on the floor in a second.             “Damn!” Artie exclaimed, dusting himself off. “You shouldn’t be able to do that, not with the difference on our weight and muscle now.”             He took in Jim’s glowing face. “I don’t suppose I’ll hear any more about fishwives.”             “No, no, I’m convinced.”             “Fish… wives?” Li asked, puzzled, and both the others laughed out loud. It felt unbelievably good to Jim to have bested Artie like that, when he would not have thought it possible in this body. He wasn’t helpless after all, and if Li could teach him more, he wouldn’t need a man’s protection either.             “I made some, uh, injudicious remarks about the amount of noise that Kung Fu seemed to require,” Jim confessed. “Something to do with sounding like a fishwife—a woman who hawks fish to passersby.”             “Oh!” Li’s face split in a huge grin. “I see. We use the voice to concentrate energy. And with an untrained opponent, it may startle and distract as well. But outcries are not required, I assure you.”             Jim flexed his shoulders, feeling much better. “May we come to see you again, if it’s necessary?” he asked, and Li nodded.             “Of course, Mr. West. Go well, now, and be like the White Crane, always watchful.”             It wasn’t until after they were in a cab and riding back toward the livery where they’d left the horses that Jim realized they had departed rather abruptly. “Should we have offered Li something for the lesson?”             Artie shook his head. “No. It wasn’t that kind of occasion. If we have to ask for more of his time, we can make an arrangement then.”             “You’ll have to practice with me, you know.”             Artie rolled his eyes, but agreed. “You’ll have to promise not to damage me.”             It was a fairly inane remark, but Jim felt as though their balance was returning, that center of shared experience and common intention that had sustained them through five years now. The humor, too. One of the things he had always appreciated about Artie’s friendship was the freedom to be a little silly at times, and he grinned now. “Not a chance. All bets are off.”             They stopped at a men’s clothing store, and Artie purchased several pairs of plain trousers and shirts, and a belt that would fit Jim’s new dimensions, while Jim waited in the cab. Then they retrieved the horses and rode back in the midday heat, silent, Jim trying to keep from dwelling on the circumstances, and Artie thinking God knew what. He didn’t share it with Jim, whatever it was. Only once, when they stopped briefly to give the horses a rest and to relieve themselves, did Artie offer anything, and then it was merely, “Do you want to change into trousers? This would be a convenient place to do it.”             Jim shook his head. “No. I’ve been seen in women’s clothing in Colma. No sense in raising people’s eyebrows. I’ll wait until we’re in the train. After we see Colonel Richmond, we can move on out of Colma anyway. I don’t think Loveless is anywhere near.”             “We’ll need to have you fitted for your gown for the dinner at the Speedwells.” Artie’s voice suggested some reluctance to leave the area, but Jim couldn’t decipher the specific meaning at the moment, and didn’t care.             “That’s fine,” he said impatiently. “Shouldn’t take long. We can do it before we go back to the train, in fact.”             He didn’t mean to be short with Artie, but he was feeling some kind of internal pressure to regain his lead in their partnership. Nothing Artie had done was any overt threat. But he still felt as though his capitulation in the matter of garments, mannerisms, name and apparent station was implicit recognition of Artie’s superiority as the only visible, and official, male of the pair. Again, it flashed into his mind to wonder whether many women felt the same, whether they deeply resented their metaphoric invisibility. And for the first time, he wondered how these thoughts would affect his treatment of women if he did manage to get back in his own skin. It was a sobering idea, that he was as guilty of unfair treatment of women as any other man he knew. He sighed and tried to remount, and once again had to admit that he wasn’t yet strong enough. Artie gave him a hand up without any comment and they continued down the dusty road, not much more than a wide path, between Colma and San Francisco.             Jim submitted to another round of measurements, approved with little grace a sketch for his dinner gown, and walked back to the train with Artie, leading his horse. Richmond was expected that evening. He had time to get out of this confining damn dress and into something more befitting… and then all his plans blew up in his face yet again, for there was Richmond swinging down from the steps, hours before his time.             “Oh, damn,” Jim heard Artie whisper, and then, “Go on to the stable and change if you want. I’ll stall him in the parlor.”             But it was too late. Richmond looked out to see who was approaching, and caught Jim’s eye. He smiled and reached for his hat, aborted the movement with his hand raised halfway, and stood staring at Jim with his hand hanging ludicrously in the air.             “Never mind,” Jim said with weary resignation. “Too late. Let me see to the horses anyway, though. That’ll give you enough time to have a talk with him.”             Artie nodded silently and handed Jim his reins. To Richmond he said, “Come on in, Walter. There’s something we need to talk about.”             Jim tied off both sets of reins to the handle on the side of the stable car, pulled himself up, and contemplated what he needed to do to let down the ramp, something that was clearly beyond his strength. He felt rather proud of himself for figuring out a method, though, and stood watching the horses chomp hay in less than five minutes. The weight of the ramp was far beyond his ability to control. But the pulley around which they ran a line when they needed to hoist bales of hay into the feed room now hung by its hook from a conveniently placed screw-eye in the stable car’s roof, and the line to the ramp door went from its own pulley through an eyebolt near the floor and back up over the second pulley. Jim had been amazed and pleased at how easy it was to let the ramp down. He led the horses in, got them settled and fed, but then discovered that even with the second pulley, he couldn’t draw the ramp back up. With a sigh, he left that for Artie, and stepping back into the shelter of one of the boxes, changed into trousers and shirt. They had forgotten a man’s hat, dammit, and neither of them had thought about the obviously female cut of his laced-up boots. He felt as though they were operating at half their normal efficiency, both of them so affected by the circumstances that they couldn’t think straight.             There was a sound behind him, and he turned to see Richmond standing at the foot of the ramp, his face white and shocked. “Come on up,” Jim told him, and saw his little jerk at the pitch of Jim’s voice. “Come on, Colonel. If I can deal with this, you can too.”             Richmond walked up the ramp and stood looking at him. Finally he spoke. “I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t even know if I really believe that this… this—” He waved his hand in evident frustration. “That this could happen.”             “Ask me anything you want,” Jim said steadily. “You have a right to verify who I am, no matter what assurances Artie gave you.”             “Artie could be some kind of replica or substitute too, you mean.”             Jim dropped the brush he was holding, the clatter making him jump. “I hadn’t even thought of that,” he whispered, his blood running cold. “My God.” All the little oddities of the past few days came flooding back. Was it possible—but he cut off the thought before it was fully formed. He couldn’t even contemplate the idea. Changes in himself he could handle. To be unable to fully trust Artie was impossible.             “I’m satisfied with who Artie is,” Richmond said, reassuring him only a little. Richmond didn’t know Artie as well as Jim did now, regardless of how long they had been acquainted in the past.             Jim picked up the brush, relieved that Richmond hadn’t jumped to retrieve it for him, and went back to brushing Artie’s bay gelding in silence, waiting.             “Tell me how we met,” Richmond said finally.             Jim smiled in spite of the gravity of the situation, because he’d expected that—it was something that no one but he and Richmond and one other person knew. He’d never even told Artie, bound by his promise of silence.             “Sure you want me to remind you?” he asked. “I believe you said you’d shoot me if I ever mentioned it.”             “Tell me.”             “All right, then. We were in the Egyptian Room at the George Washington Hotel.” He stopped and eyed Richmond, but Richmond just gazed steadily at him. “You were dead drunk.”             That got a reaction. “I was not—“             ”Oh, yes, you were,” Jim repeated, with relish. “I didn’t know who you were, and you thought I was just some youngster showing off how many ladies he could drape over each arm.”             “That much is certainly true,” Richmond muttered, but Jim ignored him and went on.             “You left with a Mrs. Summers. Mrs. Frances Summers, if I recall. Blond curls, pink gown, baby blue eyes.”             “Never mind the fashion statement, and you can forget the rest, too—no one but you would have known even that much.”             Grinning, Jim continued. “I didn’t meet anyone I wanted to spend more time with, so I left as well, cutting through the alley next to the hotel.” He stopped and gave Richmond a sideways glance. “Where I found you, throwing up all over Mrs. Summers’ lovely pink gown.”             “And it was just as much a shock to you as it was to me when you turned up in my office the next day—don’t deny it!”             “Yes, it was,” Jim admitted. “I thought President Grant must be playing some kind of joke on me.” He thought of something that had never occurred to him before, and asked, “You didn’t hire me just to make sure I’d never repeat that story, did you?”             Richmond glared at him, but shook his head. “I’ll admit I considered the possibility, but the president’s recommendation was enough all by itself. I’ve never regretted hiring you until now.” He shook his head and with unexpected rage, turned and slammed a fist into the side of the car. “Godammit all to hell!”             There was grief as well as fury in his voice. In spite of the circumstances of their first meeting, Jim hadn’t thought he held any special place in Richmond’s consideration. But with sudden warmth, he realized that perhaps he was more than just a particularly good employee to Richmond. It warmed him, and at the same time saddened him, because if he couldn’t get his own body back, he feared he might have lost more than just his job.             “Just tell me you’ll work with Artie and me for a while,” he said. “Let us try to find Loveless. Don’t tell anyone else what happened to me.”             “Of course.” Richmond’s voice was thick, and Jim turned away from him for a moment to let him regain his composure. “I’ll do whatever I can, Jim. I’ll have to file some kind of report to justify coming out here from St. Louis, but I can handle that.” He took a long breath. “Tell me what you’ve found out so far.”             Jim related the story of Billy Wilson, the nervous mood in San Francisco, even the disappearance of the Speedwell youth, though he doubted that had any connection with Loveless. “Artie and I are invited to a dinner at Speedwell’s house on Friday,” he finished. “Most of the powerful men in the area are supposed to be there. We’re hoping Loveless will have gotten in touch with some of them, and that we may be able to get back to him through them” He paused. “You know, though, I’ve been thinking… it really is odd that Speedwell would entertain on this scale if he’s so worried about his son. Perhaps he knows something he isn’t saying.”             “I’m happy to see your brain is still working,” Richmond said, sounding far more relieved than Jim thought was justified, in light of his and Artie’s continued confused muddling. But the remark annoyed him as well.             “Maybe the ability to think doesn’t have anything to do with gender,” he replied rather tartly, and then, at the thoroughly disconcerted look on Richmond’s face, realized he had probably just confirmed every worry Richmond might have had about his ability to do the job. A man would not have said something like that. He himself would not have said something like that at any time in the past. He sighed internally and told himself not to worry about it. Richmond could take the remark any way he wanted as long as he didn’t interfere with them finding Loveless.             Artie came through the door at the end of the car, and Jim said to him, as though it was an ordinary sort of request, “Would you help get the ramp up?”             Artie said smoothly, “Of course,” and then, with genuine surprise, “Very ingenious bit of rigging here. We ought to leave it that way—it will make handling the ramp very much easier. I’m always afraid I’m going to slam it onto the ground.”             He grasped the line above where Jim was gripping it, and together they pulled the ramp up into its closed position. And if it was mainly Artie’s strength that did the job, Jim didn’t think Richmond could tell.             Richmond insisted on providing dinner, in spite of Jim’s wish to stay quietly on the train, and he wondered whether Richmond wanted to see how well he managed in public. He met Artie’s raised eyebrow with perfect understanding—should he go to dinner in men’s garb? He shook his head slightly and went into his cabin to change, and was grimly pleased to see Richmond flinch all over again when he appeared in a gown and petticoat. He wasn’t sure what Richmond expected of the two of them, but he let Artie help him down from the parlor car, over the several sets of tracks between their train and the street, and up the step to the wood sidewalk. He would stay in character if it killed him.             The other tables in the hotel’s dining room were empty, allowing them to speak freely, and Jim steered the conversation back to Loveless and his threats every time it threatened to stray elsewhere. Washington was in confusion, Richmond said, as far as he could tell by telegraph from St. Louis. Most of the president’s advisors were convinced Loveless must be bluffing—after all, such a physical change was obviously impossible. Others were unwilling to take any chances. Some of the Secret Service supervisors wanted West and Gordon to be assigned to stop Loveless, as the little man’s most successful opponents so far. Others cautioned that the threats might be a trap to lure the two of them into Loveless’s clutches. No one could agree on anything.             “The usual chaos,” Artie remarked with a sigh.             “Did Loveless give any kind of deadline for a response?” Jim asked suddenly. “He usually does, if you remember.”             Richmond shook his head. “There’s been no further contact with him, as far as I know.”             Jim and Artie exchanged a glance. Did that mean Loveless was concentrating on changing more men into women?. Or was he simply lying low for the moment, waiting for his adversary to make some move? That would definitely not be his style, and Jim could tell that Artie was thinking the same thing. Perhaps Loveless was twisting local arms, and that made the dinner on Friday all the more important to attend.             “We need to move the train to San Francisco,” he said. “It’s closer to the action, closer to where Loveless is likely to turn up again.”             Artie’s lips tightened, but he didn’t object, and Richmond nodded vigorously. “You’re right. And you’d have additional help there if you needed it. I can detach Fred Ennis to work with you if you want.”             “If we can have him without his boss,” Artie said dryly, and Jim nodded.             “If that man makes one more sarcastic remark to me, Artie’s likely to kill him.”             Richmond raised an eyebrow, but didn’t demand explanations, and by the end of the evening, they had agreed to move the train, to have Fred Ennis work with them officially and to have Jim ostensibly sent off to pursue Loveless in the north of the state while his “sister” took his place on the train.             “We do have another female agent,” Richmond said, surprising them. “She’s been working with us in New York, a very enterprising lady. She’s provided a lot of useful information in one of our cases. So allowing Jim’s supposed sister to join your team won’t be a complete innovation.”             “Is it possible then that Jim and I might be able to continue together if— “ Artie took a deep breath and plowed on. “If he isn’t able to regain his own body?”             “Out here in the west?” Richmond thought about it for a moment. “I won’t say impossible. It’s not the same kind of civilized atmosphere as New York, but Mrs. Levering’s work certainly argues for allowing women to be employed. We’ll have to see how things work out. Find Loveless and stop him, and then, if Jim still can’t be returned to his body, we’ll have some ground to argue from.”             He pushed himself away from the table. “I’ll stay here in the hotel tonight, and then pay Trilby a visit in the morning.” Jim and Artie rose too, and he stood looking at them for a moment, and then sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jim. I don’t know what to say.”             “That makes two of us. I’m taking things moment by moment. That’s all we can do.”             Richmond nodded and walked out ahead of them to the lobby to find the desk clerk. “He could have stayed on the train,” Jim said softly. “I wonder why he didn’t want to.”             “Give us our privacy, I suppose,” Artie said, rather obscurely.             “Privacy? Why would we need privacy?”             Artie shrugged. “Perhaps that was a poor choice of words. He knows this is an awkward time for us. Maybe he thought we might prefer not to have our supervisor hanging over us.”             “Not so awkward a time that his company would have been unwelcome,” Jim said. “But it’s just as well. You and I need to talk, and it’s not a conversation I want to share with anyone else.”             Artie gave him a sideways brooding look, but nothing more. They bade good night to Richmond, and walked slowly down through the town to the station, enjoying the late twilight and the cooler air that went with it.             “Well,” Artie said finally, “I suppose I should ask what this conversation concerns.”             He didn’t sound as though he was anxious for the answer, which was significant all in itself for a person normally far more garrulous than Jim.             “You,” Jim said, and when Artie only turned a bland inquiring eyebrow his way, he went on, “Everything we’ve discussed has been about how I’m feeling. How I’m handling the situation, how I’m dealing with this problem or that one. You can’t tell me this hasn’t affected you too.”             Artie laughed lightly. “Of course it has. But hardly to the same extent. Certainly not worth a whole conversation all by itself. You needn’t worry about me.”             “And that has such a dismissive ring that I’d be suspicious even if I didn’t already think you were badly disturbed about something,” Jim retorted. They were passing a bench on the empty platform, and he put his hand on Artie’s arm. “Sit down here with me for a minute. If we go back to the train, you’ll find some way to distract me and put this off.”             Artie moved just enough that Jim’s hand dropped away from his sleeve, a subtle but unmistakable rebuff. “All right,” he said, sighing. “I suppose I can’t fault you for being concerned about me. I do assure you, though, that there is nothing to worry about. If I seem distressed—well, the cause is sufficient, I should think.”             He sat. He sat close enough for them to speak without raising their voices, but at a polite distance nonetheless, careful not to muss Jim’s skirt. Jim had meant to begin with a logical presentation of facts, but he was being treated as though he were some well-intentioned but nosy female, to be put off with Artie’s most civilized language and manners, and he burst out, “You know, we’ve never had any false propriety with each other, but now, when no one who saw the two of us would make anything of it, when there would be no talk or innuendo, you can hardly bear the touch of my hand!”             And then, with a painful laugh, he shook his head and added, “I must be acquiring a female personality to go with the body, because I can’t imagine ever saying something like that before.”             Artie reached out and very deliberately took his hand, holding it tightly. “I knew of the talk,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were aware of it.”             “I set Jeremy Pike straight,” Jim said, snorting grimly. “Told him if he ever made remarks like that again, I’d lay him out flat.”             Artie looked away without replying, and they sat silent for a moment in the darkening light. Then he sighed deeply.             “I thought I would still see you in this body—and I do.” His fingers tightened momentarily around Jim’s. “But I miss—“ He broke off, took another breath, and plowed on. “I miss your male self. I miss that presence next to me, your physical strength and energy, the way you threw yourself into everything we did. And it’s so damnably unfair to you for me to feel that way that I don’t know where to begin to apologize.”             “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.” Jim brushed his knuckles over the back of Artie’s hand. It came to him that this was uncomfortably like a caress, but it felt so good that he didn’t want to stop. “You can’t help how you feel.”             “I certainly think I should be able to manage my own feelings!” Artie said indignantly. “But I seem to be woefully incapable of it at the moment.”             “And I find myself saying things that would never have come out of my mouth in the past,” Jim said ruefully. “I’m going to be embarrassed as hell when I get my own self back.”             Artie laughed a little. “No, don’t worry about that. I won’t remind you of anything.” He slid his thumb lightly across Jim’s palm, as much a caress as the brush of Jim’s fingers had been. “I thank you for pressing me to consider my feelings. They have been bothering me, to be truthful. I didn’t want to trouble you with them.”             And there was still something Artie wasn’t telling him, Jim saw, but he’d pushed as much as he thought he could. He let his hand slip out of Artie’s, and gathered up his skirt. “No trouble. We’re partners, remember?”             Artie nodded and helped him up. “And for that I am very grateful.” He tucked Jim’s arm into his own and they walked on down the platform. It was dark now, and very quiet, the only sounds their breathing and the swish of Jim’s skirt. Overhead, the sky glittered like a vast window lit with millions of candles. There was no moon, but they found their way across the tracks to their car without difficulty in the dim and diffused light, Jim letting Artie keep him close. He glanced up at the expanse of starlight for a moment as they reached the car, and shivered slightly. There was something vaguely threatening about it, like a swarm of brilliant dispassionate eyes looking down on them.             “Are you cold?” Artie asked very softly. His arm came around Jim’s back, and Jim leaned against him gratefully, letting himself relax into Artie’s solid strength..             “No. I just feel—strange. I don’t feel real. Nothing feels real.”             “I know.”             They stood there for a long moment, for a space that seemed to have shifted out of ordinary time. Jim would almost have been happy for it to have gone on forever, to take the place of the real universe and the real time in which he’d been living, but his personality—female or not—was too pragmatic to allow an extended period of such fantasy, and he straightened up finally to smile into Artie’s face. “I’m all right.”             Artie’s hand came up to brush gently over his hair. “No, not yet. Nor I, either. But we will be, whatever happens.”             It was more a promise than a statement of fact, but Jim nodded and turned to go up the steps. Artie’s hands settled at his waist and lifted him, and he thought about how quickly that had become a habit for them, even though he didn’t really need assistance any more. They were creating new patterns for their life together, based on a different reality than before, and as quickly as the calm had come over him, it passed again and left such miserable longing behind that he had to keep his face averted from Artie as they went into the parlor.             “We should see about the washing tomorrow,” he said, looking for something ordinary and mundane to fill the silence. “There’s a laundry at the end of the street beyond the stable. Maybe I’ll walk down there in the morning.”             “Good idea.” Artie’s back was turned to his, his manner almost remote now, after the soft intimacy of a moment before. “I have a basket of clothing too, if you wouldn’t mind sending it along.”             “We’ve always shared things like that,” Jim said, a little surprised. “I hope you don’t think you have to ask if I mind doing my half of the chores now.”             “No, I didn’t mean it that way.” Artie took down a snifter. “Shall I pour you a brandy?” he asked over his shoulder.             “Thanks, but no. I’m going on to bed.”             Artie nodded. “Good night, then.”             He had drawn into himself again, Jim saw, his voice as impersonally civil as if they were strangers. A few moments ago he’d been the old Artie—or had he? He’d warned Jim that carrying out a disguise for an extended time could alter one’s personality. What about the people around you when that happened, Jim wondered. Did they react to the new personality, and thus begin to change as well? Were the undeniable changes in his own outlook creating a different Artie? And what the hell was he supposed to do about that?             Nothing at the moment, he decided, too tired to even think about it any more. “Good night, Artie.”             His cabin was cluttered with all the extra clothing, and a little musty from having been closed up for more than twenty-four hours. It felt like someone else’s room. His life felt like someone else’s life, not his own. He didn’t feel like himself any more, irrespective of the body’s change. He felt alone, and being alone was not something he’d ever paid much attention to before. It was merely an occasional fact of life, though less frequent in the years he’d spent with Artie than it had been sometimes before. Still not something to take notice of when it happened. Now he felt profoundly alone, as though some cosmic guillotine had slammed down to cut him off from his life, and with weary determination, he set about doing what had to be done regardless of circumstances. He divested himself of the hated dress and petticoat, and opened the high window to let in some of the cool night air. Then it was too cool, and with gooseflesh starting up on his skin, he dug into his bureau and pulled out a pair of his own long drawers and a comfortable old shirt to sleep in. The Fourth Day             He thought he would have trouble dropping off, but he must have fallen asleep the instant his head hit the pillow, because the next thing he was aware of was the brilliant morning sunlight slanting across his bed. The smell of coffee wafted in through his half-open door and the sound of activity—men’s voices, the clang of couplers, the usual noises of a small-town railway station—could be heard from outside. He rolled out of the bunk, muzzy with sleep, took his dressing gown off its hook, and went blearily out into the parlor.             “You’re up,” Artie said, rather unnecessarily. “Here’s coffee, if you’re ready for it.”             “Mm. Thanks. What are you doing?”             Artie was writing numbers, crossing them out and trying others. “I’m attempting to work out a formula for something small and very loud. Something that doesn’t require much pressure to set it off, so you could stamp on it with a boot or even a lady’s shoe. And something that doesn’t make much heat either, so you don’t burn a hole in your shoe. I want light and a loud bang and not much more.”             Jim peered over Artie’s shoulder as he poured milk in his coffee, though a quick glance at the formulas didn’t tell him much. “Making something for me?” he asked casually.             “Yes, I am. I don’t want you going unarmed even in a ball gown. I’ll figure out something you can hide in a sash or behind your flowers.”             Jim’s question hadn’t been entirely serious, but he saw that Artie’s face was sober, even grim. “That’s good,” he said slowly. “Thank you for thinking of it. I’ll feel better if I’m not entirely dependent on you for support.”             “And I’ll feel better,” Artie said, his face relaxing into a smile, “if I know you’re behind me with something more dangerous than a hat pin.” His eyes slid over Jim’s torso, all that was visible of Jim over the back of the sofa, and he added lightly, “Perhaps a derringer in your bosom.”             “And a knife taped to my thigh? No, it would have to be my shin. I’d never get to it in time otherwise.”             Artie laughed, and went back to his figures. “Do you mind having just toast this morning?” he asked after a moment. “I want to get right to work on this.”             “No, that’s fine. I can fry up some eggs if I’m still hungry.”             Artie just nodded, immersed again in what he was doing, and Jim went into the galley and buttered three slices of bread to put in the oven. Outside, on the strip of dirt between their car and the next set of tracks, a girl was walking along, peering at the car as though uncertain whether she had found the right one. Jim put the window up and leaned out. “Are you looking for us?”             “Are you Mrs. West?” she called up to him. “Mrs. Lamberte is my grandmother. She wants you to come for a final fitting on your gown.”             “Go down to the door at the other end and I’ll let you in.” Jim slid the window back down with a bang and a sigh. He couldn’t even manage to have his breakfast, he thought, before the rest of the world intruded.             Standing shyly in their little vestibule, the girl looked older than she had appeared at first. Twelve, perhaps, with an intelligent face and long braids. “Can you come now?” she asked. “Gran says we can finish by noon if we mark the hem and the sleeves this morning.”             “Are you working on it?” Jim asked in surprise. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”             The girl gave a discomfited shrug. “Gran doesn’t see as well as she used to, so I help her. My brother goes to school.”             That was a distinctly odd answer, but it wasn’t any of Jim’s business. “Give me a few moments to get dressed then, and I’ll come along with you.”             He took out the dress he’d worn the day before, thankful that he’d hung it up and brushed it out, yanked on a petticoat and stockings, and was back to lace up his shoes in five minutes. The girl’s face was a mixture of admiration and scandal. “Your hair,” she protested. “Aren’t you going to fix your hair?”             Jim grabbed the straw hat they had bought in San Francisco and jammed it onto his head. “Fixed,” he pronounced. “Never mind, your grandmother knows I do as I please. She won’t be shocked.”             The girl giggled and turned back to the door. “Let me tell my partner where I’m going,” Jim said to her, “and then we can go.”             Artie was gathering up his papers, a vague look on his face. “Going to Mrs. Lamberte’s. Um-hmm. See you later then.”             Jim knew that distracted expression, and let Artie get on with whatever he’d dreamed up. It would be interesting indeed to see what goodies Artie might be able to conceal in a ball gown, and it gave him a bit of sardonic amusement to think of the chaos and confusion he could create on a dance floor if it became necessary to use any of them. A vision of Dr. Loveless hiding under the women’s voluminous skirts flashed through his mind, while Jim tossed little firecrackers around to smoke him out. And if that was all it took to make him smile, he thought, he must be in a really good mood this morning.             He hurried to catch up with Mrs. Lamberte’s granddaughter, and they went on to her house, where he submitted to another round of pinning, tongue-clicking, and murmured consultations between the girl, whose name turned out to be Anne, and the grandmother.             “You don’t like your dress,” Mrs. Lamberte observed, though without accusation. It was clear she knew the problem wasn’t her fault.             “I just don’t like anything fussy,” Jim said vaguely.             “The color suits you. Not many women could wear it. And you are to wear rubies! Ah, to be young again!”             Jim laughed at her enthusiasm. “I was lucky to get away with rubies. Mr. Gordon wanted me to wear diamonds.”             She cocked her head and considered him. “No, rubies are the better gem for you. Diamonds would be too brilliant, too hard.” She glanced at her granddaughter’s dark, glossy braids and red cheeks. “Anne cares nothing for jewelry, but she could wear rubies.”             Jim said carefully, because this truly was none of his business, and in dreadfully bad taste besides, “I think that if you could buy rubies, Anne would rather spend the money on schooling.”             Mrs. Lamberte gave Anne a sharp, disapproving stare. “Has she been talking to you about school?”             “No, no. I just asked why she wasn’t in school today, and she said that only her brother attended. I’m afraid it was my assumption that you could afford to send only one of them.”             “He can earn more with an education than she can,” Mrs. Lamberte said flatly. “Anne needs to learn practical skills, not fill her head with book learning.”             Jim murmured, “Yes, of course.” He didn’t know what else he could say, in fact.             They finished with him finally, and he walked back by himself, his mind full of problems. This was the fourth day of his transformation, and they were no closer to finding Dr. Loveless than they had been on the first day. Artie was still an unknown quantity in spite of his return to apparent normality this morning. He was an unknown quantity himself, he thought. What if he did manage to get his body back—would he be so changed inside that he would have to learn all over again how to function as a man? His eyes had been opened to things he’d never considered before. When only one child in a family could attend school, it was automatically the boy who received the education. Already, in Anne’s face, he could see the germ of that bitter resignation that shaded so many women’s expressions, and that he had never once noticed through male eyes. What kind of man could he be, with that knowledge in his heart?             He walked on down to the end of the town and arranged with the Chinese family that did laundry to send a couple of children to fetch his and Artie’s baskets of clothing. More kids who ought to be in school, he thought, and was struck all over again by the fact that he’d never worried about such things before—some children were lucky enough to attend school and some weren’t, and that was life, like it or not. But was his change in outlook only a matter of seeing the world differently now, he wondered, or did it signify some fundamental shift having to do with living in a female body? If that was the case, would his feelings change again if he got his own body back? The possibilities were enough to make his head whirl.             Artie was not in evidence when Jim returned to the train—still in his laboratory, no doubt. Jim retrieved the now stale bread that was supposed to have been his toast, broke it up into a pot and dumped the rest of the morning’s milk on top. He set it in the oven to warm, and went down to the stable to see to the horses, something he would normally have done when he first rose. An hour’s wait for their breakfast wouldn’t hurt them, but he was annoyed with himself anyway. All his habitual behaviors seemed to be in disarray and confusion.             To his surprise, he found the boxes mucked out and fresh water and feed in their proper places. He stood there for a moment, trying not to feel resentful. Artie could have woken him up, instead of doing his job for him. The arrangement from the beginning of their partnership had been that Jim would care for the horses, considering that Artie did nearly all the cooking, and managed the ordering of their comestibles as well. He went back to the laboratory and knocked on the door.             “Come on in,” Artie called, and as Jim opened the door he added, “Rather odoriferous in here, I’m afraid, but it’s nothing really noxious.”             “Whew! What in God’s name are you cooking up?” He had noticed the odor as soon as he went into the car, but with the laboratory door closed, it had been no worse than many of the other smells Artie had produced over the years. Standing in the middle of the room, Jim could hardly breathe the acrid air.             “Something to make your presence very undesirable,” Artie answered him with a grin. “If anyone becomes, ah, shall we say, more attentive than you’d like, and won’t take no for an answer, you can give him a squirt of this.”             “I can’t just blow him up? I thought you were making explosives.” He fanned he air in front of his nose. “How can you stand it?”             “Leave the door open, then. In fact, we should probably open all the doors and windows and let it clear out. I don’t imagine the horses care much for it either.”             “Actually,” Jim said, reminded of his reason for confronting Artie, “that’s what I came to talk to you about. You should have let me do my chores, Artie.”             “You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you up.”             “You never had any compunction about waking me up before if you needed to. What’s different now?”             Put like that, it was a question with no good answer. “I’m sorry,” Artie said stiffly. “You’ve been through a lot. I thought you could use the sleep.”             “Don’t make excuses for me, dammit! I know there are things I can’t do now, but at least let me do the things I’m still capable of!” Jim didn’t realize how angry he was until the words poured out of him.             Artie turned away from him with a sudden intake of breath. “I am sorry. I meant no disrespect.”             Jim stood silent for a moment, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. He and Artie had had their share of arguments, even heated words once or twice, over the years. No two men living in such close quarters and sharing such intense work could have escaped the occasional difference of opinion. But Artie usually gave as good as he got. Even if he knew he was wrong, he could summon a good—sometimes even an entertaining—defense. This kind of instant capitulation made no sense, unless it was meant to put a fast stop to Jim’s remonstrations.             He took Artie’s sleeve and yanked him around. “What is it they say about an argument with a woman? The only thing to do is apologize and then keep your mouth shut?”             Artie reddened. “I am not guilty of treating you like a female!”             “No, you’re not. So why won’t you talk to me? You must have had some better reason for not waking me up than just wanting to—to spare my energy!”             Artie gave him a hard look, and then shook his head and let out a long breath. “I don’t know how to behave with you,” he said in little more than a whisper. “I don’t know what I’m going to say half the time until it’s out of my mouth.” His voice rose. “I’m sleepwalking and waking up in your bed, for God’s sake! I woke up last night and found myself in your cabin. I’m afraid of what I may do or say. So it’s easier to keep to myself, even if it means doing some of your work, than to figure out how I’m supposed to act when I’m with you, or how to guard my tongue.” He slammed the tool he was holding down on the workbench. “Are you happy now that you’ve dragged that out of me?”             The blood drained from his face as they stared at each other in appalled silence. Of all the accusations he might have made, that one sounded so precisely like what a man would snarl at a women that it essentially negated his earlier denial. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, the oath more of a statement of guilt than any apology could have been.             That was more than Jim could bear. “Don’t,” he choked out. “I shouldn’t have demanded an explanation. I don’t know how to act any more either.” He put his hand on Artie’s chest, wanting some kind of contact, wanting reassurance perhaps, and with a gasp, Artie took his shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace. His arms went around Artie’s waist, and he closed his eyes and lifted his mouth, and Artie kissed him with a violence that seemed to express all their pent-up emotions. Their lips ground together, and he opened his mouth, wanting more contact, more of Artie, just more—he hardly knew what. Artie’s tongue stabbed into his mouth and met his own, and then Artie was trembling and hard, his erection obvious even through his clothing and Jim’s skirt and petticoat. Artie made an incoherent sound and thrust him away so hard that he staggered back against the opposite workbench.             “My God, my God!”             To Jim, he sounded utterly horrified, and there couldn’t be much doubt about the reason. Regardless of Jim’s physical appearance, they both knew he was still a man inside, and Artie must be appalled at his own body’s response. “I’m sorry, Artie! Forgive me—I don’t know how I could have— “             ”You don’t understand!” Artie flung back at him, as white as a sheet of paper.             “I didn’t mean to imply anything about you— “             Artie had him by the shoulders again, and shook him hard. “You don’t understand anything! Don’t you realize—I could get you with child!”             And then he put Jim away from him again, and shoved past him out the door. Jim could hear his footsteps thudding down the wooden floor and away into a silence broken only by his own gasping breath. He reached out blindly for any support, found Artie’s metal stool, and sank onto it, shaking so hard he couldn’t control himself. He wanted to weep, wanted to smash something, wanted to scream his fury at Loveless, who had inflicted this torment on him. And he wanted to feel Artie’s arms around him again. Wanted to feel Artie hard with desire, wanted his kisses, wanted to feel Artie’s hands on his bare skin, wanted… The very enormity of what he wanted left him breathless. To make love to Artie? To have intercourse with Artie as if he really were a woman?             He flushed hot and cold with the thought. This was what he had feared, that his personality would be so dominated by and subsumed in the female body that nothing would be left of himself. Someday he’d be a rheumy and toothless old woman who frightened children with stories of having once been male—well, no. He was letting emotion get the better of him. It wouldn’t let him go, though, this terror of losing himself to the demands of this body. Would he find other men attractive too? He’d always appreciated Artie’s compact body and lithe grace, his ready smile and the dark curly hair. It was hardly surprising that he’d be attracted to Artie now. But what about other men?             He paused, took deep breaths, got a better hold on himself, tried to think logically. Who did he know that a typical woman would find pleasing? Plenty of old friends came to mind, all reasonably handsome, but no one’s memory produced the least quiver of interest. Perhaps someone of more recent acquaintance… he snorted, thinking of Colonel Richmond. Richmond was a decent looking man, though. Certainly Mrs. Frances Summers had thought so, at least until he’d overestimated his capacity for drink. In spite of the most objective evaluation of Richmond, however, recalling his face to mind produced no flicker of desire whatsoever.             So it was only Artie, then, but while that realization generated a certain amount of relief, it left the question of why he was attracted to Artie at all, if he felt nothing for men in general. His breathing a little calmer now, he slid off the stool and walked out into the stable section of the car, closing the door to keep the worst of the odor at bay. He’d always thought better on his feet, and he damn well needed to do some hard thinking now.             One thing that came to him, as he paced, was that this desire for Artie was nothing new, though the specific nature of it certainly was. But touching Artie had always been a pleasure to him, and to entice Artie into touching him an even greater one. He’d been known to wheedle a massage from Artie with exaggerated pain or stiffness, and the fact that Artie saw right through him and indulged him anyway only added to the pleasure. It meant that Artie enjoyed it too. What society in general would have thought of them was something he had conveniently managed not to dwell upon, he realized now. But it slowly came to him that if Artie had made some overture to him before the transformation, he wouldn’t have reacted with disgust. Surprise, certainly—he had thought Artie as much a ladies’ man as himself. But not revulsion, and that realization was enough to make him come to a dead stop in the middle of the car.             Suppose… suppose this attraction to Artie was not an artifact of his female body, but had been there all along, overlooked, or, more likely, ignored. Denied, as he had denied the significance of their frequent physical contact. Then he was still himself. He was not being overtaken by his altered biology. It had not created the desire, but only revealed it, forced him to acknowledge what had been there all along. In a male body, his mind couldn’t accept what his body had instinctively known—that he loved Artie and wanted him. But in a female body—he shivered suddenly. In a female body, there would be no shock or outrage from society. Jim West couldn’t be Artemus Gordon’s lover. But Jemima West could.             He swallowed hard, a cold void opening beneath him. Up to now, scarcely a moment had gone by when he didn’t think of his loss and of how he could regain his own form. Even with balance restored and strength increasing, this body felt foreign to him, like a poorly tailored suit of clothes that hung on him in some places and fit too snugly in others. He longed to be back to himself with a bone-deep yearning that he hardly knew how to verbalize. But now… did he have to balance his desire for restoration against the likelihood of losing Artie? How the hell could he make a choice like that? In his own body, he could return to his former life, but in his own body, Artie would no longer want him. That much was clear from his violent reaction to their kiss. He would probably no longer want even the close companionship they had shared for years.             But, no—was that true? You don’t understand! Artie had shouted at him. I could get you with child! Nothing about Jim’s real identity, nothing about perversion or even about Artie’s own preferences. Artie’s concern had been only for what could result from sex between them.             The conflicts battered at him. Artie loved women; he was certain of that. Yet Artie had always welcomed his touch, had never once shied away from it. Could it be that, like his own, Artie’s desire focused on only one man? The implications, and all the variety of possibilities, were enough to make his head swim. Only one thing stood out from the mass of conflicts and doubts. Whatever Artie’s violent rejection of him had meant, they had to talk about this. He stood there in the middle of the car, one hand on the nearest of the loose boxes, head bowed and eyes shut, and heard a sound, felt the vibration of someone’s step.             When he opened his eyes and turned around, Artie stood in the door, somber, bleak and pale.             “Will you forgive me for running away?”             Jim brushed that off with a gesture and a shake of his head as he walked toward Artie. When he stood in front of Artie, studying him with newly opened eyes, there was only one thing to say.             “How long have you wanted me?”             For an instant, he saw nothing on Artie’s face but blank astonishment. Then a hesitant smile, then a rueful grimace as Artie shrugged slightly. “Years,” he said simply.             Jim stepped closer. “I didn’t know I wanted you. Not until now.”             Artie’s smile faded. “I’d have given everything I possessed to hear you say that. But we can’t, Jim. What if you became pregnant, and then we found Loveless and found that you could be changed back? What would that do to the child? Would you even survive the change? How can we take that chance?”             Jim had to laugh. “My dearest Artie, you’re supposed to be a man of the world. Even I know there are other ways than intercourse.”             Artie let out an explosive breath. “Of course I know that. Especially for two men.” He touched Jim’s cheek with a finger. “If those other ways—if that’s all we could ever have, would you be happy?”             “If I can’t regain my own form, I’ll lie with you as a woman,” Jim said steadily. He hadn’t known he could want that until the words were out of his mouth, but once said, he knew it was true. He wanted anything he could have with Artie. Everything he could have.             With a sudden gasp, Artie reached out and pulled him close. “We couldn’t risk a pregnancy,” he said into Jim’s hair, the words muffled. “Couldn’t risk losing you.”             Jim relaxed finally, his head tucked into Artie’s shoulder, safe in Artie’s embrace. “Don’t worry about it now,” he murmured. “Too much else to worry about, anyway.”             They stood like that for a long moment, shutting the world out, and then Artie sighed and pulled away a little. “I feel so damn guilty,” he said in a low voice. “I told you I didn’t know how to act with you, but that’s not the half of it.”             Jim shook his head, uncertain what Artie meant, but wanting to erase the desperately unhappy look on his face. “No,” Artie said, “let me finish.” He swallowed, and went on, “I’m deeply ashamed to admit this, but when I—when I realized you might not be able to get your own body back … “             A lot of things became blindingly clear to Jim. Artie’s strained manner, his sudden reluctance to be touched—even his unwillingness to discuss what was happening to them—everything made sense.             “You thought I might want you now, if I was a woman.”             Artie said miserably, “Believe me, I know how despicable that is—“             Jim cut him off. “It was human, Artie. And you did everything you could to help. That’s what counts.”             “I want you back as you were. Please believe that.”             “I have no doubt of it.”             “Even if you no longer want … “ He gestured vaguely, but Jim knew what he meant.             “You think I wouldn’t any more, if I changed back? Is that what you think?”             Artie looked at him unhappily, and looked away. “You didn’t, before.”             Jim chuckled softly. “We used to practically sit in each other’s laps. Had our hands all over each other. My God, Artie, just about the only thing we didn’t do was go to bed together.”             The corners of Artie’s mouth turned up. “I used to wonder what you’d do if I let my hands wander a bit. I never had the courage to actually try it.”             “You might have been surprised. I think I would have been shocked as hell, but that’s all.” He sighed suddenly, worn out from the emotional extremes. “Let’s go back to the parlor. We need to talk.”             Artie nodded. “Yes, we do indeed.”             Back in the comfortable parlor car, sitting on the sofa, Jim patted the seat next to him. “Don’t sit over there.” Artie had poured a brandy and moved as though to sit in one of the chairs. “Would you mind getting me some whiskey?”             “You don’t usually drink this early in the day,” Artie protested mildly, but turned back to the drinks tray.             “I need it today.”             He heard a soft snort of agreement, and Artie came back to sit next to him with a substantial tumbler of neat whiskey in his outstretched hand. Jim downed half of it, gasped, wiped his watering eyes and set the glass on the side table. “That’s better. Liquid courage, as they say.”             He drew his legs up under him on the sofa and leaned into Artie, and Artie set his own glass down, put an arm around his shoulders and held him close. “I won’t want to be held like this if I get my own body back,” Jim murmured, caught between the simple enjoyment of Artie’s strength surrounding him, and the feeling that he shouldn’t be enjoying it quite so much.             “Then you can hold me.”             Artie didn’t seem the least reluctant about the prospect, which prompted some interesting, and heretofore unconsidered, thoughts about how two men might relate to each other. He might as well ask, he thought.             He sat up, and looked into Artie’s eyes. “I’m confused as hell about all of this, Artie. Just to begin with, you’ve never given me any reason to think you might—might want another man.”             Artie glanced away with a sigh. “I assumed you would be—if not actively disgusted by the idea, at least shocked. And I do enjoy women, as you know. It was easier to… well, put that other part of me away while we were together.”             “You never … “ Jim didn’t quite know how to ask the question, especially through the shock of hearing that it was not only he whom Artie had found attractive.             “A few times. When I went back to Washington by myself, and a couple of other occasions. I was discreet.”             Jim could hear the defensiveness, and it cut him like a knife. It wasn’t right that Artie should have had to hide such an essential part of himself. And there was something else …             “I want to ask you something,” he said in a low voice. “And please answer this honestly. Don’t try to protect my feelings.” He looked back at Artie. “If I can’t get my own body back, will you still want—want to be with—“ And then he realized what was coming out of his mouth. “I mean, even if I can be restored—“ He shook his head. “Hell, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m not asking for a declaration of fidelity. I have no right to that.”             Artie gaped at him. “My God, Jim,” he said finally. “I told you I’ve wanted you for years.” His face changed, and he took his arm from around Jim’s shoulders and slid off the chair to one knee. “Jim?” His voice was unsteady, breathless. “If you can’t change back, will you—will you marry me?”             Thunderstruck, with one hand over his mouth, Jim just stared. Of all the directions this conversation might have taken, a proposal of marriage had been so far from his mind as to be non-existent.             “Artie… “ A rush of tears filled his eyes and he didn’t even bother to wipe them away. “Yes, of course—“ He got no farther, because Artie stood, pulled him up, and kissed him passionately. He could feel Artie’s arms hard across his back, and whether he was supposed to or not, he reveled in that strength, and the safety it promised him.             They parted slowly, with little murmurs and sighs. Jim’s face was wet, and with a smile, Artie brought out his handkerchief and offered it.             “Damn dresses,” Jim muttered, blowing his nose. “No pockets.” He handed the handkerchief back, and as he did so, caught sight of the ring on his left hand. “I’m already wearing your ring,” he said, with a deep breath. “Artie… If I get my own body back, and we can’t marry, I want to keep the ring, if I may.”             Artie kissed him again, and in a haze of happy passion, Jim thought that they weren’t going to be very productive as partners if everything he said prompted this kind of reaction. He supposed they would get over the worst of it eventually.             Artie finally let him go, but stood holding him gently by the shoulders. “I’ve had so much guilty pleasure from seeing that ring on your hand,” he admitted. “Believe me, I’ll be happy to see it there when we’ve found Loveless and restored you to your rightful form.”             “And we need to talk about that too,” Jim said, sobering with the thought. “It’s four days now, and we’ve made no progress at all. We’ve got to get out of here and back to San Francisco. We need to get Fred Ennis out there looking for him. Loveless may operate in secret, but he has been seen. We need to be out talking to people and asking questions and doing something!” His voice rose at the end with the urgency he was feeling, and Artie nodded.             “Yes, we do. I don’t see any reason we can’t leave as soon as your gown is ready. I’ll go up and talk to Barney, and tell him to get his people back on board and fire up the engine.”             Jim sighed. The damned gown again. He didn’t hold out much hope for anything to come out of the dinner it was meant for. There would be nothing but talk there, no answers. But he was committed to go, and go he would.             “The washing isn’t back yet either,” he said. “But it should be by the time the boiler is up to temperature.” He leaned in to give Artie a peck at the corner of his mouth. “Go on, then. I’ll walk up to Mrs. Lamberte’s and see what I can do to hurry things along there.”             Artie smiled at him with the kind of look that suggested there were other things he’d rather be doing, but went meekly toward the front of the car. Jim stood watching him for a moment, thinking, with a conflicting mixture of happiness and dismay, of the chaos his life had become, and then tossed down the rest of the whiskey in his glass. He had a feeling he was going to need it.             Mrs. Lamberte and Anne were very nearly finished. He wandered around their workroom looking at bolts of fabric, racks of thread and little wooden cabinets filled with findings, wondering unhappily whether these things were going to be a permanent part of his life, until Mrs. Lamberte’s satisfied “Ah!” told him they were done. Artie had paid for the gown on Tuesday, when they returned from San Francisco, so all that remained was to wrap it in white cloth and carry it back to the train.             Mrs. Lamberte clearly thought it would be more proper for Anne to walk along behind Jim carrying the dress for him, but he wasn’t having any of that. “I don’t need any help,” he said firmly, and only after the words were out of his mouth did he realize how curt and abrupt that sounded. A woman would have said, “Thank you very much, but I think I can manage it all right,” or something equally qualified and conciliatory. He was grateful that his own speech patterns had survived the change, but the effect was the verbal equivalent of walking hatless down a street with his arms swinging, sure to draw unwelcome attention. He sighed soundlessly, gathered up the heavy folds of fabric, and started back to the train.             The day was hot, and the gown more of a burden than he had expected, and he began to wish he hadn’t drunk the rest of the whiskey, or that he had accepted Mrs. Lamberte’s suggestion to find a man to carry the dress. Her house was only a couple of hundred yards from the train station; it had seemed like a silly extravagance to hire someone for that trivial an errand. But he was very grateful indeed to see Artie striding rapidly up the street toward him.             “Give me that!” Artie said urgently. “You’re white as a sheet. Here, sit down.”             “I am a little light-headed,” he admitted. “It’s just the heat.” He let Artie help him down from the sidewalk, and sank gracelessly onto the boards. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”             “You were staggering,” Artie said, and Jim could hear the deep concern in his voice. “You were at Mrs. Lamberte’s longer than I expected, so I thought I’d walk up there and carry this back for you. It’s a good thing I did. You looked as though you were about to faint.”             “Mm,” Jim said hazily. “They weren’t quite finished—that’s why it took so long.” He propped himself up, mostly by virtue of leaning on Artie, and looked around. “It’s only a bit farther. I’ll be all right.”             Artie didn’t look convinced, but helped him up anyway, and with another stop in the shade of the platform, they finally made it to the train. There they encountered a problem. Artie couldn’t assist him into the car without setting down the dress, and Jim wouldn’t hear of that. “Not in the dirt,” he said emphatically. “I don’t care if it is wrapped up. I’ll be all right long enough for you to take it inside.”             Artie looked wildly around for some acceptable place to set down his burden, but finally leaped up into the car with it, and was back in three seconds. “Your well-being is more important than the damned dress,” he said under his voice, and then, “What’s so funny about that?”             Jim suppressed a giggle. “That’s what I’ve been calling it—the ‘damned dress.’ Just seems strange to hear it from you.”             Artie lifted him up to the first step, and stayed close behind him until they were inside. “Sit down, sit down. You’re still pale as a ghost. I’ll get you some cold water.”             Jim sank obediently into the nearest chair, but he felt better now that he was out of the sun. Artie came back not with water, but a glass of lemonade, and he drank it gratefully. “You always take such good care of me.”             “I’m afraid to let you out of my sight,” Artie confessed. He pulled up a little stool and sat night to Jim. “You gave me a scare just now. I thought you were completely recovered, and there you were tottering along in the sun as white as on the first day.”             “It was just the heat,” Jim insisted. “I’m fine now.” Bet when he set the glass aside and tried to stand, the same lightheadedness swept over him, and he found himself falling into Artie’s arms.             “You’re going to lie down,” Artie told him, and Jim nodded dizzily. Artie helped him to the sofa and sat with him until he drifted off to sleep, and he woke to find himself back in San Francisco, the familiar sounds of the city coming through the open windows. He’d managed to miss the trip between Colma and San Francisco twice now, he thought grumpily, pushing himself up. Not that the ten mile stretch of tracks was any great shakes for scenery, but he loathed this enervated feeling.             There was no sign of Artie—probably looking after the horses again. Well, if Artie insisted on doing his work for him, he’d just have to take over some of Artie’s chores. He managed to haul himself back to the galley, by main force of will more than anything else, and began rummaging in the pantry. He discovered the remains of the ham they’d been eating for breakfast, a haunch of smoked venison, some sausages in a box of salt, and not much else besides the canned goods. He pried the top off one bushel basket and found it half full of potatoes. A shelf made of wire screen held a collection of cabbages, carrots and rutabagas, and another basket proved to be apples. He vaguely recalled that cabbages and apples went well together, and took a cabbage and a couple of apples out to the cutting board next to the stove. He was tired of ham, and the venison would be too much trouble to cut up, so he went back and retrieved a fat sausage link, and set it in a skillet of water to soak. He was feeling rather proud of himself, in spite of frequent waves of dizziness, when Artie appeared in the doorway with a horrified look on his face.             “You shouldn’t be worrying with this! Why aren’t you lying down?”             “I don’t need to be babied!” But there were two of Artie suddenly, and he couldn’t feel his feet any more, and when he opened his eyes again, he was back on the sofa with a very worried Artie leaning over him.             “Jim, please don’t get up again.”             “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize I was that weak. I just wanted to help.”             “Suppose you had fainted and fallen against the stove,” Artie said, his voice shaking. “I can manage things by myself for a while. Please promise me you’ll stay here.”             Jim nodded. “I hope to hell I’m not coming down with something.”             Artie’s hand rested briefly on his brow. “You don’t seem to be feverish. Perhaps it’s some kind of delayed reaction to the changes in your body.” Artie pulled the stool over and settled onto it. “Would you like to know what I’ve found out?”             “Yes, of course.”             “Well, first of all, I had a long talk with Fred Ennis. He’s been making the rounds of the taverns where the sailors congregate, and he says there’s been talk of missing men. Women too, oddly. More than the usual, I mean. But nothing in the last week. If the disappearances are Loveless’s doing, it almost seems as though you and Billy Wilson were the last ones to be taken.”             “Or he’s just moved on somewhere else,” Jim suggested.             “That’s possible, of course, but Fred said there hadn’t been any reports of changed people from other cities. So the trail is cold at the moment. I tried to see Mr. Speedwell at his office to find out whether he’d heard anything from his son, but his secretary told me he was out.”             Artie’s voice suggested something more than he was saying. “You don’t believe that?”             “I saw him come back from his dinner. I was sitting in the saloon across the street from his warehouse, and I went right across. He could have left by then, of course, but he would have had to go out a different way than the front door. No, I think he was there and just didn’t want to talk to me.”             “You in particular? Or didn’t want to talk to anyone?”             Artie shook his head. “I can’t think of any reason for him to avoid me. I didn’t tell him I worked for the government when we met before. Tice introduced me as a publisher—that’s the occupation I gave him at dinner, if you recall.”             “No, I never heard that,” Jim said sourly.”Every time I tried to listen to the two of you, Mrs. Tice asked me something else. How many children I had, for heaven’s sake, and whether my cook leavened the biscuits with soda or beat them with a spoon!”             Artie chuckled. “I could see you were getting irritated, but I didn’t really know how to bring you into the conversation without distracting Tice from what he was talking about, and I needed to hear that.” He laid his hand on Jim’s brow again. “You sound as though you feel better. You didn’t have any lunch, did you? Would you like a bit of something to eat before supper? A piece of buttered bread, maybe?”             “Oh, damn, I left a dish of bread and milk in the oven! I completely forgot about it.”             “Well, it ought to be nicely curdled by now,” Artie said with a grin. “Too bad we don’t have a cat. Never mind, I’ll see if any of the folk down at the end of the rail yard have chickens or a pig. Someone will have a use for it. How about that bread and butter?”             Jim nodded. “And something to drink, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble.”             “No trouble at all.”             Artie disappeared, and Jim could hear the oven door open and close, and the clunk of the pot on the stove, and then Artie’s voice calling to someone. “Hey there, young’un, do you want some bread and milk for your chickens?” A pause, and then, “Run along home then, and bring back a pot or a bowl.”             He came back into the parlor, walking past Jim with the pot from that morning in his hand. “One of those little fellows who earns money carrying people’s bags was out there, so I told him to go home and get a dish, and I’d give him the milk and bread for his family’s chickens.” He stopped with a frown, and said, “I hope it’s going to feed the chickens and not the family. That kid looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in a month.”             “Give him a sausage then, too,” Jim murmured. “And the rest of the milk. We can get more in the morning.”             Artie smiled and bent low to kiss him briefly. “I’ll do that. It’s generous of you to think of it.”             He went away again, and Jim lay back with a whole new set of troubling thoughts running through his head. He wasn’t selfish. He’d been known to tip more generously than required, or to toss a penny to a beggar child, or buy a bouquet from an old woman on the street corner. But the deliberate formal giving of charity simply hadn’t occurred to him before—another indication that his view of the world was changing.             He sighed and let his eyes fall shut. Learning to adjust to a woman’s body was proving far less difficult than adjusting to a woman’s mind. A married woman’s mind, for that matter, if he couldn’t change back. How would it feel to be Mrs. Gordon, no longer even in possession of his own last name? In the first flush of pleasure at Artie’s proposal, the fact that he would effectively lose his own identity hadn’t occurred to him. Now he felt a stirring of resentment at the loss of not just his physical body, but now even his own name. It was odd, he thought, that he minded becoming Jemima less than he minded losing his surname. But the Wests had helped to settle the West. His grandfather had come west from Pennsylvania to carve out a life in Illinois at a time when the state was a primeval forest peopled only by Indians. He’d always liked the conjunction of his name and his family’s place in history, and now was he to lose even that?             They just had to find Loveless. He wouldn’t accept anything else.             He lay there half-awake while the day drew on toward evening. He was vaguely aware of Artie coming in from time to time, of people’s voices calling to each other outside and of the smell of food cooking, and finally, as the outside light began to dim, he felt the return of some measure of his usual energy. He sat up, made his way back to the privy, washed his face and brushed his hair. It was easier to look in the mirror now, the woman who looked back at him less a stranger and more just a different manifestation of himself. He wasn’t certain whether to be relieved at that, or scared witless.             He was silent as they ate, and Artie didn’t press him for his thoughts. But finally he said, “Artie, does it mean a lot to you for me to take your last name?” He shrugged, and added, “I don’t know why that makes any difference, truly. It’s completely trivial in comparison with everything else we have to deal with right now. I just wanted to know.”             Artie reached over and took his hand. “If you’re bothered by it, then it’s not trivial, not between us, at least.” He took a deep breath. “I never gave it any thought, to be honest with you. But really, the western countries are the only ones where women automatically give up their surnames when they marry. I don’t see any reason why you should if you don’t want to.”             Jim nodded. “My brain is in such a turmoil that I don’t know whether I’m coming or going,” he said. “It really isn’t important.”             Artie’s hand tightened around his. “I’ve noticed that when a person goes through some traumatic event, he’s almost numb at first. The mind is trying to just take it all in, and sometimes little things seem more important than they would be otherwise. I remember a soldier in the hospital threatening to kill another patient because he was sure the man had taken his shoes—and neither of them had legs any more.” He smiled at Jim. “If you can’t change back, you’ll get beyond this point after a while. The big things will still be important, and the little things will go back to their proper perspective.”             “I sure as hell hope so.”             “You know,” Artie said slowly, “it’s almost like having lost someone you loved very much. Your old self has essentially died.”             Jim pulled his hand away and jumped up, clenching his jaw against the tears he refused to shed. Artie hadn’t meant to wound him, but that was exactly how he felt, as though he had died and some different person had come back in his place, some imposter in a female body who claimed to be James West. He stood with his back to Artie, his jaw trembling, refusing to give in, until Artie’s hands settled at his shoulders and turned him around, and then he rested his head on Artie’s chest and sobbed uncontrollably. Artie held him close and caressed his hair, and gradually the storm passed. “Sorry,” he muttered, turning away. “I got your shirt all wet. I’m sorry.”             Artie didn’t say anything, just let him go, for which he was grateful. Once again, his body had taken over, and the fact that he actually felt better for letting the anguish out didn’t change the fact that he’d behaved as a woman would have done. Helpless bawling was not what a man did—certainly not what he’d ever done before. And Artie had reacted as though he was holding a woman in his arms, not his male partner.             “I’m going out for a while,” he said. “Just on the platform. No one will bother me there.”             “All right.” Artie sounded worried. “It’s chilly. There’s a shawl in that basket of things from Mrs. Lamberte. Why don’t you put that on?”             Jim looked back at him and said very deliberately, “Women wear shawls. I’m not a woman.”             “I wasn’t—“ Artie shook his head and turned away. “Never mind.” He began to gather up the dishes. “Would you like some coffee later? I’ll make a fresh pot.”             “No, thank you.” He knew his cool tone had hurt Artie, but if he didn’t get away, he’d be crying into Artie’s shirt front again. He could let himself do it, let Artie cosset and comfort him, let Artie take the lead, be the man, be strong. But he hadn’t gotten to be who he was by letting other people carry his burdens for him. He stepped down from the door, walked across the sidings separating their small train of cars from the main tracks, and climbed the steps to the station and its long platform. There he walked slowly back and forth, a slight hatless figure in a plain dress, drawing more than one curious glance.             Nothing came to him. No revelation, no epiphany, no guidance from above. He was just going to have to slog his way through this. It was a bit like one of those prolonged battles during the war when there no longer seemed to be a goal or a purpose beyond staying alive. Load, fire, duck. Load, fire, duck. After a while, they became autonomous actions—there had been times when he wasn’t certain what he was shooting at. Even when he’d been on horseback, the smoke often obscured the battlefield so completely that he couldn’t be sure where his own lines were. That’s what this felt like—a great long endless war with an invisible enemy all around him—except that this time, the enemy was his own self, and he’d already lost the battle.             The last evening local was pulling out, and the crowd of people on the platform had thinned to only a few stragglers.. He sighed and went down toward the steps at the end of the platform, meaning to return to the train before Artie came looking for him. A young man and his sweetheart stood in the corner of the luggage-man’s door, stealing a kiss, and their evident pleasure in each other forced him to consider what was likely to happen later with him and Artie. The thought of it touched him deeply. He could imagine what it would be like to lie next to Artie, to press against him and feel Artie’s manhood, hard and yearning for him. He wanted to feel it, and at the same time, he was filled with a sudden flood of anger at Artie for having what he himself had lost.             