The revolution! Limbeck lifted his head. He couldn’t see a thing, due to the mist over his spectacles, but that didn’t matter.
He wasn’t looking at his surroundings anyway. He was back on Drevlin, the Gegs were cheering him. What was even more beautiful, they were doing as he advised.
They were asking “why”!
Limbeck could never afterward clearly recall the next harrowing span of time. He remembered that he tore up his shirt to make a crude bandage to wrap around the head of the god. He remembered glancing askance at the dog, being uncertain how the dog would react to anyone moving its master. He remembered that the dog licked his hand and looked at him with its liquid eyes and stood aside, watching anxiously as the Geg lifted the limp body of the god and began hauling him up the side of the crater. After that, Limbeck remembered nothing but aching muscles and sobbing for breath and dragging himself and the body a few feet, then collapsing, then crawling forward, then collapsing, then struggling on again.
The dig-claws went back up into the sky, though the Geg never noticed. The storm broke, increasing his terror, for he knew that they could not hope to survive its full fury out in the open. He was forced to remove his spectacles, and between his myopia, the blinding rain, and the gathering gloom, Limbeck lost sight of the help-hand. He could only keep traveling in what he hoped was the general direction.
More than once, Limbeck thought the god was dead, for the rain chilled the body, the lips turned blue, the skin ashen. The rain had washed away the blood, and the Geg could see the deep and ugly-looking head wound, a thin trickle of red oozing from it. But the god still breathed.
Perhaps he is immortal, Limbeck thought dazedly.
The Geg knew that he was lost. He knew that he had traveled halfway across this blasted isle at least. They had missed the help-hand, or perhaps the help-hand, growing tired of waiting, had gone back up. The storm was worsening. Lightning flared around them, blasting holes in the coralite and deafening Limbeck with the concussive thunder. The wind kept him flattened to the ground-not that the Geg had the strength to stand. He was about to crawl into a pit and escape the storm (or die, if he was lucky) when he noticed blearily that the pit he was contemplating was his pit! There was the broken wooden frame of the wings. And there was the help-hand!
Hope lent the Geg strength. He made it to his feet. Buffeted by wind, he nevertheless managed to drag the god the last few remaining feet. Lowering the god to the ground, Limbeck opened the door to the glass bubble and looked curiously inside.
The help-hand had been designed to allow the Gegs to come to the assistance of the dig-claws, should that be necessary. Occasionally a claw got stuck in the coralite, or broke, or malfunctioned. When this occurred, a Geg entered the help-hand and was lowered down onto one of the isles to effect repairs.
The help-hand looked like what it was named-a gigantic hand made of metal that had been severed at the wrist. A cable attached to the wrist allowed the hand to be raised and lowered from above. The hand was slightly cupped; thumb and fingers forged together, it held in its secure grip a large protective glass bubble in which rode the repair Gegs. A hinged door allowed entrance and egress, and a brass horn, attached to a tube that ran back up the cable, permitted the Gegs to communicate with those above.
Two stout Gegs could fit comfortably inside the glass bubble. The god, being considerably taller than a Geg, presented a problem. Limbeck dragged the god over to the bubble and thrust him inside. The god’s legs hung out over the edge. The Geg finally fit in the god, tucking his legs up so that the knees rested against his chin and folding his arms over his chest. Limbeck climbed in wearily himself, and the dog jumped in after. It would be a tight fit with all three of them, but Limbeck wasn’t about to leave the dog behind-not again. He didn’t think he could stand the shock of seeing it come back from the dead a second time.
The dog curled itself up against the body of its master. Limbeck, reaching over the god’s limp form, struggled against the roaring wind in a futile effort to shut the glass door. The wind whipped around to attack from another direction, and suddenly the door slammed shut on its own, throwing Limbeck back against the side of the bubble. For long moments he lay there, panting and groaning.
Limbeck could feel the hand rock and quake in the storm. He had visions of it breaking, snapping off the cable, and suddenly the Geg wanted only one thing-to get off this rock. It took a supreme effort of will to move, but Limbeck managed to reach over and grasp the horn.
