trice, the jester, was getting old. so, he feared, were his jokes.

his joints were stiff and he could no longer do the amusing contortions that used so to entertain the earl and his little court. in fact, the earl was getting on, too. he looked as though he was falling asleep in his chair. next to him the lady godwina was mumbling and giggling—not at poor trice's feeble quips, but as a result of too much blackberry wine mixed with mead. she hiccoughed loudly and the earl opened his eyes.

he glanced at the lady godwina with bored distaste, and then at trice the jester. would that the fellow would cease his tedious clowning and go to the kitchens! yet he hesitated to get rid of him altogether. having a jester at all in these days was a mark of prestige, and he didn't know where he'd get a replacement.

now that king henry was dead he had fortified his castle like the other barons. since feudal pomp had become the fashion he hung onto its trappings—poor old trice was one of them. but, ye gods, what stale jokes! well, at least they seemed to please the younger serving men, who must be too young to remember them.

trice was unhappily aware that his humor was missing the mark. he fell back on the one thing that never failed to make them laugh. he swung his bauble and hit himself on the nose. he staggered back with comic terror. "hold on!" he cried to an imaginary assailant. "not so hard!" he struck himself again, harder. "stop! or i shall appeal to my noble lord for protection!"

the earl smiled faintly; he didn't want to disappoint the old man. besides, his nose was bleeding. it really was rather funny. curious about these people: they had almost no sense of pain. trice, seeing the smile, hit himself again and again, and feeling the blood, he smeared it over his face in fantastic curlicues. the earl closed his eyes again, and trice caught the eye of the clerk, a young man who had come from normandy. he was sneering. the lady godwina was singing a little tune to herself, and paid no attention.

the old jester shrugged, and turned towards the archway to the kitchens and offices. better have supper and go to bed—his head ached and his nose hurt badly, although the bleeding had stopped. next to a wooden stool he caught sight of his cat, tybalt, staring at him fixedly. tybalt. his only friend! he thought to himself. but as he passed him, the cat, instead of following him out with tail erect to share the jester's wretched supper, backed cringing under the stool and turned his head as he went by, keeping his staring eyes on him. most unusual. very un-catlike.

"here! tybalt!" trice said, but the cat backed further away.

just before he realized what had happened to him, dax recognized that the big wooden thing that loomed over him was a stool.

maybe it was this realization—and the sight of his own paws—that gave him an idea of his size, and on looking back at the rest of himself he knew that he was a cat. something had gone wrong. the flashback and subsequent rebound must have taken him far into the dim mammalian past, but for what duration he could not tell. the transition had been unconscious. at least he did not remember it. but to judge by the style of the round stone arches of the hall he was now in—and the stonework looked brand new—the ultimate effect had been according to plan, and this was the early middle ages.

a movement caught his eye and he saw it was the cavorting of an enormous man, dressed in gigantic tattered motley.

no. he wasn't enormous; it was just the unfamiliar scale of things. the man was saying something in a booming voice, and dax began to recognize it as a form of transitional early english—but with an admixture of norman french and some pure anglo-saxon phrases. and what an accent! if this man was typical, how wrong modern research and learned speculation were! he would have some interesting things to tell the experts—particularly his tutor—when he got back.

when he got back.... that was supposed to be in three days approximately, when the inhibiting effect of the chemical would wear off. then he would, he hoped, be swept back to his own time and his own body. but he was a cat. this was disastrous! how could he speak to people? he could understand them fairly well, but a cat's bucal cavity and vocal apparatus were not designed for the sounds of human speech.

he decided to try his voice, just on the chance, but stopped, horrified at the muffled yowl that resulted.

two rangy hounds, six times his size, roused themselves from the rush-covered floor and glared growling at the sound with raised hackles. "down, colle! stop it, bayard!" a gruff voice commanded, and they reluctantly sank back again, keeping their fierce eyes on him. was this a sample of what he must expect from dogs? he hoped it was merely his abortive attempt at human speech. any further communication must be tried silently.

he looked around the hall. there were other humans too. several men-at-arms standing by the walls and a few serving men. at the big trestle-board were seated five people—one of them clearly the lord of the castle—it must be a castle—and the one woman sitting next to him in soiled finery would be his lady. the place reeked with the stale odor of humans and dogs, and less obnoxiously the smell of wood smoke and cooked meat. dax realized that he now had a feline nose, and made allowances. after all, the well-to-do bathed themselves, in the still existing classic tradition, and would until the black death.

