attempt."
Though he worked at it for the next several days, Jon-Tom
was unable to think of a single appropriate tune. Insects were
not a favorite subject for groups whose music he knew by
heart, such as Zepplin or Tull, Queen or the Stones or even
the Beatles, who, he felt sure, had written at least one song
about everything. He searched his memory, went through the
few classical pieces he knew, jumped from Furry Lewis to
Periin Husky to Foreigner without success.
The dearth of material was understandable, though. Love
and sex and money and fame were far more attractive song
subjects than bugs. The thinking helped to kill the time and
made the march more tolerable.
Never once did it occur to him that Clothahump might
have invented the request simply in order to keep Jon-Tom's
mind on harmless matters.
Three more days passed before they reached the outskirts
of the vast, festering lowlands that formed the Greendowns.
They rested on a slope and munched nuts, berries, and lizard
jerky while studying the fog and mist that enshrouded the
lands of the Plated Folk.
Conifers had surrendered the soil to hardwoods. These now
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THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
fought to assert their dominance over palms and baobabs,
succulents and creepers. Occasionally a strange cry or whistle
would rise from the mist.
Jon-Tom finished his meal and stood, his leathern pants
sticking to his legs from the humidity. To the west towered
the snow-crowned crags of Zaryt's Teeth. It was difficult to
believe that a pass broke that towering rampart. It lay some-
where to the southwest of their present position. At its far end
was the Jo-Troom Gate and beyond that, a section of Swordsward
and bustling, friendly Polastrindu.
His own home was somewhat more distant, a trillion miles
away on the other side of time, turn right at the rip in the
fabric of space and take the fourth-dimensional offramp.
He turned. Clothahump was busy with wizard's business.
Pog assisted him.
"We'd better come up with something." Talea had moved
to stand next to him, stood looking down into the mist. "We
go down there looking like ourselves and we'll be somebody's
supper before the day's out."
"Aye, that's the truth, lass," agreed Mudge. " 'E'U 'ave t'
make us look like a choice slice o' 'ell."
"He already has, I think," was Caz's comment. "You'd
better straighten your antenna. The left one is pointing back-
ward instead of forward."
"I'll do that." Mudge reached up and was in the middle of
straightening the errant sensor when he suddenly realized
what had happened. " 'Cor, but that was quick!"
Clothahump rejoined them. Rather, they were joined by a
squat, pudgy beetle that sounded something like Clothahump.
Pale red compound eyes inspected them each in turn. Four
arms crossed over the striated abdomen.
"What do you think, my friends? Have I solved the
problem and allayed your fears, or not?"
When the initial shock finally wore off, they were able to
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take more careful stock of themselves. The disguises seemed
foolproof. Talea, Ror, Mudge, and the rest now resembled
giant versions of things Jon-Tom usually smashed underfoot.
The middle set of arms moved in tandem with their owners
actual ones. Pog had turned into a giant flying beetle.
"Is that really you in there, Jon-Tom?" The thing with
Hor's voice ran a clawed hand over the pale blue chitin
encasing him.
"I think so." He looked down at himself, noted with
astonishment the multijointed legs, the smooth undercurve of
abdomen, the peculiar wave-shaped sword at his hip.
"Not too uncomfortable, my boy?"
Jon-Tom looked admiringly at the squat beetle. "It's a
wonderful job, sir. I feel like I'm inside a suit of armor, yet
I'm cooler than I was a few moments ago without it."
"Part of the spell, my boy," said the wizard with pride.
"Attention to detail makes all the difference."
"Speakin' o' attention t' detail, Your Mastemess," Mudge
said, " 'ow do I go about takin' a leak?"
"There are detachable sections of chitin in the appropriate
places, otter. You must take care to conceal bodily functions
of any kind from those we will be among. I could not
imagine Plated Folk jaws through which we might eat, for
example. Hopefully we can finish our business in Cugluch
and be out of it and these suits before very long."
"You remembered the formula well," Jon-Tom told the
wizard.
"Well enough, my boy." They left their packs and started
down the slope into the steaming lowlands. "One key phrase
eluded me for a time.
"Multioptics, eyes of glass,
sextupal reach in fiberglass,
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THE HOUR OF THE GATS
hot outside but cool within,
suit of polymers I'll spin."
He proceeded to detail the formula that had provided such
perfectly fitted disguises.
"So these are foolproof, then?" Talea asked hopefully
from just ahead of them. It was difficult to think of the
black-and-brown-spotted creature as the beautiful, feisty Talea,
Jon-Tom mused.
"My dear, no disguise is foolproof," Clothahump replied
somberly.