“Up!” he gasped.
No response, and he realized that they must not be able to hear him.
Drawing in a lungful of air, Limbeck closed his eyes and concentrated all his waning strength.
“Up!” he yelled so loudly that the dog sprang to its feet in alarm, the god stirred and groaned.
“Xplf wuf?” came a voice, the words rattling down the tube like a handful of pebbles.
“Up!” Limbeck shrieked in exasperation, desperation, and sheer panic.
The help-hand gave a tremendous lurch that would have knocked the Geg off his feet had he been on them. As it was, he was already scrunched up against the side to allow room for the god. Slowly, with an alarming creaking sound, swinging back and forth in the gale winds, the help-hand began to rise into the air.
Trying not to think what would happen now if the cable snapped, Limbeck leaned back against the side of the bubble, dosed his eyes, and hoped he wouldn’t be sick.
Unfortunately, closing his eyes made him dizzy. He felt himself spinning round and round, about to fall into a deep black pit.
“This won’t do,” said Limbeck shakily. “I can’t pass out. I’ve got to explain to them up above what’s going on.”
The Geg opened his eyes and-to keep from looking out-set himself to studying the god. He had, he realized, thought of the creature as male. At least it looked more like a male Geg than a female Geg, which was all Limbeck had to go on. The god’s face was rough-cut: a square, cleft chin covered with a stubbly growth of beard; firm lips, tightly drawn, tightly closed, never relaxing, appearing to guard secrets that he would take with him to death. A few fine lines around the eyes seemed to indicate that the god, though not an old man, was no youngster. The hair, too, added an impression of age. It was cut short-very short-and though matted with blood and rain-soaked, Limbeck could see patches of pure white at the temples, above the forehead, and around the back where it grew at the base of the neck. The god’s body seemed made of nothing but bones and muscle and sinew. He was thin-by Geg standards, too thin.
“That’s probably why he’s wearing so many clothes,” said Limbeck to himself, trying hard not to look out the sides of the bubble, where lightning strikes were making the stormy night brighter than any day the Gegs, in their sunless world, ever knew.
The god wore a thick leather tunic over a shirt with a drawstring collar that encircled his throat. He had wrapped a strip of cloth around his neck, the ends tied in a knot at the base of his throat and thrust into the tunic. The shirt’s long, full sleeves covered his wrists; drawstrings held them fast. Soft leather trousers were tucked into knee-high boots that fastened up the sides of the legs with buttons made of what appeared to be the horn of some animal. Over all this, he wore a long collarless coat with wide sleeves that came to the elbows. The colors of his clothes were drab-browns and whites, grays and dull black. The fabric was well-worn, frayed in places. The leather tunic, trousers, and boots had softened around the body, fitting it like a second skin.
Most peculiarly, the god wore rags around his hands. Startled by this, which he must have noticed, but hadn’t thought about until now, Limbeck looked at the god’s hands more closely. The rags were skillfully applied. Wrapping around the wrist, they covered the back of the hand and the palm and were twined around the base of the fingers and thumb.
“Why?” Limbeck wondered, and reached forward to find out.
The dog’s growl was filled with such menace that Limbeck felt the hair rise on his he
ad. The animal had jumped to its feet and was gazing at the Geg with a look that said plainly, “I’d leave my master alone, if I were you.”
“Right,” Limbeck gulped. He shrank back against the side of the bubble.
The dog gave him an approving glance. Settling itself more comfortably, it even closed its eyes, as much as to say, “I know you’ll behave now, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take a short nap.”
The dog was right. Limbeck was going to behave. He was paralyzed, afraid to move, almost scared to breathe.
The practical-minded Gegs liked cats. Cats were useful animals who earned their keep by catching mice and who took care of themselves. The Kicksey-Winsey liked cats, at least so it was supposed, since it had been the creators of the Kicksey-Winsey- the Mangers-who first brought cats down from the realms above to dwell with the Gegs. There were, however, few dogs on Drevlin. Those who kept them were generally the wealthy Gegs-such as the High Froman and members of his clan. The dogs were not pets, but were used to protect the wealth. Gegs would not take each other’s lives, but there were a few who had no aversion at all to taking each other’s property.
