than myself."
The dragon glanced numbly back at him, barely taking
notice of his presence. His tone was ponderously, unexpectedly,
somber.
"I have made a grave mistake. Comrade. A grave mis-
take." The dragon sighed. His attention was concentrated on
the crisped, smoking remains of the Porprut as he picked and
prodded at the blackened tendrils with his claws.
"What's troubling you?" asked Jon-Tom. He walked close
and affectionately patted the dragon's flank.
The head swung around to gaze at him mournfully. "I have
destroyed," he moaned, "an ideal communal society. A
perfect communistic organism."
"You don't know that's what it was, Falameezar," Jon-
Tom argued. "It might have been a normal creature with a
single brain."
"I do not think so." Falameezar slowly shook his head,
looking and sounding as depressed as it was possible for a
dragon to be. Little puffs of smoke occasionally floated up
from his nostrils.
"I have looked inside the corpse. There are many individu-
al sections of creature inside, all twisted and intertwined
together, intergrown and interdependent. All functioning in
perfect, bossless harmony."
Jon-Tom stepped away from the scaly side. "I'm sorry."
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Alan Dean Foster
He thought carefully, not daring to offend the dragon but
worried about its state of mind. "Would you have rather
you'd left it alone to nibble us to death?"
"No, Comrade, of course not. But I did not realize fully
what it consisted of. If I had, I might have succeeded in
making it shift its path around you. So I have been forced to
murder a perfect natural example of what civilized society
should aspire to." He sighed. "I fear now I must do penance,
my comrade friend."
A little nervous, Jon-Tom gestured at the broad, endless
field of the Swordsward. "There are many dangers out there,
Comrade. Including the still monstrous danger we have talked
so much about."
It was turning to evening. Solemn clouds promised another
night of rain, and there was a chill in the air that even hinted
at some snow. It was beginning to feel like real winter out on
the grass-clad plain.
A cold wind sprang from the direction of the dying sun.
went through Jon-Tom's filthy leathers. "We need your help,
Falameezar."
"I am sorry, Comrade. I have my own troubles now. You
will have to face future dangers without me. For I am truly
sorrowful over what I have done here, the more so because
with a little thought it might have been avoided." He tamed
and lumbered off into the rising night, his feet crushing dowr
the Sward, which sprang up resiliently behind him.
"Are you Sure?" Jon-Tom followed to the edge of the
cleared circle, put out imploring hands. "We really need you,
Comrade. We have to help each other or the great danger will
overwhelm all of us. Remember the coming of the bosses of
bosses!"
"You have your other friends, your other comrades to
assist you, Jon-Tom," the dragon called back to him across
(he waves of the green sea. "I have no one but myself."
"But you're one of us!"
64
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
The dragon shook his head. "No, not yet. For a time I had
willed to myself that it was so. But I have failed, or I would
have seen a solution to your rescue that did not involve this
murder."
"How could you? There wasn't time!" He could barely see
me dark outline now.
"I'm sorry, Comrade Jon-Tom." Falameezar's voice was
faint with distance and guilt. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Falameezar." Jon-Tom watched until the dragon
had completely vanished, then looked disappointedly at the
ground. "Dammit," he muttered.
He returned to the wagon. Lamps were lit now. Under their
familiar, friendly glow Caz and Mudge were checking the
condition of the dray team. Flor, Clothahump, and Talea were
restocking their scattered supplies. The wizard's glasses were
pinched neatly on his beak. He looked out and down as
Jon-Tom, hands shoved into his pockets and gaze on the
ground, sauntered up to him.
"Problems, my boy?"
Jon-Tom raised his eyes, nodded southward. "Falameezar's
left us. He was upset at having to kill the damn Porprut. I
tried my best to argue him out of it, but he'd made up his
mind."
"You did well even to try," said Clothahump comfortingly.
"Not many would have the courage to debate a dragon's
decision. They are terribly stubborn. Well, no matter. We
shall make our way without him."
"He was the strongest of us," Jon-Tom murmured
disappointedly. "He did more in thirty seconds to the Porprut
and the Mimpa than all the rest of us were able to do at all.
No telling how much trouble just his presence prevented."
"It is true we shall miss his brute strength," said the
wizard, "but intelligence and wisdom are worth far more
than any amount of muscle."
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Alan Dean Foster
"Maybe so." Jon-Tom vaulted into the back of the wagon.
"But I'd still feel better with a little more bmte strength on
our side."
"We must not bemoan our losses," Clothahump said
chidingly, "but must push ahead. At least we will no longer
be troubled by the Mimpa." He let out an unwizardly chuck-
le. "It will be days before they cease running."
"Do we continue on tonight, then?"
"For a short while, just enough to leave this immediate
area behind. Then we shall mount a guard, just in case, and
continue on tomorrow in daylight. The weather looks un-
pleasant and we will have difficulty enough in holding to our
course.
"Then too, while I don't know how you young folk are
feeling, I'm not ashamed to confess that the body inside this
old shell is very much in need of sleep."
Jon-Tom had no argument with that. Falameezar or no
Falameezar, Mimpa or no Mimpa, he was dead tired. Which
was a good deal better than what he'd earlier thought he'd be
this night: plain dead.
The storm did not materialize the next day, nor the one
following, though the Swordsward received its nightly dose of
steady rain. Plor was taking a turn at driving the wagon. It
was early evening and they would be stopping soon to make
camp.
A full moon was rising behind layers of gray eastern
clouds, a low orange globe crowning the horizon. It turned
the rain clouds to gauze as it lifted behind them, shedding
ruddy light over the darkening sward. Snowflakelike reflec-
tions danced elf steps on the residue of earlier rain.
From the four patient yoked lizards came a regular, heavy
swish-swish as they pushed through the wet grasses. Easy con-
versation and occasional laughter punctuated by Mudge's
lilting whistle drifted out from the enclosed wagon. Small
66
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
things rose cautiously to study the onward trundling wooden
beast before dropping down into grass or groundholes.
Jon-Tom parted the canvas rain shield and moved to sit
down on the driver's seat next to Flor. She held the reins
easily in one hand, as though bom to the task, and glanced
over at him. Her free hand rested across her thighs. Her long
black hair was a darker bit of shadow, like a piece of broken
black plate glass, against the night. Her eyes were luminous
and huge.
He looked away from their curious stare and down at his
hands. They twisted and moved uncomfortably in his lap, as
though trying to find a place to hide; little five-footed crea-
tures he could not cage.
"I think we have a problem."
"Only one?" She grinned at him, barely paying attention