That made no sense, he knew. He should be angry with Loveless, not Artie. But really, he thought, Loveless was as much a victim of his own infirmities as he had made Jim a victim of womanhood. A dim light began to flicker in the corner of his mind. Could that be why Loveless had turned him into a woman? To force him to see what it was like to live as an inferior being, never recognized for his true worth, often treated with contempt or indifference, valued only for the services he provided? Even so, surely, Loveless didn’t mean him to suffer for the rest of his life. He couldn’t have meant that!             Artie had lit the lamps and was drawing the curtains in the parlor when Jim climbed back up into the car. He could smell coffee, and even though he had said he didn’t want any, the fragrance contributed to the familiar comfort of his surroundings. This was home, and the thought of losing it further fueled his general state of misery and anger.             He steered a wide path around Artie and went into the kitchen for a coffee mug. When he came back, Artie was pouring a finger of brandy into his own cup, and held out the decanter to Jim with a questioning eyebrow.             “No, I think it might have been the whiskey that made me so weak earlier. I’d better not have any alcohol.”             Artie nodded and set the decanter back on the drinks tray. “Feel like talking?”             “No.” Jim knew that was curt, but hell, for two days he’d wanted to talk, and Artie had evaded every attempt he’d made. Now Artie wanted to talk. Too bad. But there was something he wanted to know.             “I do have one question. I think Loveless did this to me to make me see what he has to live through.”             Artie nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the case. And that makes me believe even more strongly that there is some antidote. He wouldn’t put you, for the rest of your life, in a position he so despised himself.”             Jim said morosely, “I keep telling myself that. I just haven’t been convinced of it yet.” He thudded a fist against the wall. “It’s been four days, Artie! Four days and we’re no closer to finding him than we were on the first day. It doesn’t make sense for him to just drop out of sight. I’d expect him to communicate with us, even if not with Washington.”             “That is puzzling. I think he’s probably gone to ground in one of his labs while he prepares more doses of the drug. Remember that a lot more people have been reported missing than usual, Fred said.”             “That’s right. Women too.” A sudden thought struck him. “Artie, if he can change women into men, then any man who was changed into a woman could just take the other drug and change back!”             “Yes, though he might have less of the same body he started out with if the drug acted on him twice. I was hoping there was something that would just undo the original change.”             “So you’d keep whatever scars or marks you had to start with? Well—I’m happy not to have the scars on my back any more. They used to itch like hell when I was sweaty.”             “The scars are still there,” Artie said, sounding surprised. “Not as prominent as before, but they’re still visible.”             “Are they? I hadn’t looked to see,” Jim said thoughtfully. ”That means I still have my original skin.”             “And most of your internal organs too,” Artie agreed. “There wouldn’t be any reason to change something that’s the same in both sexes. Actually, all Loveless’s drug needs to do to make a man think he’s female is to alter the external genitalia and the general appearance of the face. And make breasts grow, of course.”             That was a completely new thought. “You mean I might really still be exactly the same person, except for those? But my muscles were gone.”             “That might have been from the stresses of the change. Perhaps some of the tissue that was in your muscles went to make up the new… um, the breasts.”             Jim had to snort at that. “I don’t know whether that makes me feel better or not.” He looked down at himself, and touched one breast experimentally. It didn’t feel anything like the muscles in his legs and arms had felt. It felt like… he took his hand away abruptly. No, Artie was wrong. “Whatever that drug is, it changes more than just appearances. It changes your brain, too. Changes your mind, how you think.”             Artie turned to look at him. “Are you sure about that? You’re not just reacting to other people’s ideas about you?”             “Absolutely certain,” Jim said emphatically, and Artie pursed his lips.             “I wonder whether that means there are fundamental biological differences—“ He stopped. “Well, beyond the obvious ones, of course. But you don’t know whether Loveless’s drug caused some alteration in your mind, or if turning you into a woman caused it.”             “No,” Jim admitted. “But I feel as though I’m thinking and acting the way a woman would, not the way a man would if he just had some superficial change in appearance.”             There was a pause, and then Artie asked carefully, “Because of the tears? I’ve seen men cry for less cause than this. Men in their own bodies, in the company of other men.”             “No, that’s not the only reason.” Jim really hadn’t wanted to discuss this, but somehow they seemed to be talking anyway. He took a deep breath and let it out. “I was rude to you earlier. I’m sorry.”             “You’re over the part where you just put one foot in front of the other, and you’re starting to feel again,” Artie said. He got up and came over to where Jim was standing. “You recall my telling you that I helped design prosthetic limbs after the war? I had a lot of contact with amputees because of that, and I saw how they dealt with losing a leg. Many of them seemed to take it pretty well, at first. You’d think they were the most stoic men on the face of the earth. But then their blunted feelings began to come out.” He paused. “You know, it’s like when you get punched in the jaw. At first, you hardly feel anything at all, because of the shock. It may take a couple of minutes for the pain to start.”             Jim nodded slightly, caught up in Artie’s quiet voice. “You mean I was rude because I’m starting to be really angry. I know that. I didn’t mean to be rude to you, though.”             “When emotions are strong,” Artie said gently, “it isn’t always easy to focus them. Whoever is nearest may end up being the target. What I wanted to tell you was that the men who seemed to be taking their loss the best, at first, were the ones who had the most anger afterward, when it all began to come out. I’ve been expecting something like this. It’s likely to get worse, and I’m the easiest one to take it out on.” He smiled ruefully. “I don’t promise to let it all roll off my shoulders—I’m human too. But I won’t hold it against you.”             Artie had stayed a pace or two away, giving him plenty of space, but Jim could feel his desire to be closer. And hell, he wanted it too. He let out a heavy breath and gave in to the temptation, and Artie saw his surrender and held him close. To his surprise, he could feel Artie shaking.             “What’s wrong?” he murmured.             “I’m afraid for you,” Artie said simply. “Afraid for us. You’ve gone where no one has ever gone before, and I can’t guess what’s going to happen.” He pressed a kiss against Jim’s forehead. “When I saw you this morning, looking like you were about to collapse, I thought my heart would stop.”             “I’m all right. It was just the whiskey. I shouldn’t have drunk it, with the sun so hot.”             Artie made a soft sound of agreement, and rocked him gently. “Will you come to bed with me?” he asked, when they had stood in the gathering dark for another long moment, the words so soft that Jim almost couldn’t hear them.             “Yes,” Jim said, equally softly. “Yes, I will.”             Artie reached up and turned out the nearest lamp, and then moved away to the one on the table. The station lamps were still burning, casting long shadows on the window curtains and faintly illuminating the interior of the car. Artie held out his hand, and Jim took it, and together they went back to Artie’s cabin. Artie hesitated slightly as they went past Jim’s door, but Jim didn’t want this first encounter to take place in his bed. He couldn’t say why, exactly, but he urged Artie on to the other cabin, and followed him inside.             Artie turned to face him, and then bent and kissed him softly. He didn’t touch Jim anywhere else. Jim had half expected Artie to begin undressing him, but he realized suddenly that Artie was trying not to treat him as he would have any other woman he’d had in this room. With gratitude, he began to undo his buttons himself. Artie did the same, discarding his vest and shirt onto the chair beside his bunk. With an oddly hesitant indrawn breath, he reached for his belt.             “Let me,” Jim whispered. He had let the dress fall around his feet, and stood in camisole and petticoat. Something about that additional layer of clothing made him braver than he might have been otherwise. He knew his reaction was illogical—he’d never been excessively modest, not with any bed partner, and certainly never with Artie. He couldn’t think why this was different. But it was, and it was beyond him at the moment to try to figure it out. He took one of Artie’s hands in his own and kissed the fingers, and then pulled the end of the belt to loosen it. Artie’s hand came up to caress his hair. In silence, he loosed Artie’s buttons and opened the waist of the trousers so he could reach the tie to the drawers.             “Wait,” Artie said, to his surprise, but Artie only backed away to sit on the bunk. “Let me get out of these boots.” He reached down and pulled one off, and then the other, and then took Jim’s hand and drew him close. His arms went around Jim’s waist and he rested his head against the soft breasts. Jim threaded his fingers through the mass of curls on Artie’s head, and bent to kiss his forehead. He could feel Artie’s arousal, and trembled slightly, wanting… What he wanted terrified him. He wanted to open himself for Artie the way a hundred women had done for him. He shuddered, knowing that if not for the risk of pregnancy, he would do it.             Artie lifted his head. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.             “It’s not you I’m afraid of,” Jim told him, equally softly, and Artie smiled and nodded.             “Yes.” His hands worked the bottom of the camisole out from under the petticoat. Jim felt his warm fingers against the flesh of his back and shuddered again, and then Artie’s hands slid up his side and his thumbs caressed the breasts. Jim gasped, and felt Artie swell against him even more. There was some essential mystery in that, to feel another man’s erection. He was too dazed with his own reactions to analyze anything, but he knew he wanted to see, and touch. He backed away and tugged on Artie’s wrists. Artie stood, and he slid his hands into the top of Artie’s trousers and tugged them down.             “Yes,” Artie said again, just a breath in the still night. He undid the ties to his drawers and Jim loosened the waistband and pushed them down with the trousers. Artie’s prick sprang free, and Artie groaned softly at the sensation. Jim had seen him before, of course. Had seen him aroused as well, but not like this. Not for him. Artie’s hand were clenched at his side, his breathing suddenly harsh. Jim touched him, just a finger along the side of the shaft, as he might have stroked himself. Except for a few vivid images that had flashed into his mind, he had deliberately avoided thinking about what they might do together, partly from fear of his own urges and partly because this was all such a great unknown. But now, faced with the reality, he knew suddenly what he wanted to do.             “Lie down. I want to see you.”             Artie pushed the trousers and drawers away, and sat back on the bed, swinging around to lie full length. Jim ignored his groin for a moment, and eased Artie’s stockings off. Artie had long elegant feet; it was one of the things Jim found appealing in him, but he knew they often ached by the end of the day. He massaged them with a light touch, and Artie sighed softly. “Mm. Feels good.”             Jim bent to kiss the nearer knee, running his hand lightly up Artie’s calf. Then, feeling as though he needed to make some token gesture—Artie was now completely nude, after all, while he was still almost completely covered—he lifted the hem of the camisole and pulled it over his head. He could feel his nipples contract as the cooler air swirled around them.             Artie reached out to cup one of the breasts in his warm hand. “Lie down with me?” he murmured.             “Not yet.”             The hand that had stopped at Artie’s knee continued on. Jim could feel the light dusting of hair on Artie’s thighs spring up at his approach, could feel the gooseflesh on his skin. Artie was trembling slightly, his breathing uneven. His prick stood at the end of Jim’s journey, and with a breathless sensation, Jim slid one hand up to surround it. His hand stroked up, such an automatic gesture that it came without volition. His hand knew how that felt, to hold a prick. He bit his lip to keep at bay the loss of his own, and concentrated on Artie.             Artie’s hand came up to cover his gently, and in the dim light he could see the sympathy and pity in Artie’s eyes. “It’s all right,” he whispered. It wasn’t all right, but that wasn’t Artie’s fault, and he wouldn’t let his distress interfere with their pleasure now. He bent to see more clearly in the near dark, letting his breath trickle across the dark head, and Artie drew in a sharp breath. His hand slid down Jim’s side, abandoning the breast, and Jim leaned in the rest of the way and pressed his lips against the prick.             “Jim—“             ”Shh, I want to do this.” He sat against the edge of the bed and Artie squirmed over to make room for him. His breasts settled against Artie’s thighs as he bent over the prick again, and he let his tongue touch experimentally. Artie groaned, and emboldened, he ran his tongue around the circumference, wetting it. The prick swelled even more, and he opened his lips and surrounded it with his mouth. Artie made a strangled sound and heaved up, pushed beyond his ability to control. Jim closed his eyes and made a wide O of his mouth, and let Artie thrust into him until Artie groaned, and pushed him away hard. Artie’s cock pulsed strongly with his climax, and Jim closed his hand around it and smoothed the come along the shaft until it stopped flowing. Muscles that he hadn’t known were there contracted powerfully inside him.             Artie was still gasping for breath, but he pulled Jim down beside him and found his mouth. His tongue stabbed inside, and his prick, still half-hard, pressed against Jim’s groin. Jim was hot, he was burning up with desire for Artie. Artie’s hand moved down his back, inside the petticoat and drawers, clenched on his ass, and Artie’s fingers were there where he needed to be touched. He felt himself convulse with the sensation, and then Artie rolled him onto his back and peeled off the clothing, flinging it out into the dark. He lifted above Jim, pressing between his knees, and for an instant, Jim panicked, unsure what Artie meant to do. But Artie bent and kissed him, and whispered in his ear, “Don’t worry, I won’t try to fuck you.” There was an ironic chuckle, and Artie added, “I couldn’t, right now—I’m harmless as a babe.”             Smiling himself, because he knew how that felt, Jim let his legs fall open. It was an uncomfortable position, vulnerable and powerless. He couldn’t imagine allowing it with anyone but Artie, and he wondered, in another of those un-nerving flashes of insight, how prostitutes could risk it with any man who wanted them. Money hardly seemed a strong enough incentive. That train of thought lasted only until Artie kissed him again, swift and hard. Artie’s hands were at his breasts, and then Artie’s lips, kissing and suckling. Jim gasped and arched up, clutching Artie’s head to him. He’d avoided touching himself there; he hadn’t even really thought of the breasts as his own. They were a nuisance, jiggling when he walked, always in the way. He hadn’t imagined they could produce such sensation, even when he’d caressed a woman and seen her response.             He could hear himself making little involuntary whimpering noises, and pressed one hand to his mouth. Sex had never been this out-of-control for him. Even in the most intense throes of passion, he had retained purpose and volition. Now he felt barely able to think. He clawed at Artie’s shoulder. “It’s too much! Artie, it’s too much!”             Artie left the breasts, with a murmured, “Sorry,” and one last moist kiss, and laid his head gently on Jim’s stomach. “I can hear your heart beat.”             “More likely my dinner digesting,” Jim said, with a shaky laugh, trying to regain some kind of equilibrium.             Artie chuckled softly, and bent to lick down to Jim’s navel. His breath touched the hair just below, a maddeningly ticklish sensation that had Jim squirming. He knew what Artie intended now, and the thought of it was enough to make him faint with desire. Artie’s tongue trailed a meandering path down his belly and through the slight thicket of hair until it found that exquisitely sensitive nubbin of flesh, and Jim cried out and bucked under him. Again and again Artie lashed at it, until a hot wave roared over Jim and left him quivering, wrung out, weeping with the force of it.             Artie shifted up next to him and held him close, stroking his back and whispering his name. The most powerful of the sensation ebbed finally, and he lay in a hazy stupor in Artie’s arms. He could drift off just like this, he thought—who said it was just men who rolled over and went to sleep?. But the night air began to cool the perspiration on his skin, and he finally eased away from Artie and reached down to pull up the sheet.             Artie was silent, breathing deeply, long beyond when Jim expected him to have something to say. Troubled, he turned Artie’s face to his. “Something wrong?”             “No.” But after a moment Artie went on, “We’ve opened a real Pandora’s Box here, haven’t we?”             “Like Humpty Dumpty falling off the wall,” Jim said. “Not something we can undo. But I don’t want to, Artie, whatever happens.”             They talked far into the night, saying the things they’d been unable to voice before, now that at least some of the tensions between them were resolved. “When I look at you,” Artie said in a low voice, “I know it’s you—I can hear you in the way you speak. I can hear your inflection and your phrasing. But I keep reacting to you as though you’re a woman who just happens to look and sound like my partner. I hate it, but I can’t help myself sometimes.”             Jim hugged him, and admitted to his own terrible fear of losing himself to the demands of a female body. “Even now” he said, “I don’t even know how to respond to you. I don’t know whether my feelings for you are part of me—“ He tapped his chest, trying to convey the “me” inside. “Or just part of who I am now. It scares the hell out of me that I might not want you any more if I can change back. I know what I said earlier, but it still scares me, Artie.”             Artie raised up on an elbow to look at him. “If you had your own body back now,” he said, “and I was to put my hand on your prick, would you push me away?”             The words, and the image they provoked, were enough to make Jim surge with sexual desire. “God, no!” he said, with a shaky laugh. “All right, I think that’s one thing I can put out of my mind.”             They drifted off to sleep finally, woke later to pleasure each other to climax again with hands and lips, and went once more to sleep. Jim woke very early in the morning with sharp cramping pains in his belly, as though he’d eaten something that disagreed with him, but he pressed closer to Artie’s warm back and went to sleep again, dreaming of riding in sun-dappled woods with Artie, happy and whole. The Fifth Day             They woke in the morning to the sound of Colonel Richmond’s voice. “Artie? Jim?”             “Shit!” Artie blurted out, a word Jim seldom heard him use. “I didn’t set the alarms!”             He scrambled out of bed, groping frantically for clothing. They heard Richmond drawing the window curtains in the parlor, and then opening Jim’s cabin door.             “Jim? Artemus? Where the hell is everybody?”             “Hold your horses, Walt!” Artie yelled. “I’ll be there in just a minute.”             He yanked on his drawers and with a backwards hiss of, “My dressing gown is on the chair” at Jim, opened the door just enough to squeeze through.             “Where’s Jim?” Richmond demanded. “He needs to hear this too.”             With a sigh, Jim wrapped the dressing gown around himself, and went out into the parlor. Richmond’s face, when he saw Jim emerge from Artie’s quarters, went momentarily blank, and then twisted into a faint sneer. “Well,” he said knowingly to Artie. “That didn’t take you long.”             Jim felt himself growing pale with fury. “You take that back, or so help me, woman’s body or not, I’ll knock you down!”             Richmond actually stepped back a pace, but his voice didn’t give an inch. “What am I supposed to think? Artie marches out in his drawers, and you in a wrapper? You’ve got to know how that looks.”             “You can think whatever you want,” Jim flung back at him. “But I won’t stand for that kind of remark. Whatever there is between Artie and me is our business!”             Artie put a hand on his arm. “That goes for me as well.” His voice was deadly. “If Jim really was a woman, I’d have laid you out already, Walter. That wasn’t called for, and you wouldn’t have said it in front of a lady. You owe Jim at least as much courtesy.”             Richmond turned scarlet.”I’ll apologize for the remark, but not for thinking what anyone would have thought in the same circumstances. You want to stay in the Service and work together? Well, you’ll have to exercise a little more propriety than this!”             “We’re not used to people walking into our private living quarters unannounced,” Jim said cuttingly, but then—remembering who his private living quarters actually belonged to—he took a deep breath and opened his clenched fists. “Our fault for not making sure the door was locked, all right?”             Richmond nodded grimly at him. “Do you want to hear my news or not? Dr. Loveless says he has retired!”             “What?” Artie’s astonished voice came at almost the same second as Jim’s. “You have something from him?”             Richmond handed them a folded sheet from his breast pocket, and Jim opened it so that he and Artie could read it together. But the single paragraph wasn’t very illuminating.             “I have decided to devote my life to research into the causes of madness and mental derangement. I hereby renounce my attempt to regain ownership of California, and you will have no further contact from me.” It was signed, “Doctor Miguelito Loveless, Esq.”             “This doesn’t make any sense at all!” Jim burst out. “It has to be some kind of decoy to keep us from searching for him. That’s all it is.”             Artie peered closely at the note, turning it this way and that. “Has the handwriting been examined?” he asked. “Do we know for sure that this is his signature?”             “Not yet,” Richmond admitted. “But if the note is a decoy, the signature is probably genuine.”             “How did you get it?” Jim wanted to know.             “It was hand-delivered to the Secret Service office here this morning. By the time it was opened, the courier had long since disappeared. I’ve sent Fred Ennis to walk around in the vicinity and ask whether anyone was seen going into the office besides him and me and Trilby, but he hasn’t come back yet. I thought I should let you two know about it as quickly as possible.”             “My God,” Jim breathed, sitting down hard in the nearest chair. “All I’ve thought about for four days is finding him, and now he’s disappeared to God knows where to study crazy people?”             “No,” Artie said firmly, laying a hand on his shoulder. “No, you’re certainly right that this is some kind of diversionary tactic. It won’t stop us finding him, I promise.”             Jim glanced up with a smile for Artie’s reassuring voice, but caught sight of Richmond watching what probably looked like some kind of domestic by-play, and scowled at them both. “It’s past time. Shouldn’t more people be called in on this? We don’t have any idea where Loveless is. Confining the search to this area could be a complete waste of time!”             “All the offices have been notified to watch out for him, and for his assistants as well,” Richmond said, with the same kind of “don’t worry” note in his voice that Artie had had. It didn’t sit as well on Richmond, however, and Jim glowered at him and got up to pace back and forth.             “What about putting a notice in the paper?” he asked. “It could say we’re looking for people who’ve had an encounter with a giant and a midget. That way we wouldn’t have to mention their sex being changed. Anyone who had been through the change would know what we meant.”             “That sounds good in theory,” Artie said slowly, “but the only person we know of so far who’s been changed, besides you, doesn’t sound like anyone who reads the paper. Can’t hurt to try it, though.”             “Here’s another idea, then,” Jim said. “Loveless must have to buy the things he uses. Even if he makes up his own drugs, he has to buy the raw materials somewhere. And what about his laboratory glassware and equipment? Where do your things come from, Artie?”             “Most of the chemicals I use can be purchased from any druggist,” Artie said. “But the glassware and equipment is all from James W. Queen and Company in Philadelphia. They’re the largest suppliers in the United States, but I doubt they have many customers in the far west. It might be relatively easy to narrow down a search to the most likely suspects, and find out where supplies are being shipped to. That’s a very good idea, Jim.”             “The office in Washington can send a man up to visit them,” Richmond said. “I’ll take care of that.”             “We need to be circulating pictures of Antoinette, too,” Jim went on. “She’s the only one of the three who can appear in ordinary society without stares and whispers. So she’s the most likely one to be out shopping for things. We need to send a sketch of her face to every newspaper in the country, starting first with every paper in California.”             His brain seemed to be working again, he thought, with a surge of amazement and gratitude. Why hadn’t he thought of all these things a couple of days ago? They might already have found Loveless.             “Here’s an idea,” Artie offered. “If Loveless really is planning to study psychosis, he might look for subjects in some of the asylums. We should try to find out the names of as many of them as possible and write to each one.”             “Those are all good ideas,” Richmond said, nodding. “I don’t think he has retired from bothering us, though, no matter what his note says.”             Artie glanced out the nearest window at the activity outside. “It’s late,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “Why don’t we have breakfast and then get started on the things we talked about?”             Richmond pulled out his pocket watch. “I’ve eaten, and I don’t have time to sit around. I have to meet with the mayor and the assistant governor to reassure them that Loveless isn’t prancing around changing all their male voting citizens into females. You two come to the office this afternoon at three, and we can talk over what we’ve done today.”             Artie clearly wasn’t enthusiastic about that idea. “We’re attending a dinner tonight, Walter. You remember my telling you about it—we think the host’s son might have been kidnaped by Loveless. We can’t be ready in time for the dinner if we have to be in the office at three. Why don’t we make it one o’clock?”             Richmond gave him an odd, puzzled look. “What time is the dinner? Seven? How could it take longer than half an hour to get ready, at the most? You can be back here by five. That’s plenty of time to dress and take a cab to this fellow’s house.”             Artie said patiently, “Jim has to attend as a woman. It’s going to take longer for him to get ready than if he were wearing men’s clothes, you know that.”             Richmond’s gaze swivelled around to Jim, and in it was something between pity and contempt. “One o’clock, then. Don’t be late.”             He held out his hand for the note. “I don’t know whether we have anything else with Loveless’s signature on it, but I’ll find out.”             He edged around Jim, stomped heavily to the end of the car and let himself out, leaving dead silence behind him.             Finally Jim asked, “What did he mean by saying ‘That didn’t take you long?’” It wasn’t something he’d wanted to ask while Richmond was there, but he was curious.             Artie sighed. “He knows me pretty well. I don’t suppose he expected anything better of me than to try to seduce you.”             “He knows… “ Jim got that far and ran down, uncertain how to ask that personal a question.             “That I’ve had sex with men? Yes.” Artie gave him a sideways glance. “He didn’t like it, but as long as I didn’t embarrass the Service or the president, he couldn’t do much.” He reached over to the nearest curtain and yanked it shut. “Christ, here I am sitting in my drawers with all the windows open. Let’s get dressed and we’ll go out for breakfast. I don’t feel like cooking anything this morning.”             Artie had a moody streak that didn’t show up very often. The only way to deal with it, Jim had learned a long time ago, was to wait it out. He got up and started toward his cabin. “Go ahead, then. I’ll be ready when you are.”             He didn’t want to go out in men’s clothing, but he wasn’t certain why. Trousers and a shirt were certainly more comfortable, but just now they didn’t feel right. He couldn’t touch Artie dressed like that, he realized finally, standing in front of the armoire and looking at the selection of dresses. As a woman, he could take Artie’s arm, could touch Artie with his hand or fingertips as they talked. It felt decidedly odd that being a woman did give him some advantages. He pulled on shift and petticoat, and the green dress with white cuffs and collar. Green wasn’t his favorite color, but the dress was darker than the others, and he felt less noticeable wearing it.             Artie gave him a raised eyebrow for his choice of costume, but didn’t comment on it until after he had lifted Jim down from the steps and they were walking toward the station. Jim tucked his hand into Artie’s arm, and Artie glanced over at him with understanding dawning on his face. “I see,” was all he said, but he took Jim’s hand and kept him close as they walked.             “Does it bother you very much that Richmond walked in on us like that?” Artie asked after a while. “I could see the kind of look he was giving you.”             “I’d just as soon it hadn’t happened,” Jim said honestly. “But if I can’t change back and we’re able to marry, everyone will know anyway. So I don’t see what difference it makes for him to find out now.”             “And if you do change back?”             “Then he can either accept it or not. I want to stay in the Service, Artie. But I won’t let that come between us.”             Artie squeezed his hand. “Everything’s upside down and inside out,” he said with a little sigh. “I want you to have your former self back, but if you do, we can’t walk along like this. And if you can’t change back and we marry, we may be allowed to continuing working together, but it won’t be the same. We both know that.” He looked over at Jim with a small smile. “Coming to my rescue, like you did this morning, isn’t going to be possible when we’re facing a real villain.”             “I would have punched Richmond, and he knew it,” Jim said with flat certainty. “But Artie, you’ll have to let me hold up my end of the work. And come to your rescue too, if need be.” He was disturbed by the ironic tone in Artie’s voice, as though his confrontation with Richmond had been rather amusing. Little minx, he could plainly hear.             Artie didn’t answer for a moment, just swung along the sidewalk with a shuttered expression. Then he took a deep breath and let it out again. “I’m not going to be very good at that.”             Jim pulled his hand out of Artie’s and stopped in his tracks. “You’ll have to be, Artie. This isn’t going to work at all otherwise. I won’t tolerate being just a decorative accessory.”             “Hush!” Artie hissed at him, as a group of men passed. He raised his hat to them, with a smile, and then turned back to Jim. “We can’t discuss this on the street. Here’s the hotel—let’s go in and order breakfast, and find a corner where we can talk in private.”             Smarting from the order to keep quiet, but aware of the logic of Artie’s suggestion, Jim followed him with compressed lips and a rising temper. When they were seated, he burst out, though in a low tone, “You haven’t treated me the way you would a woman this whole time, Artie, and now you’re saying you couldn’t work with me? And ordering me to be quiet? Why? Because we’ve been to bed together? Am I a different person now that I’ve—I’ve lost my virtue?”             “No!” Artie snapped back at him, and then, looking shocked, “No. I don’t think so.” He let his head sink into his hands. “Godammit, Jim!” Jim could hear him swallow heavily. After a moment, he looked up with a stricken face. “I don’t know.”             “If I were still a man, would you feel this way?” Jim asked more gently. “After we’d made love, I mean?”             Artie shook his head. “No.” He reached for Jim’s hand and held it, shaking his head. “How the hell did our lives get to be this complicated?” He gave Jim another miserable look. “I’ll tell you something else.” He looked away, but went on, “I’m liable to be a jealous man. I don’t like that in myself, but I know it’s there.”             “You’ve never acted that way with any women I’ve seen you with,” Jim said, a little surprised. Artie treated women politely enough, but there was often a sort of vague indifference to them that had amused Jim at times. When he realized that Artie loved men as well, he had thought he understood why. Jealousy seemed completely out of character.             “I never cared enough about anyone else to be possessive,” Artie said stiffly.             “You mean you couldn’t stand for me to flirt with another man to get information out of him.”             “Or see anyone making advances to you. Yes, that’s what I mean.”             “What if I get my own form back?” Jim asked carefully. “Are you going to feel the same way about my flirting with a woman for the same purpose?”             “I don’t know!” But Artie took a deep breath and admitted, “Probably not. And I can’t explain why, so don’t ask!”             Their waiter came up, and Artie squeezed Jim’s hand momentarily and let him go. “We’ll have a pot of coffee to start with.” He glanced at Jim. “Ham and eggs?”             Jim nodded. “And plenty of toast.”             The man went away, and Jim said with controlled anger, “If you think that our being intimate gives you the right to order me around, there is no way on God’s green earth that I’ll marry you.”             “I didn’t say it gave me any rights,” Artie fired back. “I’m not proud of—“ He broke off as the waiter returned with their coffee tray.             “I’m not trying to defend how I feel,” he went on in a lower voice after the man had poured their coffee and moved away. “I don’t want to feel this way with you. It’s like my body has taken over my brain, for God’s sake!”             Jim had to chuckle at that. “Well, now you know how I feel.”             Artie took his hand again and held it tightly. “I love you,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t want to treat you like just any woman. But I don’t know how to be different than I am.”             “What, Artemus Gordon, the great actor—“ Jim began, teasing, but Artie cut him off.             “I can act different all day long. It’s not the same.”             “No, I suppose it isn’t.” Jim sighed softly, and sipped his coffee. His stomach was bothering him again, a crampy pain that came and went in irregular pulses. He massaged his belly and tried to relax. The pain continued though, and by the time their food arrived, it was severe enough that he was no longer hungry. Even his chest felt odd, sore and heavy, as though the bodice of his dress was too tight.             “Are you feeling ill?” Artie asked, watching him closely.             “Not like yesterday, no. Not light-headed. I’ve just got some kind of stomach complaint, I suppose.”             He picked at his food half-heartedly. The eggs were fried just as he liked them, and the ham was thick and savory, but every time he tried to swallow a mouthful, the cramps struck him again.             Artie beckoned to the waiter and asked for a glass of wine. It was early enough that the public bar wasn’t yet open, but the waiter, helped along with a substantial coin, managed to locate an acceptable bottle and brought Jim a glass. The wine helped, but then, with not much besides coffee in his stomach, it did make him light-headed.             “We’d better go back to the train,” Artie said, worry shading his voice. He helped Jim up, left a handful of coins on the table and steered them toward the outside door. Jim managed to take three steps, and then the same sick feverish feeling as the day before whirled down over him.             “Artie—“ he managed to croak, before the dark took him.             The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back with a strange man bending over him. “Artie!”             “I’m right here, Jim.” He could feel Artie’s hand squeezing his, and managed to turn his head far enough to see Artie sitting next to him, pale and anxious. “You fainted. I was afraid to just take you back to the train. This is Dr. Benson.”             “Where … “             ”In the hotel. They let me carry you into one of the rooms.” He put out his hand as Jim struggled to sit up. “Don’t, Jim, you’re not strong enough!”             The doctor clapped a hand on Jim’s other shoulder. “Don’t be so hasty, young woman! You’re still white as a ghost.” He moved between Artie and Jim. “I’m going to ask your friend to step out for a moment, and then we need to have a little talk.”             “No, Artie stays!” Jim said adamantly. “There’s nothing you can’t say in front of him.” He wasn’t about to be left alone with a doctor whose notions of examination might have Artie charging back in there with accusations of molesting him. God, why did being a woman have to be so damned difficult!             The doctor’s face tightened. “Very well, but if you are embarrassed by what I have to say, that will be your own doing.” He hesitated, giving every evidence of being embarrassed himself. “Mrs. West, I understand you are a divorcee? How long have you been—um, separated from your husband?”             “Huh?” Jim asked blankly. “Why?”             “Because it is my duty to ask whether there is any possibility that you may need to be—ah, shall we say, confined, at some point in the coming months?”             “Confined?” Jim demanded. “Confined for what?”             To his surprise, Artie suddenly let out a barked laugh. “He’s asking if you’re pregnant,” he said dryly.             The doctor’s face turned pink. “I wouldn’t have phrased it in quite such an unvarnished fashion, but essentially, yes.”             “Then,” Jim said, annoyed with both of them, with the male posturing, “essentially, no.”             He did push himself up then, feeling considerably better. “I’m fine,” he said shortly. “I’m going back to the train.” He found when he tried to stand up that his shoes and stockings had been removed. Artie held the stockings out wordlessly, and then put on and laced up the shoes for him while the doctor stood looking on with great disapproval.             “What do we owe you?” Jim asked, with scant civility.             Dr. Benson shook his head, with a self-righteous expression. “I haven’t performed any services, so I wouldn’t think it proper to accept renumeration.”             “Fine. Let’s get out of here. Artie, see if the hotel wants anything for our use of the room.”             He turned his back on them, retrieved his hat, and walked unsteadily out of the room. The cramps were gone and the dizziness fast dissipating, but his gut still felt queasy, and he prayed that he wouldn’t throw up all over the hotel’s fine carpet. He was all the way to the lobby door before Artie caught up to him. “Will you at least let me take your arm?” Artie asked him in a low voice. “I don’t mean to imply that you can’t walk by yourself. I’d just like to know that I’ll be able to catch you if you pass out again.”             “I didn’t pass out. I fainted.” But he gave Artie his arm anyway. Whatever the terminology, he certainly would prefer to be caught before hitting the ground.             “Women faint,” Artie said, sounding genuinely amused. “Men pass out.”             “Oh. All right, I passed out, then.”             Artie squeezed his arm and they went on in silence, until Artie said, “Why did you want me to stay? When the doctor wanted to talk to you, I mean. I’m glad you did, but I’m still curious.”             “Hmph,” Jim snorted. “And have you come flying back in and punch him because you thought he might have touched me in the wrong place? Not a chance.”             “Oh.” There was another long silence, and then Artie said unhappily, “I suppose I’m going to have to get over that.”             “Which ‘that?’” Jim demanded. “Thinking you own me? Or that you can order me around? Or that we can’t work together because I might make eyes at another man? Or—“             ”Enough, enough!” Artie broke in. He was smiling, but ruefully. “All of the above, I suppose.”             “Yes, you are going to have to get over it.”             “And I’ll have to learn not to be humiliated when you give me orders in public, too?”             Jim stopped and looked at him. “That may be asking a bit much,” he admitted. “I’m sorry. I was angry. I didn’t stop to think how it would make you look.”             “I seem to have survived it.”             “Just don’t ever do it again?” Jim asked lightly, though in truth, there had been no hint of that in Artie’s voice.             “No, I wouldn’t ask you to promise that.”             Jim was tiring again, though the nausea had eased and his head was completely clear. “Let’s sit down here for a moment,” he suggested, when they came up into the station. “I’m all right. I just want to rest for a bit.”             “We need to arrange for your jewels tonight,” Artie said suddenly. “I wanted to take the gown to Jaime to make certain the rubies are the right color. Will you be all right here if I run on to the train and come back with your dress?”             “Yes, of course.”             Artie bent and gave him a swift light kiss, and then strode rapidly across to the other side of the station. Jim watched him go with a long internal sigh. One confrontation down, and how many more to go, he wondered. He would have to learn not to issue orders, but to phrase them as suggestions, if he wasn’t to emasculate Artie in front of other people. Artie would have to learn to trust him to be as effective as a woman as he had been as a man, even if his methods sometimes had to be different. Artie would have to learn not to be overly possessive, and he would have to learn not to get angry when it did inevitably happen now and then. What kind of marriage could they have if both of them had to change that drastically in order to live together? In spite of his deep feelings for Artie, he was beginning to wonder whether the impulsive marriage proposal, and his hasty acceptance of it, had been a good idea.             He was brooding on this and other problems when he became aware of a man watching him. The man had been standing in the shadow of one of the tall columns, but when Jim looked up and caught his eye, he stepped out and bowed.             “Forgive me,” he said pleasantly. “I didn’t mean to stare. You just remind me of someone.”             He was slim and dark, and rather foppishly dressed, and not anyone Jim could recall ever meeting before, though he did have an oddly familiar look. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Jim said, polite but dismissive.             “My loss,” the man said, with a another bow. He moved away, but Jim was aware of his presence, speaking to one of the station employees, looking up at the timetable, walking up and down as though waiting for his train. He did look familiar, but try as he might, Jim couldn’t think where they might have met, and he was reluctant to stare too pointedly in case the man decided to return. There had been nothing threatening about him, but Jim wasn’t in the mood for light conversation.             Artie was back suddenly, with the white-wrapped gown in his arms. “Do you know that man?” Jim began, pointing, but now that Jim was trying to find him, the man had disappeared. “Never mind. I saw someone I’m sure I must know, but I can’t remember who he is. He’s gone now.”             Artie scanned the crowd, but turned back, shaking his head. “I don’t see anyone who looks familiar.” He gave Jim his arm and steered them both out to the street again. “By the way, I ran into a newspaper friend of mine out on the platform. I gave him the gist of what we want to have printed in the paper, so that’s in hand.” He waved at a slowly moving hack, the driver obviously hoping for a fare. “Don’t argue about a cab. It’s too far to that part of town for you to walk, and I don’t want to risk dropping the dress in the mud if I get jostled.”             They rode to the street where the dressmakers and milliners had their establishments, and around the corner to Artie’s friend’s little shop. Jim had assumed that Jaime would be a wizened elderly man with a bald pate and a loupe in his eye, but he turned out to be no older than Artie himself, and possessed of at least as much hair.             “Rubies?” He drew the curtain back a little more to let in the noon-day sun. “Yes, you certainly can wear rubies. Nice coloring, bright eyes. You’ll be ravishing in rubies.”             “Do you have any that will look right with this?” Artie asked, unwrapping a corner of the gown’s covering.             “Oh my, what a delectable color!” Jaime pulled the sheet away. “And the lace! How absolutely stunning!” He shook the dress out, despite Artie’s attempt to hang on to it, and held it up to Jim. “My dear lady, you will be the belle of the ball. Yes, indeed, I have the perfect gems for you!”             He thrust the dress at Jim, and went swiftly into a curtained-off area at the back of the room. “Sorry,” Artie said under his breath, helping Jim fold the dress back into its covering. “He can be… “             ”Like you?” Jim asked, the light dawning suddenly. “Is he another of—you know… “             ”Not like me, no!” Artie said emphatically. “But yes, if I understand your meaning. Like me in that regard. Not in any other, I assure you.”             Jaime was back before Jim could sort out that rather cryptic statement, though he was pretty sure he knew what Artie meant. “This is for your bosom,” Jaime said, holding out a long double rope of rubies and freshwater pearls. And earrings—“ He held up a pair of matching earrings on gold posts. “But your ears—they aren’t pierced! How are you to wear earrings?”             “Can’t you mount them differently?” Artie asked. “I’ve seen earrings that clipped onto the earlobe.”             Jaime shook his head. “These would be too heavy. But no matter,” he added, addressing Jim. “We can pierce your ears. You’ll have to put the earrings on immediately and wear them until after the ball, but then we’ll put thread in the holes until they heal. Just sit right here.”             He had Jim’s arm in his hand and was urging him to sit down before Jim realized what he meant to do. “Oh, no, there aren’t going to be any holes in my ears!” Jim declared, snatching himself out of Jaime’s grasp. “No, absolutely not!”             “It isn’t painful, I assure you,” Jaime said earnestly. “Please, Mrs. West, do be reasonable.”             “No! You aren’t going to pierce my ears! Artie, stop him!”             Laughing, Artie stepped between them. “Jaime, give up. It’s no use arguing. You’ll have to come up with some other way to fasten the earrings.”             “But it will ruin the line!” Jaime wailed. “Oh, well! We must do what we must do.” He went back to a little workbench, saying sulkily over his shoulder, “You always want something special, Artemus!”             Jim glanced sideways at a rather red-faced Artie, but made no comment, and after a few moments of tapping and muttered complaint, Jaime was back with a much abbreviated pair of earrings mounted to posts with little screws on the back. “I’ve had to simply ruin the setting to reduce the weight” he grumbled. “And they won’t be as secure—the screw posts never are. Don’t come back to me and say that one of them just fell off and you don’t know where it went!”             “We’ll expect to pay for it if that happens,” Artie told him “In fact, I’d like to give you a deposit against their purchase anyway.”             “Artemus!” Jaime said, almost reprovingly. “You are smitten, aren’t you! Well, I’ll never turn down money!”             “Artie,” Jim said unhappily. “Don’t buy those. Please. I don’t wear gems. And what would we do if—“ He couldn’t say more, but he knew Artie would understand.             Artie was silent for a long moment, and then shrugged. “As you say.” He gave Jim a rueful glance. “It gives me pleasure to buy things for you. I suppose that’s another of the things I’ll have to get over.”             Jim chuckled, and said, to Jaime’s obvious horror, “Just make some more of that nasty-smelling stuff, and some explosives to scatter around if I need them.”             “My dear Artemus! What kind of woman have you taken up with now!” Jaime’s exaggerated dismay had them all laughing, and in a good mood for the first time that day, Jim followed Artie out into the sun, clutching the little bag with the rubies and pearls in it.             “Want me to put that in my breast pocket?” Artie asked, and Jim handed it to him gratefully.             “Please. That’ll be a lot more secure.”             Artie said rather wistfully, “I understand why it’s not sensible to buy them. But it’s hard not to wish that I could, and that you could wear them again.” He glanced at Jim with a sigh. “I don’t mean to suggest that I wish… oh, hell.” They went on for another few steps. “Of course I wish—please don’t be angry with me. I wish you could be two people. Both of you.”             “One to work with and one to take to bed?” Jim asked lightly, though without censure. He thought he understood what Artie was feeling.             To his surprise, though, Artie laughed and said, “Now that would be a pickle! I’d have to have you both by turns, if you’d let me. I think we’d better not even talk about that! No, what I meant was that you fulfill all the things I find attractive—beauty, intelligence, courage, high ideals. I just never found all of them in one woman before. So it’s hard not to wish that you could be you again, as you were, but that you could still stay as you are now.”             “Beauty?” Jim asked, puzzled. “But I’m not particularly attractive, Artie. And don’t argue with me—I’ve seen myself in the mirror enough times now to know.”             Artie gave him an astonished look. “Where are your eyes? You can’t believe you’re not beautiful!”             “I’m not ugly. Just—plain.”             Artie took his shoulders and turned him to look into the window of the shop they were passing. “You have the same eyes,” he said in a low voice in Jim’s ear. “I’ve always loved your eyes. The same long neck, like a Greek statue. The same wide brow, with your hair waving over it. Your mouth is as full and soft as it was, and believe me, I admired your mouth from afar long before I was able to enjoy it up close.” He stepped back a little. “Why, James, you’re blushing!”             A passerby gave them a strange look, and Jim, who was indeed hot with embarrassment, took advantage of the interruption to walk on down the street. “You’re prejudiced,” he said, when he had his wits about him again. But he couldn’t deny that he was pleased. He had never been preoccupied with his looks as a man, but he’d been told by enough women that he was handsome for him to believe it. Seeing himself as a rather unremarkable woman hadn’t distressed him—there was too much else to be upset about for him to dwell on his face—but he was pleased to know that Artie, at least, found him attractive.             “So I am,” Artie said equably. “And I’m afraid all your dancing partners are going to feel the same way tonight.”             Jim stopped dead. “Dancing partners? I can’t dance with anyone!”             “Why not? You dance very well.”             “Not with a man! I’ve never danced with another man, Artie. I’ll make a fool of myself.”             “Hmm. That is a good point.” Artie urged him on. “We can practice. I’ve got some new recordings—my friend Tom Edison sent them out to me. They’re all waltzes, but I have some other pieces as well, for the different rhythms.”             “I suppose that’s a good idea. But there’s not much room on the train for waltzing.”             “We’ll make do. Better than no practice at all. You’ll be fine, though.”             A church bell tolled once, and Artie cocked his head. “Is that twelve thirty, or one o’clock? I haven’t been paying enough attention to the time.”             He pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s one already, dammit, but we’re only a couple of blocks from the office. Can you walk any faster?”             “Sure. I’m fine. Whatever was bothering me earlier seems to have passed completely.”             They were late, to Richmond’s obvious disapproval, but Jim was happy to report that at least one of the projects was under way. For his part, Richmond had arranged for a man from Washington to visit the offices of James W. Queen to examine their sales records. Artie suggested that the newspaper’s staff artist might be able to create a passable sketch of Antoinette from his and Jim’s descriptions of her. Fred Ennis reported on his still fruitless search for signs of Loveless, and William Trilby sat through the entire meeting in complete and useless silence, staring with morbid fascination at Jim. No one, fortunately, asked what was wrapped in the large bundle Artie was carrying.             “God, I’m glad that’s over with!” Jim declared, as they came out of the building into the late afternoon sun.             “About time, too,” Artie said with irritation. “I knew it was going to drag on. We have to get back to the train as quickly as possible, if we’re going to have time for everything. Are you hungry? Do you want some dinner?”             Jim shook his head. “Every time I eat something, my stomach starts to act up. I’d better not. But what do we have to do besides dressing and practicing for the dancing?”             Artie said rather diffidently, “I arranged for someone to come and do your hair. I can make you look respectable enough for ordinary occasions, especially if you’re wearing a hat, but something like this is beyond my skills.”             “A hairdresser?” Jim shook his head. “My God, what next! Just don’t get any ideas about wigs or false curls.”             Artie shook his head. “No wigs. I’m not sure about added curls. Wait to see how you look before jumping to conclusions, will you, please? And can’t you just think of it as a disguise?”             “Of course.” Jim glanced at Artie. “I do think you enjoy dressing me up, though.”             Artie laughed out loud. “I always liked to see you dressed up. You used to break hearts in ruffles and a cummerbund.”             Jim smiled and took Artie’s arm as they walked up the street. For whatever reason, he was feeling more energetic that he had since the previous morning, and more in control of his brain as well. The wide emotional swings of the past few days seemed to have settled down. Whether that meant he had become resigned to his condition, or was simply heartened to see the efforts being made on his behalf, he didn’t know, and didn’t want to speculate.             Dancing turned out to be less difficult than he had expected, at least with Artie. “Close your eyes,” Artie said. “Just follow the movements of my body.” That was successful enough that Artie informed him crossly that he didn’t need to be quite so responsive to the bodies of his other partners, leaving Jim laughing and much less worried about the evening’s outcome.             “I’ll warn any man who wants to dance with me that I’ve got two left feet,” he said. It had felt strangely comfortable to let Artie twirl him around. His primary fear, that he would try to lead, hadn’t surfaced at all in his concentration on Artie’s movement. Of course, the primary problem for both of them, in the train, was to avoid falling over the furniture. It remained to be seen how he would do on a dance floor. But their few minutes of practice was enough that he no longer worried about embarrassing himself.             The hairdresser turned out to be a young Creole woman who took one look at Jim’s short hair and declared that braids were the only solution. She didn’t specify what kind of braids, only tugged and braided, and braided and tugged, while Jim, deprived of a mirror so he couldn’t object until she was finished, watched Artie’s face for a clue to the results. Artie’s pursed lips worried him at first, but by the end of the process, Artie was smiling.             “You will astonish everyone,” he pronounced. “No one will forget you. Celestine, my dear, where is the mirror?”             “Astonishing people isn’t really what I had in mind,” Jim muttered, but when he saw himself in the looking glass, he was the one to be astonished. Rows of tiny braids ran horizontally around his head, completely disguising the length of his hair. The hair on his crown stood up in disarray, but Celestine went into the galley and came back with a heated curling iron, and began to twirl it into little ringlets. When she finished, it was as though a different person looked back at him from the mirror.             Artie held one of the earrings up to Jim’s ear. “Look at yourself,” he said softly. “The pearls are the same color as your skin, and the rubies make your eyes sparkle even more than usual.”             Celestine said comfortably, “Madame will have to fight the gentlemen off tonight.”             Jim pushed the mirror away. “It’s not me,” he said, more distressed than he’d been since the beginning of his ordeal. “That person isn’t me.”             But Celestine patted his shoulder. “Non, non,” she declared. “No one is herself at a ball. It is like a masque, oui? You put on the face you wish others to see.”             Jim nodded unhappily. He could vaguely hear Celestine admonishing him to wear just a dusting of powder on his face and neck, and the lightest touch only of rouge. She poured something into her palms and patted it lightly all over his head—to keep his hair in place, she said—and then she had gathered up her tools, and Artie was paying her and escorting her from the train.             Jim picked up the mirror again and studied his reflection. He held up the earring Artie had laid down and looked at how it set off the angle of his jaw, and how the lamplight gleamed on the gems. With his hair tight against his scalp, his head looked smaller than before, and the texture of the braids dispersed the light and made his hair seem lighter than it actually was. He thought he had become accustomed to seeing himself as a woman, but he was wrong. He didn’t know this woman at all.             Artie came back through the car and saw his expression. “It’s a shock, I know,” he said softly. “I felt the same way the first time I wore stage paint. But it’s only for the evening.”             Jim leaned back against him and let Artie hold him for a moment. “I know. But a lot of people are going to meet me for the first time tonight, and think this is… me. When you’re on stage, at least people know they’re not seeing a real person. They know it’s pretend.”             Artie chuckled. “Believe me, the other women will know you don’t always look like this. They’re going to be doing their best to look like someone else too.”             Jim asked in curiosity, “Do you feel like a different person when you’re in evening wear? I don’t think I ever did.”             Artie shook his head. “Not always. In tails, yes, but that’s such a dramatic outfit that it almost demands a change of personality to go along with it.” He flashed a grin at Jim. “In tails, I always imagine I’m a world-renowned conductor.” He snatched up a pen and gestured wildly as he vocalized the opening phrase of the Blue Danube. “La la da di da, dum dum, dum dum!”             Jim made an awkward stiff curtsy and held out his hand, and Artie tossed the pen onto the table and pulled him close again, whirling him around as he hummed the melody. Artie’s voice cracked when he reached the high note, and they collapsed against each other in unforced and genuine laughter.             “Jim… “ Artie murmured, holding him close, “I’ve wanted to kiss you all day, and now I’m afraid I’ll ruin your hair, dammit!”             Jim turned his head to meet Artie’s eager lips. “You don’t have to touch my hair,” he whispered, between ardent kisses. They had hardly touched all day, and raw desire washed over him.             “I’d like to touch something else!” Artie pulled back a little, fumbling with the buttons on Jim’s bodice. “You know why men like women to have their buttons in the back, don’t you?”             “I’m beginning to see why,” Jim said dryly. It was odd, he thought, that he’d never thought of the arrangement in that light before. “Careful, you’ll pull them off!” He pushed Artie’s hands away and undid the buttons himself.             Artie was being equally hasty with his own buttons and ties, scattering clothing everywhere. “For God’s sake, go lock the door!” Jim said breathlessly, thinking of the scene that would ensue if Richmond were to walk in on them right now. He yanked the curtains closed, thankful that it was still bright enough outside that no one could have seen in.             Artie came back, shedding boots, trousers and drawers behind him and stooping to yank off his stockings. Jim had gotten down to shoes and stockings, and was trying, with stiff fingers, to undo his shoelaces. “Never mind them!” Artie said, his voice rough with desire. “Just come here.”             He pulled Jim to him, his prick stabbing into Jim’s belly, and they kissed again, writhing against each other. Jim was wet, and quivering with need, and he knew they weren’t going to use other methods this time.             Artie buried his head in Jim’s neck. “Stop me!” He demanded, his voice muffled. “God, Jim, stop me!”             But Jim didn’t want to stop him, and in a moment Artie had pushed him against the back of the sofa, his legs apart and the way open for Artie to drive hard into him. He had thought it might hurt, in spite of the frantic need, but there was only the incredible feeling of Artie hard as a spear inside him, deep inside him where nothing had touched him ever before. He dug his fingers into Artie’s back and clutched Artie to him with his legs, until the rush of raw uncontrollable sensation pulsed and ebbed and pulsed again, and Artie shoved hard into him one last time and went rigid. Jim could feel the jerking of Artie’s prick and the heavy spurting of his come, and it set off another round of throbbing inside him. They clung to each other, gasping, half-sobbing, until Artie sagged away with his hands straddling Jim on the back of the sofa, and Jim collapsed against his shoulder.             “So much for good intentions,” Artie rasped, still breathing hard. He didn’t sound like a man who had just fucked his lover into near insensibility. He didn’t sound happy.             “‘s all right,” Jim murmured. “It’ll be all right, Artie. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.”             The back of the sofa was beginning to be extremely uncomfortable against his ass, and he stood gingerly, pushing Artie away.             “Hell, you’ve probably got bruises on your behind,” Artie said in disgust. “I’m sorry. I don’t know when I’ve lost control of myself like that.” He turned Jim’s face up to his. “Did I hurt you? I’m ashamed to say I wasn’t paying attention.”             “No,” Jim said, with a little snort. “When they were concocting their little drug, they apparently forgot the part where it’s supposed to hurt the first time.”             “I don’t know how you can be so casual about it,” Artie complained. “My God, I virtually raped you, and you’re making jokes!”             Jim had to laugh at that. “I wasn’t exactly fighting you off, or didn’t you notice that either?”             “Suppose you had been,” Artie said, looking away. “I don’t know if I could have stopped.”             “You would have stopped. You would have, Artie.”             Artie nodded finally, letting his breath out as though it had been hurting him. “Yes. I would have stopped. I couldn’t have raped you.”             Jim leaned against him, and they held on to each other for a long moment. “Next time in bed, all right?” Jim said, smiling. He sensed that Artie was still distressed about their sex, but the very violence of it nearly had him aroused all over again, just thinking about it. There was something primeval and atavistic in Artie’s need for him that satisfied him emotionally in a way that the physical sensations of sexual intercourse had never done. He’d felt that need himself in the past, but had never guessed how it would seem to his partner.             Artie gave him a long look. “Next time?” he asked. “Are you willing to risk a next time, knowing you could become pregnant? I promised you I wouldn’t take that chance.”             Jim said thoughtfully, “You know, I always thought it would be nice to be a father. I’m not sure I’m ready for the idea of being a mother! But women have gotten through it for eons.” He gave Artie a sideways glance. “Or is it the ‘father’ part you don’t want?”             “I don’t want anything to do with parenthood,” Artie said flatly. But his face softened, and he added, “If it does happen, I suppose I’ll turn into as drooling and doting a father as anyone could ask for.”             “The part of it that’s bothering me,” Jim said, easing away from Artie, “is that it isn’t bothering me as much as I think it should.” He glanced at the mantel clock. “Good God, Artie, it’s after five. Don’t we need to be getting ready?”             Artie took his shoulders from behind and kissed him softly on the neck. “You continue to amaze me,” he said. “I would have expected you to run screaming from the idea of bearing a child.”             “I’m not exactly enthusiastic about it! But I’ve held babies before, and never dropped one. I suppose I could manage one of my own if I had to.” He could hardly believe what he was hearing himself say, but the notion truly wasn’t as horrifying as he would have expected it to be.             “And nursing?” Artie asked, a little sardonically. “Think you could do that too?”             “Not if it feels like it did when you were suckling on them!” Jim answered, laughing. The breasts were tingling, in fact, though Artie had barely touched them this time. And his stomach was cramping again, but not so much that it really bothered him, and there was none of the nausea he’d had earlier. He decided not to mention it to Artie, who would only worry. “Come on, you’re going to have to help me with this dress. And I’d really like to bathe first.”             As it often had before, the sex had energized him. He slipped away from Artie and went back to the privy. There wasn’t time to heat water for a proper bath, but the day had been a hot one, and the water in the basin was pleasantly cool. He washed all over, and came back into the parlor wrapped in a towel to find that Artie had laid out the dress. It looked huge to him, more full-skirted than anything he’d worn so far, and he was clearly going to have to resign himself to the multiple petticoats Mrs. Lamberte had included with it.             Artie came in from the galley, wearing only the towel with which he was patting his freshly shaven face. “Time for the show, I suppose,” he said, not sounding as enthusiastic as Jim would have expected, from his earlier behavior.             “Why so glum?” he asked. “You’re taking a beautiful woman to dinner and a ball—you’re supposed to be happy!”             “Damned if I know,” Artie said, shrugging. He gave Jim a puzzled look. “Why are you so cheerful? The last time you had to dress up, you practically refused to put on the gown, and here you are positively grinning.”             “Damned if I know either. This whole business is still like some kind of crazy dream. Maybe I’ve just gotten over feeling as though it’s a nightmare.”             He went into his cabin to find a clean pair of drawers, the silk stockings they had purchased for the occasion, and the whale-bone camisole he had worn with the other low-necked dress, remembering how outlandish he’d felt with his breasts pushed up for everyone to see. For this gown, he had insisted on a panel of concealing lace across the upper bodice, much to Mrs. Lamberte’s despair, but he thought he would still need the support of the camisole. He put a shift on over it, and went back out to the parlor to tackle the gown. With Artie’s help, all the buttons, hooks and ties were finally buttoned, hooked and tied, the petticoats were fluffed into place and the sash tied into a huge bow in the back. Artie stood back to look at him and nodded with satisfaction. He seemed to have regained some of his normal good humor; he wore his tuxedo with his usual suave elegance, and had brushed his hair into gleaming waves.             “Ravishing, as Jaime said you would be,” he pronounced. “Now, the rubies.” He lifted the long twisted rope of rubies and pearls over Jim’s head, and handed him the earrings. “I wish we’d thought about another ring,” he said. “A cluster of rubies and pearls on a gold band would have been the perfect finishing touch.”             “The one I’m wearing is just fine,” Jim told him, with a swift kiss for the compliments. He caught sight of himself in the long mirror and stared in amazement. He had seen the dress on himself before, at Mrs. Lamberte’s. But the combination of dress, jewels and hair made him another person altogether. A little of the earlier fear crept back, but he put it down. This was a disguise, as Artie maintained. By morning, the braids would be combed out, the dress back in its white cover, the gloves that Artie was producing now could be packed away, and the rubies returned to Jaime. It would be like a Cinderella dream, and he could go back to whatever it was that passed for normal now in his life. He pressed his lips together, and turned to put on the gloves.             “Let me put a bit of powder on your cheeks,” Artie said, “and a little rouge for your lips. I don’t think you’ll need it anywhere else. Don’t argue with me now, please. It’s for effect, nothing more.”             Jim closed his mouth on the objection he’d been about to make, and stood obediently still for Artie to brush powder on his face. Artie dipped his finger into a little pot of rouge and patted it on his lips, and turned Jim to look into the mirror again. “All right?” he asked softly. “I didn’t put much on, you can see that.”             Jim shrugged slightly. “I don’t know this person,” he said, gesturing at the mirror, “but if you don’t mind being seen in public with her, I guess I’ll have to stand it too.”             Artie chuckled and dropped a kiss behind his ear. “Can I persuade you to wear a little scent?” he asked. “Nothing strong, I promise.”             “Why not? I’m wearing silk, lace, jewels, artificial curls, high heels, rouge and face powder. What’s a little scent, on top of all that?” But the comment was good-natured. Perfume was the least of the transformation in his person, in truth.             But when Artie came back with two bottles and asked him to pick the one he preferred, he balked. Both of them stung his nostrils and aggravated the increasing discomfort in his gut. “I don’t like either of them,” he said. “I don’t mind wearing something light, but those are really unpleasant.”             Artie gave him an odd look, but put the bottles back on the table. “Some rosewater, then? It’s hardly noticeable at all.”             Jim agreed to at least sniff it, and nodded. “That’s all right. Just a little, though.” He was going to get through this evening without nausea no matter what he had to do. A familiar sort of tension had been building in him for hours now, the same kind of certainty he’d felt on other occasions when a case was approaching its close. Something was going to happen tonight. He had no notion of what it might be, but he wasn’t going to take a chance on being incapacitated and unable to take advantage of it.             He had forgotten all about Artie’s little pea-sized bombs until Artie brought him a large corsage and showed him what was concealed in the flute of paper that supported the flowers. Instead of a tube of water, there was a metal cylinder with a plug of red sealing wax. “If you need to use these,”Artie said, showing him how easily the was could be pulled off, “throw them down hard on the floor. They should go off from the impact. Don’t just toss them out and hope someone will step on one. Throw each one down individually, as hard as you can.”             Jim nodded and stuck the wax firmly back on top of the tube. “What about the stinky stuff?” he asked.             “Got it right here.” Artie showed him a handful of glass ampules. “Put a couple of these in your sash. If you need to get rid of someone and don’t want to attract a lot of attention, just pull one out and crush it, and then smear the salve that’s inside on the fellow’s clothing. The odor will get on your hands, but it washes off pretty easily. It won’t come out of fabric, though, unless the garment is thoroughly washed, so be careful not to get it on your dress. Wipe it on the man’s shirt, if you can, so he can’t just take his jacket off and get away from it. And then wash your hands as quickly as you can so the odor doesn’t stay on you.”             Jim slipped two of the ampules into the folds of his sash, and then gave Artie an inquiring look. “Are we ready to go?”             “Do you have your knife?”             Jim grimaced and went back to his cabin for it. “You’ll have to put it on for me. I’m not sure I could reach it if I needed it anyway.”             He put his left leg on a stool and pulled up the layers of fabric around his ankles, and Artie strapped the little knife in its sheath around his calf.             “No derringer in your bosom?” Artie asked, with a smile, and then answered his own question, “Wouldn’t do for it to fall out while you were dancing, I suppose. All right, let’s get ourselves out of here and on the way.”             Jim’s voluminous skirts made it difficult to go through the narrow door of the parlor car, and he nearly tripped over it several times as they made their way across the railyard. But he was in a good mood and made light of the problems, and Artie’s spirits seemed to lighten as well. When the cab pulled up in front of the Speedwells’ brilliantly lighted mansion, they were both keyed-up and looking forward to the evening. Jim hadn’t been able to convey to Artie his sense of anticipation, not in front of the cab driver, but he and Artie had always been very closely attuned to the nuances of a case and to each other.             