This dog was different from Geg dogs, which tended to resemble their owners-short-legged, barrel-chested, with round, thick-nosed, flat faces … and an expression of vicious stupidity. The dog holding Limbeck at bay was sleek-coated and slim-bodied. It had a longish nose, its face was exceptionally intelligent, and the eyes were large and liquid brown. Its fur was a nondescript black with patches of white on the tips of the ears, and white eyebrows. It was the eyebrows, Limbeck decided, that made the dog’s face unusually expressive for an animal.
Such were Limbeck’s observations of god and beast. They were detailed, because he had a long time to study them during his ride in the help-hand back up to the isle of Drevlin.
And all the time, he couldn’t help wondering: What? … Why? …
CHAPTER 19
LEK, DREVLIN, LOW REALM
JARRE WAITED IMPATIENTLY FOR THE KICKSEY-WINSEY TO SLOWLY AND LABORIOUSLY wind up the cable from which dangled the help-hand. Occasionally, if some other Geg happened by, she would pull her scarf low over her face and stare with intense and frowning interest at a large round glass case in which lived a black arrow that did practically nothing all its life but hover uncertainly between a great many black lines all marked with strange and obscure symbols. The only thing the Gegs knew about this black arrow-known fondly as the pointy-finger-was that when it flopped over into the area where the black lines all turned red, the Gegs ran for their lives.
This night the pointy-finger was behaving, giving no indication that it was about to unleash blasting gusts of steam that would parboil any Geg caught within reach. Tonight everything was fine, just fine. The wheels were turning, the gears shifting, the cogs cogging. Cables came up and went down. The dig-claws deposited their loads of ore into carts pushed by the Gegs, who dumped the contents into the gigantic maw of the Kicksey-Winsey, which chewed up the ore, spit out what it didn’t want, and digested the rest.
Most of the Gegs working tonight were members of WUPP. During the day, one of their crew had sighted the dig-claw with Limbeck’s L on it. By extraordinary good fortune, the claw belonged to the part of the Kicksey-Winsey located near the capital city of Wombe. Jarre, traveling-with the aid of WUPP members-by flashraft, had arrived in time to meet her beloved and renowned leader.
All the dig-claws had come up except one which appeared to have broken down on the isle below. Jarre left her supposed work station and came over to join the other Gegs, peering anxiously down into the gap-a large shaft that had been bored straight through the corahte isle, opening out onto the sky below. Occasionally Jarre glanced around nervously, for she wasn’t supposed to be on this work crew, and if she was caught, there would be a lot of explaining to do. Fortunately, other Gegs rarely came into the help-hand area, doing so only if there was trouble with one of the claws. She looked up uneasily at the carts being rolled around on the level above her.
“Don’t worry,” said Lof. “If anyone looks down here, they’ll just think we’re helping to fix a claw.”
Lof was a comely young Geg. He admired Jarre immensely and hadn’t been exactly deeply grieved to hear of Limbeck’s execution. Lof squeezed Jarre’s hand and seemed inclined to hang on to it, but Jarre needed her hand herself and took it back.
“There it is!” she cried excitedly, pointing down into the gap. “That’s it!”
“You mean that thing that just got struck by lightning?” asked Lof hopefully.
“No!” Jarre snapped. “I mean yes, but it wasn’t hit.”
They could all see the help-hand, clutching its bubble, rising up out of the gap. Never before had it seemed to Jarre that the Kicksey-Winsey was so slow. Several times she wondered if it hadn’t broken down, and looked at the giant winder-upper, only to see it crankily winding away.
And, at length, the help-hand rose up into the Kicksey-Winsey. The winder-upper screeched to a halt, the gap closed beneath the hand with a rumble, floor plates sliding across to provide safe footing.
“It’s him! It’s Limbeck!” exclaimed Jarre, who could see a blurry blob through the glass of the bubble that was streaming with rain.
“I’m not sure,” said Lof dubiously, still clinging to a fragment of hope. “Does Limbeck have a tail?”
