I paused at the top of the rise and looked down the road into the valley before me.

The hills to my left and right were green with the grass and marked off by the white-painted rail fences. A few horses were there, some contentedly resting, a hind leg akimbo, only the tip of the hoof on the ground. An occasional twitch noted a fly being shaken free or a languid sweep of a tail.

This was ShowtimeBook country, for certain, I thought as I went down toward the town.

Interestingly, the town at the valley floor had an enormously wide street, far broader than necessary for one this size. I stopped long enough to look about. The varied architectural styles were surprising.

It was quiet on the street until an older man looked up from his bench, saw me, grinned and said, "Howdy stranger ." He had stopped his whittling and looked me up and down. He smiled and pointed over his shoulder. "This here's the Alamo. You kin go there, or the ferry up the Rio Grande is still at the dock." He looked rather appraisingly at me. "They don't got many people going up, you could probably go real cheap."

I smiled, and shook my head. "Thanks, but I've come far enough today."

My greeter was still looking at me, sitting on the rustic bench in front of a small wooden building. An extension of the roof over the veranda-like porch shaded him from the afternoon sun.

"Is there a hostel here? I don't have a guide that seems to cover this town. What's its name?"

He pointed his carving at me and laughed. "It ain't really got a name. Everyone jist calls it whatever fits them at tha time." He watched me puzzle out his meaning before he offered another comment. "No hostel here, whatever that is, that I know of. Best ya go over ta the Emporium. Someone there might know."

"Thanks, Mr. ... ?"

"Call me Norbanus, or anything else not too disrespectful. I 'speshly don't like bein' called late fer dinner."

He was laughing as I looked past him at the sign over the door. "Clan Anus Suppository" was carved deeply into the weathered wood and visible only by the shadowed letters in relief by the lowering sun.

"Very well, sir. Thank you for the direction." I tipped my hat, he nodded, turned to spit out a gout of tobacco-stained saliva and resumed his whittling, adding to the pile of shavings between his feet.

A book store was a ways down from where I stood, intriguing me by the notice in the window. 'Stereopticon stills from All quiet on the Western Front are available here.'

I had not heard of those for a dog's age.

Another sign was printed below the first.

'A lantern show of the Great War is showing tonight in the reading room. Donations accepted.'

A push on the door rang a little bell. Entering, a sweet-faced woman in her middle years looked up from her desk, lifting her pen from her writing. The close-cropped hair style reminded me of pictures of my grandmother. A stack of writing paper was on the desk beside her.

The shelves of books were carefully sheltered behind glass doors.

"Welcome, sir, have you a book in mind?" I saw the name plate on the desk and remembered the slight accent when she had greeted me. Mrs. M. R. Callahan. An Irish name, though she did not sound Gaelic. I wondered.

"No ma'am, I was curious when I saw your sign. Do you have a stereopticon viewer here?"

"Oh, yes, please, it's right here." She put down her pen into the holder, and took the instrument off the shelf behind her to hand to me. The combined eye-shield and lenses were attached to a pistol grip-like handle. A spring clip held a pair of pictures that had been printed side-by-side on a single sheet, like a double-sized photo.

"Do you know how to use one?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am, though it has been a while." I released the catch and slid the photo holder back and forth on the guide rail to bring the pictures into focus. Seeing only the composite, now, I marveled at the simplicity of the device, and the starting reality of the black and white scene. It mimicked a depth of field in 3D by the lenses and spacing of the pictures on the photos. It must have been one of the last in the series. Lew Ayres as Paul Baumer is just reaching over the lip of the trench.

"The entire set is only one dollar. That's one hundred and fifty stereographic photos specifically designed for this device for less than a penny apiece."

"It is remarkable. I will have to think about if first, thank you."

"I didn't mean to interrupt you, though, ma'am. Do you know where I might find a hostel? I'd like to find a place for tonight."

She smiled, "Interrupt? Oh, that! It's only a bit of whimsy I indulge myself with. I like to write about people and things in our historical past. I find out so many interesting things about our holidays and such."

