continued to look puzzled, he added, "I could've done the
same thing as Clothahump, but I couldn't come up with the
right music." He looked down at the duar.
"I couldn't think of a single appropriate tune, not even a
chord. If it had all been up to me," he said with a shrug,
"we'd all be dead by now."
"But we ain't," Mudge pointed out cheerfully, "and that
be the important thing."
"Our cheeky companion is correct, you know." Caz had
come up behind them both. Now he stood opposite Mudge,
looking at the seated human. His paws were behind his back
and folded just above the putfball of a tail. "I doesn't matter
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Alan Dean Foster
who does the saving. Just as friend Mudge says, the fact that
we are saved is the important thing. Remember, it was you
who tamed the great Falameezar that fiery night in Polastrindu.
Not Clothahump. You want to hold all the glory for yourself?"
When he saw that the irony was lost on Jon-Tom he added,
"We all work for the same end. It matters nothing who does
what so long as that end is achieved. It shall be, unless some
of us put our personal feelings and desires above it."
Mudge looked a little uncomfortable at the rabbit's bluntness.
" 'E's right, mate. We can't be thinkin' o' ourselves in this
business." The last was said with a straight face. "You'll
'ave plenty o' opportunity t' demonstrate your wonderfulnes'
t' the ladies when this all be done with." He winked anG
whistled knowingly before leaving for the stem.
Caz considered giving the self-pitying human a comforting
pat, decided Jon-Tom might regard it as patronizing, and left
to join Mudge.
Jon-Tom, sitting by himself, muttered aloud, "The ladie
have nothing to do with it." He watched the cavern wall'
glide past. Gentle spray licked his face, kicked up from the
bow as the boat made its way upstream.
They didn't, he insisted to himself, resting his chin o.
folded hands. He'd only been worried about the general
welfare.
Then he grinned, though there was no one to see him. The
trouble with studying law is that you develop a tendency u
bullshit yourself as well as your counterparts. What about thi
theory that all great events, all the turning points of histor
had in some measure or another been motivated by matters (
passion? Catherine the Great, Napoleon, Hitler, Washingtc
... the sexual theory of history explained a hell of a lot c
things economics and social migration and such did not.
It was quite a different kind of history that balanced on thi^
outcome of their little expedition. Jon-Tom had never accorded
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
the theory much credit anyway. Yet though meant at least
partly in jest, Mudge's words forced home to him how often
emotional yearnings coupled with the basic desires of the
body could overwhelm those usually thought of as rational
creatures.
So he was sitting there moping about nothing except
himself. That was selfish and stupid. Maybe it had affected
the thinking of Napoleon and Tiberius and others, but it
wouldn't affect him. It was a damn good thing Clothahump
had found the words that had escaped his human companion.
His moroseness fading, he strummed softly on the duar. A
flicker of dancing motes haunted his left elbow. When he
turned to inspect them, they'd gone. Gneechees.
What still did worry him was the thought that the next time
he might be called upon to sing some magic, he might be as
mentally paralyzed as he'd been when nearing Helldrink. He
would have to fight that.
It wasn't the thought of death or the failure of their mission
that troubled him as he sat there and played. It was a fear of
personal failure, a fear that had haunted him since he'd been a
child. It was the fear which had driven him to pursue two
different careers without being able to choose between them.
And though he didn't realize it, it was the fear which had
driven more men and women to greatness than far more
rational motivations....
125
VIII
Several days later the cathedral hove into view. It was not a
cathedral, of course. But it might have been. No one could
say. That turned out not to be as confusing as it seemed.
To Jon-Tom it looked like a cathedral. The ceiling of the
great underground chamber in which it rose was several
hundred feet high. Towers and turrets nearly touched that far
stone roof. At that distance massive stalactites, each weighing
many tons, resembled pins hanging from a carpet.
The bioluminescents were especially dense here and the ;
chamber and its far reaches so brightly lit that it took me '
travelers several minutes to adjust to that unexpectedly vi- |
brant organic glow.
It was more like a hundred cathedrals, Jon-Tom thought,
all executed in miniature and piled one atop the other. Care
and fine craftsmanship were apparent in every line and curve
of the labyrinthine structure. Thousands of tiny colored win-
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Alan Dean Foster
dows gleamed on dozens of levels. The edifice filled much of
the huge chamber.
It was a measure of the distances his mind had crossed that
it was only incidental to him that the building shone a rich,
metallic gold. Of course, that might only be a result of
extensive use of gilt paint. Still, he vowed privately to keep a
close watch on their avaricious otter.
The term miniature was applicable to more than just the
building. When it became clear to them that the inhabitants of
the strange boat were not hostile, the builders began to show
themselves.
No more than four inches tall, the little people were
covered with a rich umber fur that suggested sable. This fur
was quite short, and long, fine hair of the same shade grew
on the heads of male and female alike. Hordes of them started
emerging from tiny doors and cubbyholes. Most resumed
working on the building. Acres of scaffolding bristled on
battlements and turrets and towers. One group of several
dozen were installing a massive window all of a yard high.
Bribbens eased the boat in toward shore. At closer range
they could make out thousands of golden sculptures adorning
the building, gargoyles and worm-sized snakes and things
only half realized because they originated in other dimen-
sions, from a different biological geometry. Unlike the gneechees,
these wonderful creations could be viewed, if not wholly
perceived.
As the boat drifted still closer the thousands of tiny
workers began milling uncomfortably, clustering close by
doorways and other openings. Ion-Tom hailed them from his
position at the bow, trying to assuage their worries.
"We mean you no harm," he called gently. "We're only
passing through your lands and admire your incredible build-
ing. What's it for?"
From the crest of a water-caressed rock a fur-covered
128
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
nymph all of three and a half inches tall shouted back at him.
He had to strain to understand the tiny lady.
"It is the Building," she told him matter-of-factly, as
though that should be explanation enough to satisfy anyone.
"Yes," and he lowered his voice still further when he saw
that his normal tone was painfully loud to her, "but what is
the building for?"
"It is the Building," the sprite reiterated. "We call it
'Heart-of-the-World.' Does it not shine brightly?"
"Very brightly," Talea said appreciatively. "It's very beau-
tiful. But what is it for?"