"Dat's for damn sure." Pog fluttered awkwardly overhead
on false beetle wings.
"We are entering the Greendowns from me northern ranges,"
the wizard reminded them. "The Plated Folk cannot imagine
someone intentionally entering their lands. The only section
of their territories which might be even lightly watched is that
near the Pass. We should be able to mingle freely with
whoever we chance to encounter."
"That'll be the true test of these suits, won't it?" said Caz.
"Not whether we look believable to each other, but whether
we can fool them."
"The formula was as all-encompassing as I could fashion
it," said Clothahump confidently. "In any case, we shall
know in a moment."
They turned a bend in the animal path they'd been follow-
ing and came face to face with a dozen workers of that
benighted land. The Plated Folk were cutting hardwood and
loading the logs on a lizard-drawn sled. Unable to retreat, the
travelers marched doggedly ahead.
They were nearly past when one of the cutters, a foreman
perhaps, walked over on short spindly legs and gestured with
two of his four limbs. Jon-Tom marked the gesture for future
use.
"Hail, citizens! Whence come you, and wither go?"
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There was an uncomfortably long silence until Caz thought
to say, "We've been out on patrol."
"Patrol... in the mountains?" The foreman looked askance
at the snows beyond the forest's edge. He made a clicking
sound that might have passed for laughter. "What were
you
patrolling for? Nothing comes from the north."
"We do not," said Caz, thinking furiously, "have to
provide such information to hewers of wood. However, there
is no harm in your knowing." His disguise gave his voice a
raspy tone.
"In her wisdom the Empress has decreed that every possi-
ble approach be inspected at least once in a while. Surely you
do not question her wisdom?" Caz put his hand on his
scimitar, and two limbs gripped the strange weapon.
"No, no!" said the insect foreman hastily, "of course not.
Now, of all times, the greatest secrecy must be preserved."
He still sounded doubtful. "Even so, nothing has come out of
these mountains in years and years."
"Of course not," said Caz haughtily. "Does that not prove
the effectiveness of these secret patrols?"
"That is sensible, citizen," agreed the foreman, his confu-
sion overcome thanks to Caz's inexorable logic.
The others had continued past while the rabbit had been
conversing with the foreman. That worthy snapped to atten-
tion and offered an interesting salute with both arms on his
left side. Caz mimicked it in return, his false middle arm
functioning smoothly in tandem with the real one.
"The Empress!" said the foreman with praiseworthy
enthusiasm.
"The Empress," Caz replied. "Now then, be on about
your business, citizen. The Empire needs that wood." The
foreman executed a sign of acknowledgment and returned to
his work. Caz tried not to move too hastily down the slope
after his companions.
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THE HOUR Of THE GATS
The foreman returned to his cutters. One of the laborers
glanced up and asked curiously, "What was that all about,
citizen foreman?"
"Nothing. A patrol."
"A patrol, up here?"
"I know it is odd to find one in the mountains."
"More than odd, I should think." His antennae pointed
downhill toward the retreating travelers. "That is a peculiar
grouping for a patrol of any kind."
"I thought so also." The foreman's tone stiffened. "But it
is not our place to question the directives of the High
Command."
"Of course not, citizen foreman." The laborer returned
quickly to his work.
Wooded hillsides soon gave way to extensive cultivated
fields cleared from bog and jungle. Most were planted with a
tall, flexible growth about an inch in diameter that looked like
jaundiced sugar cane. Swampy plantings alternated with herds
of small six-legged reptiles who foraged noisily through the
soft vegetation.
They also encountered troops on maneuver, always marching
in perfect time and stride. Once they were forced off the
raised roadway by a column twelve abreast. It took an hour to
pass, trudging from east to west.
They passed unchallenged among dozens of Plated Folk.
No one questioned their disguises. But Clothahump grew
uneasy at their progress.
"Too slow," he muttered. "Surely there is a better way
than this, and one that will have the ex$a advantage of
concealing us from close inspection."
"What've you got in mind, guv'nor?" Mudge wanted to
know.
"A substitute for feet. Excuse me, citizen." The wizard
stepped out into the road.
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Alan Dean Foster
The wagon bearing down on him pulled to a halt. It was
filled with transparent barrels of some aromatic green liquid.
The driver, a rather bucolic beetle of medium height, leaned
over the side impatiently as Clothahump approached.
"Trouble, citizen? Be quick now, I've a schedule to keep."
"Are you by chance heading for the capital?"
"I am, and I've no time for riders. Sorry." He lifted his
reins preparatory to chucking the wagon team into motion
again.
"It is not that we wish a ride, citizen," said Clothahump,
staring hard at the driver, "but only that we wish a ride."
