rooted flora edged toward them.
"I don't want to die," Flor whispered, "not like this."
"Now, we been through all that, luv," Mudge reminded
her. " 'Tis no use worryin' about it each time it seems about
t' 'appen, or you'll worry yourself t' death. Bloody disgustin'
way t' go, wot?"
"What's the difference?" said Jon-Tom tiredly. "Death's
death, one way or the other. Besides," he grinned humoriessly,
"as much salad and vegetables as I've eaten, it only seems
fair."
"How can you still joke about it?" Flor eyed him in
disbelief.
"Because there's nothing funny about it, that's how."
"You're not making any sense."
"You don't make any sense, either!" he fairly screamed at
her. "This whole world doesn't make any sense! Life doesn't
make any sense! Existence doesn't make any sense!"
She recoiled from his violence. As abruptly as he'd lost
control, he calmed himself. "And now that we've disposed of
all the Great Questions pertaining to life, I suggest that if we
all rock in unison we might be able to loosen this damn pole
and make some progress southwestward. Ready? One, two,
three..."
They used their legs as best they could, but it was hard to
coordinate the actions of six people of very different size and
strength and would have been even if they hadn't been tied in
a circle around the central pole.
It swayed but did not come free of the ground. All this
desperate activity was immensely amusing to the swart spec-
59
Alan Dean Foster
tators behind them. As with everything else it was ignored b)
the patiently advancing Porprut.
It was only a foot or so from Jon-Tom's boots when the
proverbial sparker he'd wished for suddenly appeared. Amid
shouts of terror and outrage the Mimpa suddenly melted into
the surrounding Sward. Something blistered the right side of
Jon-Tom's face. The gout of flame roared a second time in his
ears, then a third.
By then the Porprut had halted, its multiple mouths twisting
and contorting in a horrible, silent parody of pain while the
falsely beautiful red and blue blooms shriveled into black ash.
It made not a sound while it was being incinerated.
A winged black shape was fluttering down among the
captives. It wielded a small, curved knife in one wing. With
this it sliced rapidly through their bonds.
"Damn my ears but I never fought we'd find ya!" said the
excited Pog. His great eyes darted anxiously as he moved
from one bound figure to the next. "Never would have,
either, if we hadn't spotted da wagon. Dat was da only ting
dat stuck up above da stinking grass." He finished freeing
Clothahump and moved next to Jon-Tom.
Missing his spectacles, which remained in the wagon,
Clothahump squinted at the bat while rubbing circulation
back into wrists and ankles. The woven gag he threw into the
Sward.
"Better a delayed appearance than none at all, good famu-
lus. You have by rescuing us done the world a great service.
Civilization owes you a debt, Pog."
"Yeah, tell me about it, boss. Dat's da solemn truth, an' I
ain't about ta let civilization forget it."
Free again, Jon-Tom climbed to his feet and started off
toward the wagon.
"Where are you going, boy?" asked the wizard.
"To get my duar." His fear had rapidly given way to
60
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
anger. "There are one or two songs I want to sing for our
little friends. I didn't think I'd have the chance and I don't
want to forget any of the words, not while they're .still fresh
in my mind. Wait till you hear some of 'em, Clothahump.
They'll bum your ears, but they'll do worse to—"
"I do not have any ears in the sense you mean them, my
boy. I suggest you restrain yourself."
"Restrain myself!" He whirled on the wizard, waved
toward the rapidly carbonizing lump of the Porprut. "Not
only were the little bastards going to feed us slowly to that
monstrosity, but they were all sitting there laughing and
having a hell of a fine time watching! Maybe revenge isn't in
the lexicon of wizards, but it sure as hell is in mine."
"There's no need, my boy." Clothahump waddled over
and put a comforting hand on Jon-Tom's wrist. "I assure you
I bear no misplaced love for our hastily departed aboriginal
associates. But^as you can see, they have departed."
In truth, as he looked around, Jon-Tom couldn't see a
single ugly arm, leg, or set of whiskers.
"It is difficult to put a spell on what you cannot see," said
the wizard. "You also forget the unpredictability of your
redoubtable talents. Impelled by uncontrolled anger, they
might generate more trouble than satisfaction. I should dislike
being caught in the midst of an army of, say, vengeful
daemons who, not finding smaller quarry around, might turn
their deviltry on us."
Jon-Tom slumped. "All right, sir. You know best. But if I
ever see one of the little fuckers again I'm going to split it on
my spearpoint like a squab!"
"A most uncivilized attitude, my friend," Caz joined
them, rubbing his fur and brushing daintily at his soiled silk
stockings. "One in which I heartily concur." He patted
Jon-Tom on the back.
61
Alan Dean Poster
"That's what this expedition needs: less thinking and more
bloodthirstiness. Cut and slash, hack and rend!"
"Yeah, well..." Jon-Tom was becoming a bit embarrassed
at his own mindless fury. It was hardly the image he held of
himself. "I don't think revenge is all that unnatural ac
impulse."
"Of course it's not," agreed Caz readily. "Perfectly natural."
"What's perfectly natural?" Flor limped up next to them.
Her right leg was still asleep. Despite the ordeal they'd just
undergone, Jon-Tom thought she looked as magnificent as
ever.
"Why, our tall companion's desire to barbeque any of our
disagreeable captors that he can catch."
"Si, I'm for that." She started for the wagon. "Let's get
our weapons and get after them."
This time it was Jon-Tom who extended the restraining
hand. Now he was truly upset at the manner in which he'd
been acting, especially in front of the dignified, sensible Caz.
"I'm not talking about forgiving and forgetting," he told
her, shivering a little as he always did at the physical contact
of hand and arm, "but it's not practical. They could ambush
us in the Sward, even if they hung around."
"Well we can damn well sure have a look!" she protested.
"What kind of a man are you?"
"Want to look and see?" he shot back challengingly.
She stared at him a moment longer, then broke into an
uncontrollable giggle. He laughed along with her, as much
from nervousness and the relief of release as from the poor
joking.
"Hokay, hokay," she finally admitted, "so we have more
important things to do, si?"
"Precisely, young lady." Clothahump gestured toward the
wagon. "Let us put ourselves back in shape and be once
more on our path."
62
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
But Jon-Tom waited behind while the others reentered the
wagon and set to the task of organizing the chaos the Mimpa
had made of its contents.
Walking back to the cleared circle which had so nearly
been their burial place, he found a large black and purple
form bending over a burned-out pile of vegetation. Falameezar
had squatted down on his haunches and was picking with one
massive claw at the heap of ash and woody material.
"We're all grateful as hell, Falameezar. No one more so