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The down-clad waif laughed delicately. "We are not sure.

We have always worked on the Building. We always will

work on the Building. What else is there to -life but the

Building?"

"You say you call it 'Heart-of-the-World.'" Jon-Tom stud-

ied the radiant walls and glistening spires. At first he thought

it had been made of real gold, then stone covered with gilt

paint. Now he wasn't sure. It might be metal of another kind,

or plastic, or ceramic, or some unimaginable material he

knew nothing of.

"Perhaps it is the very heart of the world itself," the little

lady offered in suggestion. She smiled joyfully, showing

perfect minuscule teeth. "We do not know. It beats with light

as a heart does. If our work were to be stopped, perhaps the

light would go out of the world."

Jon-Tom considered saying more but found reason and

reality at odds with one another, mixed up like a dog and a

cat chasing each other around a pole, getting nowhere. He

looked helplessly to Clothahump for an explanation. So did

his companions.

"Who can say?" The wizard shrugged. "If it is truly the

architecture of the heart of the world, then at least we can tell

others that the world is well and truly fashioned."

129

»,'

•&,

Alan Dean Foster

"Thank you, sir." The sprite leaped nimbly to another rock

further upstream to keep pace with them. "We do our best.

We have become very adept at adding to and maintaining the

Building."

"Make sure," Jon-Tom called to her, "that its glow never

goes out!" They were passing into a, narrower section of the

river cavern, leaving the unnamed little folk and their enig-

matic, immense construct behind.

"Who knows," he said quietly to Flor, "if it is the heart of

the world, then they'd better not be disturbed in their work.

That's a hell of a responsibility. And if it's not, if it's only a

building, an obsession, it's too beautiful to let die anyway."

"I never thought the heart of the world would be a

building," she said.

"Aren't we all structures?" With the Massawrath and

Helldrink safely far behind he was feeling alive and expan-

sive. He'd always been that way: high ups and abyssal

downs. Right now he was up.

"Each of us develops piece by piece. We're full of careful-

ly built rooms and halls, audience chambers and windows,

and we're populated with changing individualistic thoughts. I

never imagined the heart of the world would be a building,

though." He stared back down the tunnel. It was growing

dark, the radiant growths vanishing as they were prone to at

unexpected intervals.

"In fact, I never thought of the world as having a heart."

The last rich light from the distant chamber was lost to

sight as they rounded a slight bend in the river. Bribbens was

lighting the first lamp.

"That's a nice thought, Jon-Tom. If only having a heart

meant you would be happy."

"I suppose it often means the opposite." But when the

import of her last comment finally penetrated, she had left

him to chat with their stolid steersman.

130

THE HOUR OF THE GATE

Jon-Tom hesitated, thought about pursuing it further by

rejoining her to say, "Flor, are you trying to tell me some-

thing?" But he was as afraid of showing ignorance if he was

interpreting her wrongly as he was of failure.

So he sat himself down in the nickering light and began to

clean and tune his duar. As he tightened or loosened the

strings, a gneechee or two would appear behind him, peering

over his shoulder. He knew they were there and did his best

to ignore them.

They were compelled to run on lamplight. Gradually the

immense cave formations, the helictites and flowstone and

such, began to grow smaller. In the narrowing confines of the

river channel the rush and roar reverberated louder from the

walls. The continuing absence of the familiar fluorescent

fungi and their cousins was becoming unsettling.

No one liked the darkness. It reminded them too much of

sleep, and that reminded them of the now distant but never to

be forgotten sight of the Massawrath. More importantly, their

lamp oil was running out. Bribbens had prepared well, but he

hadn't expected to journey for long in total darkness. The

now sorely missed bioluminescents were all that had kept

them from traveling in black. Soon it appeared they might

have to do so, relying on Pog's abilities to guide them, unless

the light-producing vegetation reappeared.

A hand was shaking him. It was too small to be part of the

Massawrath, too solid to be one of its children. Nevertheless

he had an instant of terror before coming awake.

"Get up, Jon-Tom. Move your ass!" It was the urgent

voice of Talea.

"What?" But before he could say anything more she'd

moved on to the next sleeping form. He heard her banging on

an echoing surface.

"Wake up, wizard. You lazy old wizard, wake up!" She

sounded worried.

131

Alan Dean Foster

"I still admit to 'old' but not the other." A grumbling

Clothahump clambered to his feet.

Jon-Tom blinked, fought to dig sleep from his eyes. It was

hard to see anything in the reduced light from the lamps.

Bribbens was trying to conserve their dwindling supply of oil.

Then he saw the cause of her anxiety. In the blackness

ahead was a writhing sheet of flame, completely blocking the

river. It hung in the air there, a dull, thick orange-silver that

did not move. The others awoke and moved to the bow to

examine it. All agreed it was a most peculiar kind of fire.

As they cruised closer no rise in temperature or indeed any

heat at all could be felt. The orange-silver hue did not

change.

"Can it be another structure like the Heart-of-the-Wbrld

building of the little folk?" Flor licked her lower lip and

stared anxiously forward.

"No, no. The color is all wrong, supple shadow, and there

is no sign of separation; levels, floors, or windows." Caz

faced the wizard. "What is your opinion of it, sir?"

"Just a moment, will you?" Clothahump sounded irritable.

"I'm not fully awake yet. Do you children think I have your

physical resiliency simply because my brain is so much more

active? Now then, this surely cannot be dangerous." He

called back to Bribbens. "Steady ahead, my good boatman."

"Don't have much choice." The frog snapped off his reply

as he tightened his grip on the steering sweep. "Tunnel's

become too narrow for us to turn 'round in. Some of the

rocks hereabouts look sharp. I don't want to chance 'em, so

it's steady ahead unless it turns desperate."

The boatman was forced to raise his voice to a near shout

to make himself understood. The rush of air in the pipe of a

cave argued noisily with the increased force of me current.

They watched silently while mat cold flame came nearer.

Then there was another, dimmer light haloing it, and the

132

THE HOUR Of THE GATE

orange-silver no longer blocked their progress. The new light

came from tiny shining points that flickered unevenly, but not

like gneechees. These were both visible and motionless.

"Well, shit." Mudge put hands on hips and sounded

thoroughly disgusted with himself. " 'Tis a prize pack o'

idiots we be, mates."

Jon-Tom didn't understand immediately, but it didn't take

long until he knew the reason for the otter's embarrassment.

When he did so he felt equally ashamed of his own fear.

The orange-silvery color was familiar enough. Then they

emerged from the cavern. The great rising orb of moon no