The courtyard in front of the house was crowded with cabs and private carriages, and knots of people stood speaking to each other or walking up the broad steps. Artie bowed and Jim nodded, smiling at everyone, wondering what they saw when they looked at him. A few of the men were obviously intrigued; a few of the women had raised eyebrows for his unorthodox hair, but no one challenged them. And he was relieved to see that his gown, while certainly one of the more splendid, was not out of character for the crowd of women in general.             A colored manservant met them at the door, and gestured toward a room whose long white-draped table was visible from the hall. “Mr. and Mrs. Speedwell are receiving guests in the dining room,” he intoned, and Artie swept them across the checkered tile and through a wide arch.             “That’s Speedwell,” he whispered to Jim, tilting his head toward an older man in evening wear, with a thin woman in pale blue standing nearby. “The woman next to him must be his wife. I had a glimpse of her when I was here before, but we weren’t introduced.”             Speedwell looked a bit puzzled when Jim and Artie came up to him, but Artie reminded him, “Joseph Tice introduced us, sir. May I present my friend, Mrs. West? Mrs. Jemima West, Mr. Speedwell.”             Jim smiled and nodded all over again. “My pleasure, sir.” He glanced at the woman in blue, expecting Speedwell to introduce her, but the man merely grunted and turned away to the next group of people who had come in. Jim and Artie exchanged a glance, and Artie bowed to the woman with his most charming smile. “Mrs. Speedwell? I’m Artemus Gordon, and this is Mrs. West.”             She looked strained and nervous. “Pleased to meet you. Good of you to come. Please excuse me. Beautiful gown, Mrs. West. I have to go now.” Not just nervous, Jim thought, but nearly jumping out of her skin. There was no obvious reason for her tension, but she almost scuttled away.             “That is decidedly odd,” Artie murmured. “Perhaps you should follow her and ask if something is wrong.”             Jim nodded. “Good idea.” The door through which Mrs. Speedwell had exited so quickly gave onto a long hallway that apparently separated the common areas of the house from the private rooms. But there was no sign of her from one end to the other. He went down the hall, glancing into those doors that were open, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. In one room, several small children were being readied for bed by a Mexican woman, and in another, a young man sat reading in the fading light of the sun. He glanced up in surprise as Jim looked in.             “Forgive me,” Jim said, smiling at him, “I thought I saw Mrs. Speedwell come down this way.”             The boy shook his head. “That’s my mother. I didn’t see her, though. Maybe she went into the kitchen.”             Curious, Jim asked, “You’re Winston Speedwell, the boy they were saying was kidnaped?”             The boy’s face stiffened. “No.” He seemed to realize how abrupt that was, and added, “Win was—is my brother. He ran away. We don’t know where he is.”             “Oh. I’m sorry.” Jim studied the boy for a moment. Losing one’s brother was surely sufficient cause for distress, but he didn’t seem worried or upset. Just oddly nervous. “Was he older than you, or younger?”             “Older. I’m thirteen. He was almost fifteen.” The boy got up and came to the door. “If you want my mother, you can ask Abijah, the butler. He should be in the front hall. I’m sorry. I have to study for my exams.” And he pushed the door shut almost in Jim’s face.             Jim turned slowly and went back through the dining room into the great parlor on the other side of the front hall. He’d been right, he thought. Something was going on here. The very air seemed to quiver with unseen conflicts, half-perceived tensions. He had to run a gauntlet of smiling men and their not-quite smiling wives to locate Artie, but he’d had some practice at that sort of thing, even if he’d been in a tux on the other occasions instead of a velvet gown with rubies at his bosom. He could feel the earrings swinging against his neck with every step, and held his head higher. He’d be damned if he wouldn’t carry the part, whatever he had to do.             Artie was deep in conversation with a familiar-looking man, and to his surprise, Jim realized it was Fred Ennis. He’d never seen Ennis in anything but a food-stained shirt and weskit, and rumpled trousers, and often not even recently shaven. This was a completely different Ennis, not as nattily dressed as most of the other men, but clean, barbered, shaven and well-pressed. Ennis looked up as Jim approached. His eyes widened and his mouth opened, but he recovered swiftly. “I don’t know whether I should bow, or kiss your hand,” he said, not looking terribly disconcerted at Jim’s appearance.             “Kiss my hand and I’ll punch you,” Jim said happily. “What are you doing here? Don’t think I’m not glad to see you, just curious.”             “Richmond wangled an invitation for him,” Artie said. “Very happy to have you here, Fred. This place is a veritable stew of anxious people.”             “I met another Speedwell son,” Jim told them. “He didn’t want to talk about his brother. Spoke of him as though he was dead at first, and then said he’d run away and no one knew where he was.”             Fred nodded. “That would be Ned, the younger one. There’s a married daughter too. She doesn’t live here, but I saw her husband when I came in, so they must be visiting.”             “Do they have a couple of little ones?” Jim asked. “I saw some children who looked too young to be Speedwell’s kids, but they could be grandchildren.”             “Yeah, they have two children. Another one on the way, I hear.” He touched Artie’s arm. “There’s Robert Calder, the banker. He sent a note to the office that he wanted to see me. He won’t have expected me to turn up here, so maybe I can catch him off guard and get something useful out of him. I’ll talk to you two later.”             “Ennis is a good agent,” Jim said, watching him walk away. “It’s too bad he isn’t officer-in-charge. Trilby is a joke.”             “Perhaps we can do something about that. I was very glad to see him here tonight.”             Jim glanced at him, but Artie’s face didn’t reveal what he was probably thinking. He’s glad to have a man to back him up, Jim thought, somewhat resentfully.             But there were things he could do that neither Artie nor Fred could tackle, so he set about doing them. People were drifting toward the dining room, and he smiled or nodded or lowered his eyes provocatively at each one he passed, depending on how he thought it would be received. He made a point of trying to be pleasant and friendly to all the women. Women knew what was going on in a household; that wasn’t something he’d just learned, by any means. Next to the servants, the mistress of the house held more secrets than most husbands, and he would find out what wasn’t being talked about in this one.             He had hoped to be seated with Artie, but a smiling young woman—the older Speedwell daughter, he guessed—steered him to a place between two men, one young and one quite old. The older man looked vaguely familiar, and when he introduced himself as Major Andrews, Jim realized that they had served together briefly. The years since the war had not been kind to him. His face was puffy, his hairline receding and his hand shook when he poured Jim’s wine. He seemed unlikely to be much help in finding Loveless, but Jim smiled and nodded anyway. You never knew what might come out of a conversation.             The other man was about Jim’s age, or perhaps younger, and watching him speak with familiarity to Speedwell’s daughter, Jim realized this must be her husband, Speedwell’s son-in-law. He gave Jim a friendly smile and held out his hand. “Henry Grandin,” he said. “I heard your friend introduce you as Mrs. West, is that right?”             “That’s right. And you’re married to Mr. Speedwell’s daughter?”             “Yes, indeed, isn’t she lovely? My dearest Eliza. What a happy man I am!” His puppyish joy was contagious, and Jim smiled back. Grandin hardly seemed like the kind of personality that Speedwell would approve of in a son-in-law, but perhaps the man only wished his daughter to be happy.             “How very nice,” Jim said sincerely. “I know Mrs. Grandin must be very happy too, in spite of all the gossip going around about her brother. I was talking to Ned earlier, you know.”             That was about as bald an attempt at digging as he dared, and some dreadful name-dropping as well, but Grandin seemed oblivious to it..”Oh, dear,” he said. “Poor Winnie. I mean—you know, it’s been a shock for everyone.”             “I could see how terribly upset Ned’s mother was.” He wished he’d thought to ask Artie about her first name—pretending intimacy with someone always worked better if you knew their name—but Grandin just blathered on.             “Oh, heavens, yes. Just prostrate at first. She’s putting on a good face now—what else can they do? But Eliza says her mother hasn’t slept the night through since it happened.”             Jim crossed his fingers in his lap and took a big chance. “They haven’t—you know, moved him, have they?”             “No, no, he’s still here. Out of sight, of course. Father Speedwell says it’s the boy’s own fault—if he hadn’t tried to run away, he’d still be safe at home, and still the heir to everything. But of course, Win never cared about that.”             Jim took another chance, based on a look that he hadn’t liked to see on a thirteen-year-old’s face. “I suppose Ned is just as happy, though. If Winnie didn’t want it anyway.”             Grandin’s face showed something besides childish naivete for just a moment. “Ned… No, I don’t suppose he minds. Strange little boy, Ned.” Another smile swept across his face. “My boys aren’t anything like Ned.”             “Of course not!” Jim said stoutly, prepared to support almost any statement if it would keep Grandin talking.             A line of white-clad Mexican servants began to set plates in front of everyone, and the conversations around the table broke up. Jim’s stomach gave a warning rumble as he looked at the plate, and smelled the food. There was nothing wrong with the food. It was a perfectly ordinary cutlet with a fragrant red sauce, but Jim couldn’t contemplate the idea of eating it. He reached for his wine glass instead and sipped it slowly, in between cutting the meat into bite-sized pieces and moving them around absently on the plate. The wine was going to make him tipsy if he didn’t eat something, but considering what previous reactions he’d had to eating, a mild case of tipsiness was probably preferable. He could see Artie glancing at him anxiously from halfway down the table, and smiled to show he was all right.             Major Andrews cleared his throat with a harrumph. “Dear Mrs. West, you must eat or you’ll have no energy for dancing.”             He’d had two glasses of wine, and Jim suspected he’d fortified himself from the drinks tray in the parlor long before the meal had begun. “I’m watching my figure, sir,” Jim said, with what he hoped was a flirtatious smile.             Andrews smirked and bent closer, making Jim very thankful he’d insisted on the lace over his bosom. “If you’re not promised to someone else, may I have the first dance?” His breath was very sour, and his red nose veined and lumpy. Jim resisted the urge to draw back.             “I am engaged for the first dance, and Mr. Grandin has very kindly asked me for the second one,” Jim said, baldly lying. “But I’ll be happy to give you the third.” He turned and put his hand on Grandin’s arm. “You were so kind to ask me for the second dance, Mr. Grandin.”             Grandin opened his mouth, looked at Andrews hanging over Jim’s shoulder, and said gallantly, “Next to my Eliza, you’re the most beautiful woman in the room! How could I not ask?”             “The third dance, then,” Andrews said, with a leer, before turning back to his wine.             Jim gave Grandin a brilliant smile and bent close to whisper, “Thank you, indeed. If I’m lucky, the major will be so drunk by then that I won’t have to make good on my promise.”             Grandin broke out into peals of laughter, and Jim could see how attractive he would have been to a young woman brought up in what was probably not a happy household. The young woman herself looked fondly down the table at him, apparently not at all worried about his tete a tete with a strange woman. It must be nice, Jim thought a little wistfully, to have that kind of relationship with one’s mate. Could he and Artie find such happiness? The tensions between them made it unlikely, unless he could return to his true self, and then, no matter how ecstatic they were in each other, they would have to hide it from everyone else. It wasn’t fair.             But a lot of things weren’t fair, including a fifteen-year-old boy trapped in a girl’s body. It had been traumatic enough for himself, Jim thought, with Artie’s love and support to sustain him. What must Winnie Speedwell be going through! He had to find the boy and let him know that he wasn’t alone, that other people were trying to find Loveless.             The woman across the table was trying to get his attention, and Jim gave her a startled smile. “Forgive me,” he said, “my mind was wandering. What did you say?”             “Your friend mentioned Joseph Tice. Do you know the Tice’s? Rose is my sister-in-law.”             “No, I met them only once. We sat with them at dinner in the Imperial last Saturday. What a nice lady Mrs. Tice is, though. I liked her very much.” The small talk came more easily than he had expected. It helped that he was speaking the truth. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Ji—Jemima West.”             “And I’m Louisa Malcolm. My husband is sitting across from your friend. He’s the new trade envoy to China, so we’ll be leaving soon.”             “To live in China?” Jim asked in surprise. “That’s a very long trip to a very strange place.”             She gave him a brave smile. “Indeed. I’m not certain I want to go, but Albert says it’s important for the wives to be at home there. He says it shows that we’re serious about a long-term commitment to our partners in trade.” She shivered slightly. “Frankly, Mrs. West, I couldn’t care less about trade. But I do love my Albert and I don’t wish to be away from him for years.”             She looked so distressed that Jim reached over without thinking and patted her hand. The gesture surprised him, though no one else seemed it think it odd. Was that a man’s natural response to a woman’s unhappiness, he wondered. Or one woman’s natural empathy for another? “Women have followed their husbands to some mighty odd places,” he said reassuringly. “Where would we be today if only men had come from Europe?”             “Ha, ha!” Andrews broke out into raucous laughter. “We’d all be descended from the Injuns, dear lady!”             His voice was loud enough to drown out the nearby conversation, and the remark vulgar enough that Jim’s disapproving look wasn’t the only one. “Really, Major Andrews,” he said, laying on the “genteel lady” as thickly as he dared. “I think that’s extremely rude.”             Artie was watching them, and Jim grinned wolfishly at him. Artie looked puzzled, but there was no way to convey to him what Jim was thinking. He was always at his best as a case drew to its conclusion; always more mentally sharp, more aware, more attuned to his surroundings and his companions. And it didn’t matter, he realized, whether he had responded to Louisa Malcolm as a another woman would have done, or as the man he was inside. She was just another human being looking with distress at a huge upheaval in her life, and he could sympathize with that no matter what his gender. Now if only the damned churning in his stomach would ease, he could enjoy what was left of the dinner and look forward to the dancing. That was where he could be the most useful, drawing information out of his partners on the dance floor, circulating among the women in between sets.             Plates came and went. He took tiny bites of avocado, hoping its bland taste and texture would help settle his stomach, but nothing made much difference. He sipped more wine, agreed with Mrs. Malcolm that it had been a lovely day, flirted mildly with Grandin, and ignored Andrews, who was hiccuping with increasing volume and frequency.             Finally, the dinner seemed to be over. There had been pears and cheese at the end, and Jim managed to eat a few bites of each to offset the wine. He wasn’t drunk, by any measure, but he was slightly giddy. When everyone rose and moved slowly toward the door, he craned his head over the taller men to find Artie. Now they could dance, and no one would notice that he wasn’t eating anything. A stab of pain in his chest caught him suddenly, though, and he winced and pressed his hand to his bosom.             “Are you all right, Mrs. West?” Grandin asked, looking at him anxiously.             “Oh, yes, I’m fine! Just a catch, that’s all.” But he wasn’t fine. The breasts hurt. They tingled and throbbed as badly as when he had first waked up to find himself a woman. What the hell could that mean?             Artie was at his side. “Jim?” he whispered. “You’re terribly pale. Are you feeling all right?”             “No,” Jim muttered, “but it’s not as bad as the other times. Let me just take your arm.” He steered Artie away from the crowd. “Can we find a corner? There are things I need to tell you.”             They hung back from the crush of people, and edged into the little alcove between the door and the fireplace. “Winston Speedwell is here,” Jim said in a hurried whisper in Artie’s ear. “He’s been changed, and they’ve got him hidden here out of sight.”             “You’re sure of that? Did someone say he’d been changed?”             “No, but there’s no other way to take what was said. Speedwell said it was the boy’s own fault for running away, that he’d still be his father’s heir if he hadn’t. Speedwell’s son-in-law said they were keeping him here.”             Artie nodded. “You’re right. That’s what it must mean. You didn’t get any hint of where he might be, though, did you?”             “No, darn it. That disgusting Major Andrews broke in before I could ask, and there wasn’t any opportunity to bring it up again. But I’ll try to find out.”             “Andrews is a pig. Don’t let him get too close. One of the other men saw him leering at you and warned me about him.”             Jim shrugged. “I had to promise him a dance, but I’m hoping he’ll be dead drunk by then. I served with him, you know. Too bad I can’t tell him—it would put him off leering at me, that’s for sure!”             Artie laughed and bent to brush his lips. “You were a splendid success at dinner. Want to see if we can be equally wonderful on the dance floor?”             “Let’s just try not to fall down. I’m half sloshed on the wine, to be honest.”             He hooked his arm into Artie’s and marched them toward the door. The orchestra could be heard tuning up, running up and down scales and hitting odd, unintended chords. The parlor, large as it was, appeared to have overflowed into the hall, and couples were pairing up already. Major Andrews lurched around the edges of the crowd as though ready to pounce on any available female, but Jim turned away from his gaze and put his hand on Artie’s shoulder. Artie’s hand settled warmly at his waist, and in a moment, the first waltz began, and Artie swung him out into the middle of the floor. It was different from their practice dancing in the train; he couldn’t close his eyes and rest his head on Artie’s shoulder, and their steps were longer and less restrained. But the music was familiar, and Artie’s closeness a comfort. Comfort, he thought, half giddy with the wine and the music and the solid feel of Artie under his hands. That’s what he had seen in Henry Grandin and his Eliza, and in Louisa Malcolm’s unfeigned regard for her husband. Trust and comfort, respect and joy. No, they had nothing that he and Artie hadn’t shared for a long time. Whatever the other problems turned out to be, they had a strong foundation to build upon.             The music came to a dashing conclusion amid applause and laughter, and in the confused jumble of movement as people traded partners, Jim leaned in close to Artie and whispered in his ear, “I love you.”             Artie gave him an astonished stare, and then, as Grandin came up to claim his dance, he said, laughing, “Now you tell me!”             “I’ll tell you again in a moment,” Jim promised him, and let Grandin lead him away as the next tune began. He was feeling almost intoxicated, partly from Grandin’s obvious pleasure in dancing with him and partly from some inner joy that he couldn’t identify. The resolution of his feelings about Artie was part of it, certainly, and the anticipation of finding some solid lead to Loveless was another. But even taken together, they couldn’t account for the increasing sense of—rightness, perhaps. As though he’d been seeing the world for a week through other eyes, and had just now found his own again. He felt almost like himself once more, even in the woman’s body, and with the annoying cramps and twinges that were now a constant backdrop to everything else.             Grandin danced well, leading as skillfully as Artie had done, and when the music stopped, Jim gave him a dazzling smile in response to Grandin’s gallant thank-you’s, and glanced around for Andrews. He wasn’t looking forward to having the man’s paws all over him, as Andrews would probably try to do, but they would be in the middle of a crowd of people, after all. There wasn’t much Andrews could attempt in those circumstances. But oddly, there was no sign of him.             Just as well. Jim needed to visit the necessary in any case, though he would have waited until that set was over if Andrews had been there to claim him. The wine was having the effect that wine normally did, and he slipped out of the house into the back. The privies were as grand as the house itself—brick with white painted corner boards and shingled roofs, like a row of little girls’ play houses. He relieved himself, in spite of some awkward moments with the multiple skirts, and had started back to the house when he heard a sound. He stopped, listening for it, and there it was again—a terrified whimper.             “Oh, please, no. Please!” The words came from beyond the line of privies, from a little wooded copse about fifty feet down a slight hill. He gathered up his skirts and hurried toward the trees. The voice came again, even more frantic. “No! Stop! I’ll scream!”             “Oh, no, you won’t,” said a rough and slurred man’s voice, and with his heart dropping, Jim knew where Andrews had gotten to, and he realized in additional horror who it might be that Andrews had found.             “You won’t scream.” Andrews declared with a wicked satisfaction that made Jim’s blood run cold. “You won’t scream, ‘cause you don’t want no one to see you, do you?”             Jim burst into a little clearing, and there they were, Andrews and a brown-haired girl who looked astonishingly like Eliza. She was dressed in trousers but with a woman’s shirtwaist over them, and Andrews had pulled the shirtwaist half off of her, pinning her arms at her sides. He had his hands inside it, and was fumbling roughly with her breasts, laughing as she twisted helplessly away from him.             “You Goddamned bastard!” Jim snarled at him. “Take your hands off her, or I’ll kill you!”             Surprise was enough to make Andrews let go, and the girl clutched at her torn clothing and scuttled away. “Get out, Winnie!” Jim yelled at her. “Go back to the house, get out of here!”             He had enough to do to stay clear of Andrews himself, without worrying about—he didn’t know what to call her, and at the moment, it hardly mattered. Andrews recovered from the shock of Jim’s entrance, and drunkenly laughing, he reached for Jim. Jim didn’t try to get away from him. He dug into his sash and came up with the ampules of Artie’s nasty-smelling salve, and crushed them both against Andrews’ chest.             The effect was all he could have hoped for. Andrews reeled away from him, holding his nose. “Faagh! You bitch! What did you put on me?” But the salve had been meant only to deter a civilized man, not to defend against a villain, and Andrews, dangerous as an enraged bear now, charging at Jim.             Jim danced back out of his reach, stripping off his now smelly gloves and throwing them out of the way. He needed bare hands for his knife, anyway. From the corner of his eye, he saw Winnie brandishing a huge stick, a fallen branch. “Look out!” he yelled, as Andrews turned toward her. She slashed him across the face, and then dropped the branch and leaped back. Andrews lunged at her, but with blood running from the scratches above his eyes, he tripped over the branch and fell in the weedy brush, roaring with rage.             By then, Jim had managed to retrieve his knife. But in a dress, he couldn’t fight someone twice his size with twice the muscle. And he was in serious pain now, as though the violent physical activity had accelerated whatever was happening in his body. Fire lanced up inside him, and lights sparkled before his eyes. “Go find Mr. Gordon,” he yelled at Winnie. “Please! I can’t hold him off for long, even with a knife. Get Henry and Mr. Ennis and Mr. Gordon, please, Winnie!”             “I don’t want to leave you with him,” she wailed, but although Jim might admire her bravery, all he wanted now was backup. He stumbled back as Andrews advanced on him, clutching at the corsage to get the little bomblets out of it. He was going to faint again, damn it all to hell! He stuck the knife in his teeth, extracted the noise-makers and flung them down hard. But they were designed for the impact of a wood or stone floor, and the soft ground wasn’t enough to set them off.             Andrews laughed scornfully, and stamped hard on one of the little balls. It promptly blew up, with a very satisfying bang! in the confined space. Andrews lurched away from him for a moment, but he realized immediately that he wasn’t hurt, and turned back, his face darkening. “Think that’ll stop me? I’ll have what I want, pretty little Jemima! And then I’ll have the boy-girl too!”             “You’re a drunken disgrace, Lewis Andrews!” Jim snarled at him. “You’re a disgrace to your uniform!” Andrews hesitated, no doubt confused that Jim knew his first name. “You thought we couldn’t hear you doing yourself in your tent, didn’t you, you disgusting perverted fat bootlicker! You thought we didn’t know what kind of coward you were, hanging back when we went into action! Pretending your horse was lame!” That was enough to get Andrews’ attention permanently focused on him, and away from Winnie, as Jim had intended. What he hadn’t wanted was the sense that everything was moving in slow motion, that he could hardly feel the ground under his feet, much less the knife in his hand. He clenched his other hand until his nails dug into his palm, trying to keep his wits about him long enough for help to come. He couldn’t see Winnie any more, and prayed that she had obeyed his order and gone for assistance. For Artie. He desperately wanted Artie. He’d take any help that showed up, but he deeply, profoundly, needed Artie.             Andrews stepped on another of the balls, and then a third one, unintentionally this time. The noise was enough to startle him and slow him down, but not enough to stop him. He had Jim’s bodice in his grip now, his strong acrid breath burning Jim’s face. “Who are you?” he gritted. “Who the fuck are you?” He shook Jim hard. “West… West? Captain West?” Through the roaring in his ears, Jim could hear Andrews convulsed with laughter. Knowing Jim’s identity obviously wasn’t slowing him down at all. Artie, please, Jim prayed silently. He couldn’t feel the hand that held the knife any more. He wasn’t certain he even still had possession of it. But as a hot dark wave rose over him, and his eyes refused to focus any longer, he put every remaining ounce of intention and energy into sticking the knife where it would do the most good, if he still held it. Then the world went away, and he knew no more. The Seventh Day             Consciousness returned in fits and starts. He could hear noises, but could see nothing. And the noises made no sense. It sound like—horses. The little snuffly noises of a stable, the creak of animal footsteps, water being lapped up thirstily. Perhaps he should have been concerned at having no sight, but he wasn’t. He drifted back to sleep.             The next time he woke, there was light as well as sound. Not enough light to make out where he was, but at least he knew he wasn’t blind. The horses were more noisy now, moving around and vocalizing softly as they did when they were expecting to be fed. He’d heard those sounds on countless mornings in the Army, or at other times when he’d slept on the ground. On the ground… a bit more lucidity came back. Andrews. The last thing he remembered was trying to stab Andrews with his knife, as he fell backward onto the ground. Was he still there, lying in the little wood? Had he killed Andrews? Or had Andrews raped him and just left him there?             No, Winnie had gone for help. And in any case, if he had disappeared, Artie would have turned the Speedwell grounds inside out to find him, and the rest of California too, if need be.             Reassured, he let himself sink back into sleep.             More noises woke him. The light was much brighter, and the horses were definitely restless. Not just horses, he realized: he could hear people’s voices, muted and indistinct. Where the hell could he be? Very slowly, he realized that he was looking at the side of his own stable car, or something very like it, looking up at it from the floor. Tiny spaces between the boards showed thin vertical slivers of light in addition to the light from the windows. He’d seen them countless times when he was feeding the horses and mucking out the stalls.             He could smell them now, too, that earthy fragrance of horse and manure and hay and grain that was as familiar to him as his own body. There was another odor as well, a much less agreeable one. A veritable stench, in fact, though not very strong. It smelled like—like a dead body. He knew that smell all too well. Was Andrews here with him after all, dead from Jim’s knife? No, that made no sense. His mind was still wandering. If he was here, wherever here was, then someone had brought him here, and he was no longer lying on the ground behind the overdone privies of Speedwell’s estate. He drifted some more.             After a while, he thought that perhaps he ought to see if he could get up. He couldn’t feel most of his body, though he was aware now of pressure against his back. He tried to wiggle fingers and toes, and with a dreamlike quality of unreality he very slowly he felt them respond. He couldn’t raise his arms or move his legs. Could he move his head? His neck went into spasms of protest when he attempted it. Not yet, then. He tried to move his tongue, tried to lick his lips, and as though the separate parts of his body existed only when he consciously attempted to find them, he was able to feel his tongue move against the roof of his mouth. His mouth was horribly dry, and when he poked his tongue out, he could feel that his lips were cracked. What the hell could have happened to him? A very high fever? That would account for the weakness as well, but why was he lying on the floor of the stable? Surely his own bunk would have made a far preferable sickbed.             He made a real effort to move his head now, and slowly, creakily, managed to turn it to one side. To his astonishment, Artie lay on the floor next to him, a little lower. So he must be on some sort of pallet or low bed himself. Artie’s face was haggard, the lines and creases much more pronounced than Jim had ever seen before. He was breathing, thank God, snoring softly, dead to the world. Even relaxed in sleep, he looked exhausted, as though he’d been through some awful ordeal. His hair was not just mussed, but stuck together in greasy-looking clumps, and what Jim could see of his clothing was stained with yellowish-brown streaks and blobs. He looked, in fact, as though he hadn’t bathed or changed his clothes in a week.             The sight was so inexplicable that Jim wasn’t certain he was awake. He must be having a nightmare, he concluded. But the nightmare stayed right where it was, and after a while, he realized that he was indeed awake and more or less lucid. He was aware of the passage of time, and it was passing in the normal way, not speeding up and slowing down or skipping large intervals all at once. He was lying on the floor of what was almost certainly his own stable car, with the familiar noises of his and Artie’s horses just over his head, and the ordinary sounds of a summer day outside.             He tried to say Artie’s name. He hated to wake Artie, but he had to know what in God’s name was going on. How had he gotten back to the train? He could tell now that it was their own stable car. He could see the half-open door to Artie’s laboratory, and if he strained to turn his head just a bit farther, the exterior door at the end of the car. The first of the loose boxes was out of sight behind his head, right where it should be.             Nothing came from his throat but a dry croak. He tried to gather saliva in his mouth, swallowed what was there, and made another attempt. “Ar—“ His voice, hoarse and cracked, went away altogether at that point, but at least he knew it was possible to speak. It was the final reassurance that this was not a nightmare, not one of those fearful dreams where you screamed and screamed and made no sound at all. He tried once more, and this time got Artie’s name out, though he hardly sounded like himself. He cleared his throat, and again, the sound was quite deep, and no longer hoarse, though his throat was scratchy and sore. “Artie?” he said again, not quite believing what he was hearing. Was it possible… No, it couldn’t have happened, not as easily as that. He tried another word or two, Artie’s name again, and then his own. “James. James West.” The voice sounded like his own, familiar, man’s voice, as it had been just a week ago.             Could he possibly have changed back all on his own, without another injection of Loveless’s drugs? Was that what all the cramps and nausea had meant? A great surge of joy rose in his heart, but he damped it down hard. If that wasn’t what had happened, he’d only be devastated all over again to find he was still a woman.             Artie was oblivious to Jim’s voice, and Jim decided not to try to wake him after all. He’d find out for himself. He managed to get one hand off the bed, high enough that he could see it. The fingers were abnormally pink and the flesh looked tight and tender, but he thought they were more like his own, blunt, man’s fingers than like the slim tapered ones he’d had as a woman. Could he move the hand enough to check…             No, that was all he could do at the moment. There wasn’t enough feeling in either his chest or his groin for him to know whether they had changed. Only his voice sounded like himself.             “Dusty?” he called out, managing a little more volume than before. “Juniper?”             Both horses answered him with soft whickers, as though they recognized him, and there was no question about it, his voice was back to the high baritone it had always been before. If he wasn’t completely changed back, he was certainly on the way. He tried to move his hands again, and this time, his right hand was able to reach far enough that he got hold of the top of his thigh, and used his fingers to pull the hand higher. Some thin fabric covered his body, but it was so light that he could feel his skin easily. With a low groan, he managed to touch himself, and there it was, the prick he had thought gone forever, and under it, the soft wrinkled balls. There was no sensation in them; he could perceive only their shapes under his fingers, but that was enough.             Artie’s voice startled him so badly that his hand dropped back onto the pallet. “Might know I’d wake up to find you holding on to yourself.”             He turned his head to see Artie pushing himself up slowly from the floor. “Artie? Is it really— am I really?”             Artie nodded. “You changed back. Maybe the drug wore off. Maybe it’s something a person has to keep taking. I don’t know. But all the symptoms you were having—the pain and nausea and the fever—that was apparently your body beginning to change into a man again.”             His voice sounded infinitely weary. Jim managed to reach far enough to touch his arm. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve been through hell. Was it very bad?”             Artie gave him a long slow look. “Yes, it was very bad. I didn’t know if you were going to live. Do you remember anything?”             “No. Nothing at all. Just as well, I guess. What’s that smell?”             Artie said clinically, “The transformation of the body resulted in the discharge of certain fluids.” And then, with his nose wrinkled up, “It’s not anywhere near as bad as it was, and don’t ask for details. You don’t want to know.”             “Discharge of fluids… That’s why I’m so thirsty. Is there anything handy to drink? I feel as though I could stick my head in one of the horse’s buckets, if I could get to them.”             “Yes, certainly. Hold on just a minute.” Artie got up, slowly and in obvious pain, and went into the laboratory. “I was afraid the pitcher might get knocked over if I left it close by.”             He came back with a metal pitcher and a tumbler, and lifted Jim’s head so he could drink from the glass. “What’s in there?” Jim asked. “It doesn’t taste like just water.”             “It’s mostly water, but I added some lemon juice and some powdered rose hips. Some of the Indian tribes eat rose hips when they get sick, and they swear by them. There’s some elderberry juice in it too—that’s supposed to be another tonic.”             “Why am I in here?”             “You weren’t, to begin with,” Artie said. “I put you in your own bed. But when the change started— “ He shuddered. “I couldn’t keep things clean. The mattress was soaked. I had to move you to someplace where I could sluice things down with water.”             “You carried me here?”             Artie eyed him, as though considering whether or not to be truthful. Finally, he said, “No, Fred and I moved you. I was afraid I’d damage you somehow if I tried to pick you up. Your body—no, I’m not going to tell you.” He shook his head. “We slid the sheet you were lying on from your bunk onto a board that Fred found, and then we carried you in here. Thank God he was here.”             “What’s this over me?” Jim asked curiously. It was white, like a sheet, but so light he almost couldn’t feel its presence.             Artie laughed. “The last of my scrim. You know, the lightweight curtain material that’s used in some stage productions? I wanted to keep you covered so nothing would get on your skin, but you were burning up. I was afraid to cover you even with a sheet. This was light enough that I could see what was going on, but it still protected you from the flies.”             That remark was enough to make Jim shiver himself. Flies? No, Artie was right. He didn’t want to know.             “Was I ever conscious at all? I really don’t remember anything.”             “Just as well. I gave you enough laudanum when it started to keep you asleep for a good while, and every time I thought you were waking up, I gave you some more.”             “Laudanum?” Jim asked in surprise. “I didn’t know you had any.”             “I didn’t,” Artie said shortly. “I sent Fred to Dr. Benson to buy some, and Benson wouldn’t sell it to him. Said he wasn’t going to be responsible for anyone being an ‘opium eater.’ So Fred went back after Benson locked up, and relieved him of his supply.” He gave Jim a coldly defiant look. “He left payment for it.”             “Hey, you don’t hear me objecting, do you? I’m glad not to have been here to know what was going on.”             “You were screaming,” Artie said, that hard, distant look still on his face. “I couldn’t bear it.”             Again, as he had before, Jim thought that no matter what had happened to him, Artie had had the worst of it. He’d had to deal with all the complications of Jim’s initial change, and now, even though their lives could perhaps return to normal, he’d had to suffer through watching the change itself. Watching the one he loved dying, possibly, with nothing he could do to stop it. Watching what must have been a horrible sight, at the very least, if his reluctance to talk about it was any indicator.             “Artie,” Jim said softly, “come here.”             Looking a little puzzled, Artie bent closer to him. “What is it?”             “Would you kiss me? Do you still want to do that?”             “Oh, God,” Artie said roughly, “all I’ve been able to think of was that if you died, I could never kiss you again. Never hold you, never give you pleasure.” He reached out and brushed Jim’s mouth tenderly with a finger. “Your lips are all cracked. Let me put some salve on them first.”             “Don’t take too long,” Jim said, smiling.             Artie went into the laboratory, and came back with one of his little glass pots. The contents smelled faintly of lavendar, and soothed Jim’s dry, stinging lips wonderfully. Artie rubbed more in, but when it looked as though he might be about to get up again, Jim reached out, in spite of the pain in his arm, and pulled at his sleeve. “Come here. Please. I need to feel you. Need to know this isn’t just another nightmare.”             Artie bent to him instantly. “No. Not this time. It’s over. Soon it will be just a memory.” He leaned closer, and Jim closed his eyes, and Artie’s lips pressed against his so sweetly that he could have wept. He kissed Artie back with all the energy he could summon, savoring the soft flesh, opening his mouth to Artie’s gently probing tongue. He wanted more, and managed to raise his hand enough to caress Artie’s cheek, but to his astonishment, it was rough with whiskers. He brushed his fingers over the stubble. No question, that was more than ten or twelve hours growth. How long had he lain here?             Artie sensed his reaction and drew back. “Two days,” he said simply. “It’s early Sunday evening.”             “My God! You’ve watched over me for two solid days?”             Artie swallowed hard. “The first twelve hours were the worst. I didn’t know whether you were going to make it or not. I’ve never known a person to be that hot. I used up our tank of water just putting wet cloths on you. Once you got past the fever… well, then, it was just a matter of keeping you clean, and trying to keep your skin from drying out. Trying to get water into you without you choking. Just … “ He shrugged, as though it hadn’t been anything.             “Didn’t Fred help? Didn’t you get any rest at all?”             “I didn’t want him to see you,” Artie said simply. “It wasn’t something I could ask another man to do.”             “My God,” Jim breathed again. “No wonder you look like someone beat you up and left you for dead.”             “No worse than you, I assure you,” Artie said, with a little more human expression than he’d had so far, and Jim smiled back and threaded his fingers into Artie’s hand.             “I’m a lot more weak than when I woke up after the first change,” he observed. He still couldn’t feel most of his body. His leaden legs might as well not have been there, and his left hand, though he could feel its presence and move its fingers, tingled ferociously, as though he had lain on it in bed and cut off the circulation.             “Going through something like this twice in a week is bound to take a toll.” Artie leaned over and pulled the drape away from his chest. “Now that you’re awake, though, we can get a better idea of just how badly off you are.” He tried to smile, but the ghoulish look was back in his eyes, and Jim shuddered to see it.             “You don’t have to,” he said. “Not if you don’t want to. Just let me lie here until I’m stronger.”             “Yes, I do have to. You’re obviously not in pain. I have to know whether it’s because you’re through changing, and all you have to do now is to recover your strength, or it’s because you’re paralyzed and can’t feel pain.”             He said the words dispassionately, but Jim could hear the terrible anxiety in his voice. “I can feel everything,” he lied. “I’m not paralyzed. Just don’t have the energy to move around much yet.”             Artie pulled the sheet the rest of the way off his body. “Let me decide that.”             He began with Jim’s toes. “Nice and warm,” he said. “The blood seems to be circulating as it should.”             Jim felt something tickle the sole of one foot and he automatically jerked away.             “Very good.” Artie sounded pleased. “How about the other one?”             The other foot twitched away from the tickling finger to his satisfaction, and he squeezed Jim’s leg. “Can you feel that?”             “I can feel the pressure of your hand.” There was a sudden sharp pain in his calf and he yelped. “Ow! I felt that, all right.”             Artie held up a long pin. “Sorry.” But he didn’t sound very sorry, and he applied the pin to several more pieces of Jim’s skin. “Good,” he said, after he had poked, squeezed, prodded and pricked most of Jim’s body. “I don’t want to move you to check your back, but if the rest of you can feel sensation or pain, your back is probably all right too.”             “I can feel what I’m lying on,” Jim assured him. “It’s scratchy.”             “It’s the rug off the floor in the crew quarters. We’ll have to get them another one.”             His voice was more steady now, but there was still the deep resonance of remembered horror in it.             “Tell me what’s been happening,” Jim begged him, wanting to know, but also wanting to change the subject. “What happened at the Speedwells? I remember fighting with Andrews, and then everything went dark.”             Artie shook his head. “Oh my God, what a scene of bedlam that was! You disappeared, but I thought you might be talking to someone, or looking for the boy, so I wasn’t too worried. And then this girl dressed in trousers came tearing in, screaming her head off. Mrs. Speedwell fainted dead away, and Ned, the younger boy, flew into some kind of fit and went at the girl with a poker from the fireplace. The whole party was in an uproar, half of them trying to subdue Ned and half of them trying to revive Mrs. Speedwell, everybody screeching at the top of their lungs, and nobody paying any attention to the girl until I realized she was pleading for someone to ‘find Mr. Gordon.’”             “Good kid,” murmured Jim. “She kept her head and did what I told her to do. Him, I mean. Whatever the hell I’m supposed to call—“ He broke off. “Oh my God. Artie, she’s going to change back too! Someone needs to tell them. Tell her!”             “Yes, I thought of that. Somewhat belatedly, I’m afraid, but I did think of it. I sent Fred out there to let them know, so they can arrange medical help for her. Him, I mean. God, it’s confusing!”             “What happened after Winnie got your attention?”             “She said you’d been attacked by Major Andrews. She was hauling on my sleeve and begging me to come quickly, as if I needed to be begged. She led us out back, into the woods, and— “ He stopped, with a deep exhalantion. “Christ, I thought my heart was going to stop. There you were lying on the ground covered with blood.” His voice was shaking, and Jim reached out to take his hand again.             “I’m all right now,” Artie said..”But it was an awful shock at first. I grabbed you up and your head lolled back like you were dead. I must have made some kind of horrible sound, because people were yelling in my ear all of a sudden that you were alive, that your heart was beating. Speedwell’s son-in-law helped me carry you back to the house.”             “He’s a good fellow,” Jim said, putting as much reassurance and encouragement into his voice as he could.             “Yes, he is, and Speedwell may be glad of it. Winnie said she didn’t want her father’s property even if he left it to her, and they shut Ned up with a guard at his door for trying to kill her, and Speedwell looked like his world had fallen apart. He was ashamed of Winnie, that she’d been turned into a girl, but he had the balls to be more ashamed of Ned, I’ll say that for him. So the son-in-law may end up with the old man’s whole estate.”             That was all very well, but not what Jim really wanted to know. “Tell me what happened to Andrews! Was it his blood on me?”             “Yes, it was. When I realized you weren’t dead, I got my wits about me and asked for someone to help me carry you out of there. Everyone was still milling around uselessly, but all of a sudden, Fred leaped out of the dark and said in my ear that he’d found Andrews’ body back in the brush, and what should he do?”             “Did I—kill him?”             “I’m happy to say that you did,” Artie said grimly. “It appears that way, at least. Your knife was stuck in him. And don’t look like that. He was trying to rape Winnie, and he would have raped you if you hadn’t killed him. He deserved what he got.”             “Maybe so, but it never makes me feel good to know I’ve taken a life.”             “Well—“ Artie said, with no more approval than Jim expected to hear from him. “Let me say that I admire your delicate sensibilities, but I’m very happy to see the end of the fellow.” He set the pitcher down hard enough that it clanged against one of the bolts in the floor. “Because if you hadn’t killed him, I would have.”             “So what happened to him? What did you tell Fred to do?”             “I told him to do whatever he thought best.” Artie paused. “Well, actually, I told him I didn’t give a rat’s ass what he did with Andrews. He said he’d take care of everything, and not to worry. I haven’t asked him what he did, but no one has shown up to arrest you for murder, so I presume he handled it acceptably.”             “Artie,” Jim said, “I believe we’re due a vacation.” It was an inane remark, but he’d say anything to divert Artie from dwelling on what had happened.             “Overdue, my boy. Long overdue.”             “Come and kiss me again. I’m starting to feel my legs and they tingle like hell. I need something to take my mind off them.”             Artie smiled and bent down to him again. “Shall I make your lips tingle instead, hm?” His breath was sour, his face bristly, and his teeth furry, but Jim hardly noticed. All he needed to make life good was for Artie to kiss away the p