the ridiculous giant in motley stopped his capering and came across the stone flags towards him. as he passed with ponderous footsteps he looked down and said, "here, tybalt!"

dax backed under the stool, terrified at the deep, hoarse voice. the man was probably trying to be gentle. he must keep in mind that he had a cat's hearing now, and all sounds would seem lower and louder.

how were cats treated in medieval england? he did not know, and he was not prepared for this contingency. but at least cats as a species had survived. he hoped he was one of the lucky ones. he must at all costs manage to keep alive for three days, because if he were killed before the drug wore off he would not return.

what would they think at the school? nothing, of course. he would never have been there. that would be changing the future ... but you changed the future every time you exerted your free will, anyhow.

one of his experimental rats had not come back: it had merely disappeared with a loud pop. perhaps an early colonial terrier had got it. it might be the best thing to do to take to the woods, and wait out the time safe from the unknown dangers of men and dogs—but what of the dangers of the woods? it was winter, to judge by the fire in the hall, on a raised stone platform in the middle of the floor, from which the smoke found its way out through a louver in the high roof. and the icy drafts that came across the floor. although he was a cat, he had little confidence of being able to hunt like one, or find refuge from the cold and snow.

he decided to follow the court jester. at least the man had spoken to him kindly. and he had a name: tybalt. he must remember to answer to it.

he got up and began to walk towards the arched doorway through which the jester had disappeared.

walking on all fours felt perfectly natural—rather as if he were following himself. there was no trouble about keeping in step, or, rather, just out of it. his mouth was dry and he ran his tongue over his muzzle ... he could lick his eye! then he did something that also felt natural, though pleasantly novel: he waved his tail. then he stuck out his claws. they clicked against the flagstones and he sheathed them again.

he had never in his life felt so supple and physically complete. he felt like running up the tapestry that hung by the doorway.

at the other end of the vaulted corridor that he found himself in he could see the jester as he went into another chamber that was lit with a smoky reddish glow. there was an increased smell of cookery, and he guessed it was the kitchen.

when he got to the door he could see the jester was being given something in a bowl that steamed, and a large hunk of dark bread. the man turned and came out again and saw him.

"come along, tybalt," he said. "supper for you and me. come along, old fellow!"

dax followed him across the corridor to a narrow stone stairway in the thickness of the wall. the winding steps seemed absurdly high. he would far rather have done the whole thing in two or three long leaps, but he took the steps one by one. feline coordination would come to him in time.

after an almost totally unlit passage they came to a minute room, scarcely more than a cell. the jester struck a light with flint and steel to a tallow candle, and sat down on a low straw-covered bed. the floor was freezing. dax jumped up onto a small table, but was instantly pushed off it. his instinctive jump up and then down happened so quickly that he only realized in retrospect what a feat it was from a man's point of view. yet he had landed clumsily. he was not yet quite a cat.

the jester cut off a piece of dubious-looking meat and threw it onto the floor. "wait till it cools, tybalt," he said, and scratched dax behind the ears. dax was ravenous, which seemed odd considering he'd had dinner half an hour ago. no, of course not. that was eight centuries in the future; god knew when tybalt had last eaten. disregarding the admonition he went at once to the meat, which was pork, and burned his mouth. it smelled glorious. and yet he suspected that in human form he would have revolted from it.

he looked up at his master. he had a conviction that he belonged to the jester.

he studied the gaunt, blood-smeared face. it looked as if someone had hit him on the nose. the cap-and-bells, with its attached wimple-shaped neck piece, had been laid aside. the gray bobbed hair and bony head looked anything but merry. there was, however, a shrewd reflective expression in the eyes, and dax felt that he might well be in an advantageous position. being a jester probably involved a certain amount of tact and discretion, not to mention ingenuity, so he resolved to try to communicate with him.

but first he must eat. would the damned pork never cool?

the jester was already eating his, in great gulps, alternating it with bits of the evil-looking bread. there was a stoneware pot that smelled strongly of musty ale from which he drank every now and then. the stench of alcohol in it was like spoiled garbage to dax. how had he ever been able to drink whisky? the thought of it was disgusting. the meat was cool enough now—in fact stone cold—and he tore it to pieces with his pointed teeth and bolted it unchewed. it was marvelous.