"That is truly fascinating. But, do you know of a hostel, or such?"

She frowned and pursed her lips a minute, "Perhaps that dear woman at the Moskva Cliff could help you." Leading me to the window, she pointed down the street. I saw it, thanked her, and left. The little bell tinkled again as I opened the door and closed it after myself.

The street was dusty now with a mob of cattle moving down it. The drovers were a confusing melange of Owen Wister's cowboys and Argentine gauchos. The Aussie stockmen were set apart from the other men by their broad-brimmed hats.

This place was really strange.

I started across, working my way through the slowly moving herd, when two women on the wagon following the cattle called out.

"Get out the way, you fool, before you're run down." I ignored them and pushed my way through, luckily avoiding stepping into the cow pies I could smell.

Across the street, I looked back. The two women laughed and one took her hat off and waved. "God bless, he does care for fools."

They shook the reins and moved on. "Kym Jade - Gems for the Discriminating" was written large, in block letters, on the side of the wagon covering.

The store Lady Callahan had directed me to was the most unusual. There were two onion-shaped domes above the roof. Closer, I saw the gold lettering in the window. and what appeared to be a menu. It was a restaurant.

I realized that I was hungry, too. The sandwich and fruit I had for lunch were long past.

Entering, I saw a few tables with chairs. Some old men were sitting around a samovar in the back of the room drinking tea from glasses. There were some others closely gathered about a chess game in progress.

A small woman with a large bosom greeted me with a smile as she came from behind the counter.

"Supper, sir?" I nodded yes. She led me to a solid wood table with equally heavy chairs set around it.

Four of the men looked up and went back to their chatting. I did not know what their language was. However, considering the place, I thought it must be Russian.

The Cyrillic alphabet and Russian on the wall-posted menu defeated me. She laughed and explained the meal offered that day, the only option. I understood the chicken part and said that would be fine.

The window was glazed now with the late afternoon sun making it impossible to see out.

Another couple came in, interesting to my eyes by the contrast between them. He was in some sort of seventeenth century get-up with knee breeches, plumed hat and sword. The startling woman with him was dressed in leather that was tightly bound to her body, leaving nothing of the contours to the imagination.

I must have stared at her too long, as her companion called to me, loudly, apparently berating me for my impudence. There was a flurry of language between them before he sniffed at me and then walked to a table and seated his companion. He sat, facing me. We had a momentary eye-to-eye engagement before I laughed, waved and went back to waiting for my service.

A charming woman decided to enter then, and came directly to my table. She stood there, looking down at me.

"Lady?" I stood, wondering who she was.

"I would join you, young man." Imperious, she was, and I was far from a young man. Still, she was a handsome woman.

I took a chair away and held it for her. Noblesse oblige, and she nodded her acceptance before I reseated myself

"Ma'am, ... ."

"I, ... am the Duchess of Drumborg. You may address me as such."

"Yes, Ma'am"

"Your ... Grace," she corrected me.

"Your ... Grace. I am flattered. How is it that you 'grace' my table?"

"I am hungry, you oaf, and this is the farthest I can be from that odious pair."

He heard her. The woman and he rose as one and came our way.

"Do you know who I am?" he said, facing me as I stood beside my 'guest'.

"Should I?"

"You insolent whelp." He drew his sword, and I whipped out my notebook. It was already on the URL so I tapped the Icon and DELETE-YES. It all disappeared, leaving me at my desk, far removed from the restaurant and its intriguing occupants.

I chuckled. "Well, you couldn't know that I am the Fantasist. A touch of a key and everything is gone."

Including myself, I might have added.

I hit DELETE - LOG OFF - CLOSE - OKAY and sat back from the keyboard. This prospective submission was going nowhere, so I killed the last of it.

FanStory deserved better. Too bad. I really wanted to meet Lady ABC36D, DavidRay, and so many others. I would have to write that post-rennaisance character into a better mood. Maybe La Maitraisse could help.

"Good night, Gayle!"

I snapped off the light and left.