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?”
“Aha!” 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.
“Here!” panted Limbeck, tugging at the god’s feet. “You get this end, Jarre. I’ll take his head. There, carefully. Carefully. That’s got him, I think.” Having braved the dog, Jarre felt equal to anything, even hauling gods around by their feet. Casting a withering glance at her cowardly compatriots, she grasped hold of the god’s leather boots and tugged. Limbeck guided the limp body out of the bubble, catching hold of the shoulders when they appeared. Together the Gegs eased the god onto the floor.
“Oh, my,” said Jarre softly, her fear forgotten in pity. She touched the gash on his head with a gentle hand. Her fingers came away covered with blood.
“He’s hurt awfully bad!”
“I know,” said Limbeck anxiously. “And I had to handle him kind of roughly, dragging him out of his ship before the dig-claw smashed him to bits.”
“His skin’s icy cold. His lips are blue. If he were a Geg, I’d say he was dying. But maybe gods are supposed to look like that.”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t look like that when I first saw him, just after his ship crashed. Oh, Jarre, he just can’t die!”
The dog, hearing the compassion in Jarre’s voice and seeing her touch his master soothingly, gave her hand a swipe with his tongue and looked up at her with pleading brown eyes.
Jarre was startled at first at feeling the wet slurp, then relaxed. “Why, there, don’t worry. It’s going to be all right,” she said softly, reaching out and timidly giving the animal a pat on the head. He suffered her to do so, flattening his ears and wagging his bushy tail ever so slightly.
“Do you think it will be?” asked Limbeck in deep concern.
“Of course! Look, his eyelids are moving.” Briskly Jarre swung around and began giving orders. “The first thing to do is get him someplace warm and quiet where we can take care of him. It’s almost time for scrift change. We don’t want anyone to see him—”
“We don’t?” interrupted Limbeck.
“No! Not until he’s well and we’re ready to answer questions. This will be a great moment in the history of our people. We don’t want to spoil it by rushing into anything. You and Lof go get a litter—”
“A litter? The god won’t fit on a litter,” Lof pointed out sulkily. “His legs’ll hang over the edge and his feet’ll drag the floor!”
“That’s true.” Jarre wasn’t accustomed to dealing with a person whose body was so long and narrow. She paused, frowning, when suddenly a clanging gong sounding very loudly caused her to glance around in alarm. “What’s that?”
“They’re going to be opening the floor!” Lof gasped.
“What floor?” inquired Limbeck curiously.
“This floor!” Lof pointed at the metal plates beneath their feet.
“Why? Oh, I see.” Limbeck looked upward at the dig-claws that had dumped their load and were being readied to descend into the gap to fetch up another.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Lof said urgently. Sidling up to Jarre, he whispered, “Let the god stay. When the floor opens, he’ll drop back into the air where he came from. His dog too.”
But Jarre wasn’t paying attention. She was watching the carts trundle along overhead.
“Lof!” she said excitedly, grabbing hold of him by his beard and yanking—a habit she had acquired when dealing with Limbeck and one she found difficult to break. “Those carts! The god will fit inside one of those! Hurry! Hurry!” The floor was beginning to vibrate ominously, and anything was better than having his beard pulled out by the roots. Lof nodded and ran off with the other Gegs to acquire an empty cart.
Jarre wrapped the god snugly in her own cloak. She and Limbeck dragged him away from the center of the floor, as close to the edge as they could possibly get. By this time, Lof and company had returned with the cart, rolling it down the steep ramp that connected the bottom level with the one above. The gong sounded again. The dog whined and barked. Either the noise hurt its ears or it sensed the danger and was urging the Gegs on. (Lof insisted it was the first. Limbeck argued it was the second. Jarre ordered them both to shut up and work.)