Sir Harold and the Hindu King

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The lights faded, the ground jolted up under their feet, and Shea and Chalmers found themselves alone in the dark. Shea had a confused impression of single-story houses with curving adobe walls and thatched roofs, with bigger buildings of stone looming behind them in the moonlight. A world of aromas filled his head, sharp and pungent, some familiar, most not; the only one he could name was something that smelled like curry. The ground beneath him was just that—ground, the packed earth of an unpaved street. He seemed to be in a sort of expanded intersection, not big enough to call a plaza.

And hot. The heat beat all about him, stifling. By the time his head stopped spinning, Shea was already sweating. "Whew! If this is what it's like at night, I'd hate to be here at noon!"

"Brace yourself," Chalmers said grimly. "We probably will still be here."

"Where are we, Doc?"

"To judge by the heat, I would say it must be somewhere in the tropics." Chalmers swayed.

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