But Jarre didn’t hear. She rushed across the floor before the gap had quite closed all the way, the other Gegs hastening after her. Reaching the door, she began to yank on it impatiently.
“It won’t open!” she cried, panicked.
Lof, sighing, reached up and turned the handle.
“Limbeck!” shrieked Jarre, and jumped inside the bubble, only to tumble out again with undue haste.
There came from inside a loud and unfriendly-sounding wuff.
The Gegs, noting Jarre’s pale face, backed away from the bubble.
“What is it?” questioned one.
“A d-dog, I think,” stammered Jarre.
“Then it’s not Limbeck?” said Lof eagerly.
A weak voice came from inside.
“Yes, it’s me! The dog’s all right. You startled it, that’s all. It’s worried about its master. Here, give me a hand. This bubble’s a tight fit with all of us in here.”
Tips of fingers could be seen waggling from the door. The Gegs glanced at each other apprehensively and, with one accord, took another step back.
Jarre paused expectantly, looking for help from each Geg in turn. Each Geg, in turn, looked at the winder-upper or the munching-chopper or the rumble-floor-anywhere but at the bubble that had wuffed.
“Hey, help me get out of this thing!” shouted Limbeck.
Her lips pursed together in a straight line that boded no good for anyone, Jarre marched up to the bubble and inspected the hand. It looked like Limbeck’s hand-ink stains and all. Somewhat gingerly she grasped hold of it and tugged. Lof’s hopes were dashed, once and for all, when Limbeck-face flushed and sweating-appeared in the doorway.
“Hullo, my dear,” said Limbeck, shaking hands with Jarre, completely ignoring, in his distraction, that she had held her face up to be kissed. Stepping out of the bubble, he immediately turned back around and appeared to be entering it again.
“Here, now help me get him out,” he called from inside, his voice echoing weirdly.
“Who’s him?” asked Jarre. “The dog? Can’t it get out by itself?”
Limbeck turned around to beam at them. “A god!” he said triumphantly. “I’ve brought back a god!”
The Gegs stared at him in amazed and suspicious silence.
Jarre was the first to recover her power of speech. “Limbeck,” she said sternly, “was that really necessary?”
“Why, uh … yes! Yes, of course!” he answered, somewhat taken aback. “You didn’t believe me. Here, help me get him out. He’s hurt.”
“Hurt?” demanded Lof, seeing, once more, hope glimmer. “How can a god be hurt?”
“A
ha!” shouted Limbeck, and it was such a mighty and powerful “Aha” that poor Lof was blown off the track and was completely, finally, and forever out of the race. “That’s my point!” Limbeck vanished back into the bubble.
There was some difficulty with the dog, which was standing in front of its master and growling. Limbeck was more than a little concerned at this. He and the dog had developed an understanding on the ride up in the bubble. But this understanding-that Limbeck would remain unmoving in his corner and the dog wouldn’t rip out his throat-didn’t seem likely to be useful in placating the animal and persuading him to move. “Nice doggy’s” and “There’s a good boy’s” didn’t get him anywhere. Desperate, fearful his god would die, Limbeck attempted to reason with the beast.
“Look,” he said, “we don’t want to hurt him. We want to help him! And the only way we can help him is to get him out of this contraption and to a place where he’ll be safe. We’ll take very good care of him, I promise.” The dog’s growling lessened; the animal was watching the Geg with what appeared to be wary interest. “You can come along. And if anything happens that you don’t like, then you can rip out my throat!”
The dog cocked his head to one side, ears erect, listening intently. When the Geg concluded, the dog regarded him gravely.
I’ll give you a chance, but remember that I still have my teeth.
“It says it’s all right,” shouted Limbeck happily.
“What says?” demanded Jarre when the dog, jumping lightly out of the bubble, landed on the floor at Limbeck’s feet.
The Gegs instantly scrambled for cover, dodging behind those parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that seemed likely to be proof against sharp fangs. Only Jarre held her ground, determined not to desert the man she loved, no matter what the danger. The dog wasn’t the least bit interested in the quivering Gegs, however. Its attention was centered completely on its master.
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