"well, tybalt?" the jester said, putting aside his bowl. "no mice today? we are not very lucky, we two, are we?" he made a snapping with his fingers and dax jumped up onto the pallet beside him. the old man stroked his back gently, but he had a very strong smell. dax supposed he would get used to his new keen senses in time. he hoped it would be soon. it was very cold in the jester's cell and he intended to creep close at bed time. in the meanwhile how was he going to make known his true identity? obviously speech was impossible; and morse-code tapping with his paw was out of the question.

you wouldn't get very far with mere facial expressions, either. anyway, to most human eyes a cat has but two: contentment and fear. he looked around wondering if there were any small movable objects that he could arrange into the form of the letters of the alphabet—even a piece of string might do. but he feared that the man couldn't read. anyway there was no string to be seen.

then on the table, which was scarcely more than a high bench, he saw a rosary with wooden beads.

he got up and stretched—never in his life had he been able to stretch like this—and jumped delicately over onto the table. the jester reached out and swept him off it. not roughly, but it was obvious he wasn't allowed there. this time his landing was more skillful. he sat on the cold floor and tried to think how he could get hold of the beads. if he had them on the floor he could push them into an arresting shape. a triangle perhaps, or a figure eight, that would catch the jester's eye. he looked up at a movement and saw that the man had picked up a small vellum book and was holding it close to his face. what luck! he could read after all! but how was he going to make letters? near the sill of the door were some pieces of straw. he went over and examined them. he realized that a cat's vision is rather poor compared to a man's: quick to notice and interpret motion, but in other respects the over-large pupils, meant for nocturnal hunting, gave an inferior and uncertain image.

the straw was dirty and smelled of horses, but it ought to do. the trouble was that when his face was close enough to pick it up with his teeth he could scarcely make it out. he couldn't tell at first whether he had one or many in his mouth. he felt that his whiskers should tell him, but he was unaccustomed to their use. he padded over to the jester's feet and dropped the straws. he backed off and looked at them, then with his paw he ineptly pushed them into an a.

he looked up. the jester was lost in his reading.

dax waited patiently, but the reading went on, and he patted the man's foot with carefully sheathed claws. the jester glanced at him, though not at the crude, straw a, and smiled.

"what now, tybalt? more supper? that you will have to catch for yourself. see—it's all gone! share-and-share alike, old friend. i weigh eight stone. you're but a scant four pound, so correspondingly...." he returned to his reading.

dax went and picked out some more straw which he brought back and attempted to arrange in a b, but gave it up and made an e instead. then he made two crosses and a triangle.

aexxδ.

it looked like a fraternity. then he mewed.

the man looked down again with a faint frown. he didn't seem to notice the straw shapes; judging from the way he held the book he was quite short-sighted. "out?" he asked. "out for a rat, poor tybalt? or to lie by the embers in the hall?" he shook his head and got up, and went to the door to open it. dax jumped onto the bed and mewed again. the man paused with his hand on the latch, looking puzzled. dax jumped down and dabbed with his paw next each letter successively.

"why, what is this?" the old man said, smiling again. "playfulness? the kitten is back!" he went to the table and picking up the bauble, made a feint with the stuffed bladder over dax's head. dax dodged it irritably and mewed again; three times in quick succession.

this caught the attention of the jester, who laid down the bauble. "ah! a tritheist! will it get you a mouse, tybalt? will it keep off evil spirits? it's said the imps love cats—so beware of moonlight and mistletoe!" he picked dax up and stroked him.

it was infuriating.

dax was aware that the medieval mind was very different from the modern, but there must be some meeting point. too bad this wasn't friar roger bacon—he'd have got his attention in no time. but he was a hundred years too early. his immediate problem was to seek out some person who had enough imagination and curiosity to take notice of a cat who behaved not as a cat. if he had only known this was going to happen!

he tried mewing again, but the jester only smiled, so he mewed once, then twice and then three times. the jester shook his head admiringly. like most of his contemporaries the world for him was filled with wonders. it was an age of faith, not of speculation.

a pale moon showed through a narrow slit in the wall, which was unglazed, and he became aware that the light from the tallow dip was yellow, and the jester's costume red and green.

so it was all nonsense about cats having no color vision—anyway, hadn't some woman in california disproved that? against the moon he could see the black outline of full-grown leaves on the nearby trees and knew it was not yet winter but autumn. when winter came in earnest, everyone from scullion to the lord of the manor would bed down in the great hall where the fire was. but the stonework of the castle was cold, and he felt himself getting drowsy.

the old jester put down his book, crossed himself and blew out the light. dax could hear him burrowing into the straw of his bed, and nestled beside him.