"Oh. I misunderstood. Naturally. Make space for your-
selves in the back, please."
As they climbed into the wagon, Jon-Tom passed close by
the driver. He was sitting stiffly in his seat, eyes staring
straight ahead yet seeing very little. Seeing only what
Clothahump wanted them to see, in fact.
Under the wizard's urging, the rustic whipped the team
forward. The mesmerization had taken only a moment, and
no one else had observed it.
"Damnsight better than walking." Talea reached awkwardly
down to draw one foot toward her, wishing she could massage
the aching sole but not daring to remove even that small
section of the disguise.
"Sure is," agreed Jon-Tom. He balanced himself in the
swaying, rocking wagon as he made his way forward.
Clothahump sat next to the driver. The insect ignored his
arrival.
"A great deal happening these days," Jon-Tom said by way
of opening conversation.
The driver's gaze did not stray from the road. His voice
was oddly stilted, as though a second mind were choosing the
words to answer with.
"Yes, a great deal."
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THE HOUR Of THE GATS
"When is it to begin, do you think, the invasion of the
wannlands?" Jon-Tom made the question sound as casual as
he could.
A movement signifying ignorance from the driver. "Who
is to know? They do not permit wagon masters to know the
inner workings of the High Military. But it will be a great day
when it comes. I myself have four nestmates in the invasion
force. I wish I could be among them, but my district logisti-
cian insists that food supplies will be as important as fighting
to the success of the invasion.
"So I remain where I am, though it is against my desires.
It will be a memorable time. There will be a magnificent
slaughter."
"So they claim," Jon-Tom murmured, "but can we be so
certain of success?"
For a moment, the shocked disbelief the driver felt nearly
overcame the mental haze into which he'd been immersed.
"How can anyone doubt it? Never in thousands of years has
the Empire assembled so massive a force. Never before have
we been as well prepared as now.
"Also," he added conspiratorially, "there is rumor abun-
dant that the Great Wizard Eejakrat, Advisor to the Empress
herself, has brought forth from the realms of darkness an
invincible magic which will sweep all opposition before it."
He adjusted the reins running to the third lizard in right line.
"No, citizens, of course we cannot lose."
"My feelings are the same, citizen." Jon-Tom returned to
the rear of the wagon. Clothahump joined him a moment
later, as he was chatting softly to the others.
"If confidence is any indication of battleworthiness.'we're
liable to be in for a bad time."
"You see?" said Clothahump knowingly as he leaned up
against a pair of green-filled barrels, "that is why we must
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find and destroy this dead mind that Eejakrat somehow draws
knowledge from, or die in the attempt."
"Speak for yourself, guv'," said Mudge. " 'E wot fights
an' runs away lives t' fight another day."
"Unfortunately," Clothahump reminded the otter quietly,
"if we fail, like as not there will not be another day."
216
XIII
Several days passed. Farms and livestock pastures began to
give way to the outskirts of a vast metropolis. Fronted with
stone or black cement, tunnels led down into the earth. On
the surface row upon row of identical gray buildings filled the
horizon, a vast stone curve that formed the outer wheel of the
capital city of Cugluch.
As they entered me first gate of many, they encountered
larger structures and greater variety. Faint pulses of light from
within cast ambivalent shadows on the travelers while the
echoes of hammerings resounded above the babble of the
chitinesque crowd. Once they passed a wagon emerging from
a large, cubical building. It was piled high with long spears
and pikes and halberds bound together like sheaves of grain.
The weapon-laden vehicle moved westward. Westward like
the troops they'd passed. Westward toward the Jo-Troom
Gate.
It had rained gently every day, but was far warmer than in
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Alan Dean Foster
the so-called warmlands. Pat, limpid drops slid off their
hard-shelled disguises, only occasionally penetrating the well-
fashioned false chitin. Cooled by spell, those inside the insect
suits remained comfortable in spite of the humidity, dothahump.
as a good wizard should, had foreseen everything except the
need to scratch the occasional itch.
Only an isolated clump of struggling trees here and then
brought color to the monotonous construction of the city. It
was an immense warren, much of it out of sight beneath the
surface of the earth.
They pushed their way through heavier and heavier traffic,
increasingly military in nature. Clothahump guided the drive,
smoothly, directing them deeper into the city.
Wagonloads of troops, ant- and beetle-shapes predominant,
shoved civilian traffic aside as they made their way westward,
Enormous beetles eight and nine feet long displayed sharpened'
horns to the travelers. Three or four armed soldiers rode or
the backs of these armored behemoths.
Once a dull thump sounded from behind a large ova:
Spellsinger 02 - The Hour of the Gate Page 22