The Dragon and the George by Gordon R. Dickson Page B

Loathly Tower. Shouldn't care to go there myself. By heaven, if you are a dragon, you've got nerve!"
    "But I'm not," said Jim. "That's why I've got—er—nerve. I'm a gentleman like yourself, bent on the rescue of the lady I love."
    "Love?" The knight reached into a saddlebag, produced a piece of white cloth and blew his nose. "I say, that's touching. You love this demoiselle of yours?"
    "Doesn't every knight love his lady?"
    "Well…" The other put his handkerchief away again. "Some do, some don't, politics being what it is these days. But it is a coincidence. You see, I love my lady also."
    "Well, then," said Jim, "that's all the more reason you shouldn't interfere with me in my efforts to rescue mine."
    The knight went into one of his moments of obvious thought.
    "How do I know you're telling the truth?" he said, at last. "Bloody dragons could say anything!"
    Jim had a sudden inspiration.
    "I'll tell you what," he said. "Hold your sword up, point down. I'll swear on the cross of the hilt that what I say is true."
    "But if you're a dragon what good will that do? Dragons don't have souls, dammit!"
    "Of course not," retorted Jim. "But a Christian gentleman does; and as a Christian gentleman, I wouldn't dare forswear myself, now would I?"
    Jim could see the knight visibly struggling with the inverted logic of this for several moments. Finally he gave up.
    "Oh, well," he said, held up his sword by the blade and let Jim swear on it.
    He put the sword back in its sheath. Jim let go the trees and half jumped, half flapped down to ground.
    "It might be…" said the knight, moodily, staring at Jim as Jim stood up on his hind legs to dust the bark and twigs from his foreclaws. "There was a palmer in gray friar's-cloth came to the castle last Michaelmas and spoke a rhyme to me before he left:
    "Betyde thee weale yn any fyght When'ere thou kenst thy cause ys right."
    "But I don't see how it applies."
    "Don't you?" said Jim, thinking rapidly. "I'd say it was obvious. Because I'm bent on rescuing my lady, if you tried to kill me, your cause would be wrong. Therefore weale wouldn't have betyded you."
    "By St. John!" said the knight, admiringly. "Of course! And here I thought I was just out after some mere mere-dragon today! What luck! You're sure this cause of yours is right? No doubt about that, I suppose?"
    "Of course not," said Jim, frostily.
    "Well, then, I am in luck. Naturally, I'll have to demand permission of my lady, since there's another demoiselle involved. But I can't see her objecting to an opportunity like this. I suppose we'd better introduce ourselves, since there's no one around to do it for us. I take it you know my arms?"
    He swung his shield around for Jim's inspection. It showed, on a red background, a wide X of silver, like a cross lying over sideways, above a rather fanciful-looking animal in black, which Jim made out to be lying down in the triangular space under the lower legs of the X.
    "The gules, a saltire silver, of course," went on the knight, "are the Neville of Raby arms. My greatgrandfather, as a cadet of the house, differenced with a hart lodged sable—and, of course, I'm in the direct line of descent."
    "Neville-Smythe," said Jim, remembering the name in the song he had just heard and any memories he could dig up on the subject of heraldry. "I bear—in my proper body, that is—"
    "Assuredly, sir," Neville-Smythe agreed.
    "An—gules, typewriter silver on a desk sable. Sir James Eckert, Knight Bachelor." Jim suddenly remembered something Carolinus had mentioned in explaining him to Smrgol and took a chance on gaining a little authority. "Baron of Riveroak. Honored to make your acquaintance, Sir Brian."
    Neville-Smythe lifted off his helm, hung it on the pommel of his saddle and scratched his head puzzledly. He had light brown hair, rather compressed by the helm; and now that his face was out in the sunlight, it could be seen that he was no older than Jim. What had given the