quite close to Jen-Tom, "most interesting biology." Despite
ten thousand years of primitive fears, Jon-Tom did not pull
away when the spider reached out to him.
Ananthos extended a double-clawed leg. It was covered
with bristly hairs. The delicate silk scarves of green and
turquoise enveloping the limb mitigated its menacing appear-
ance. The finger-sized claws touched the man's cheek, pressed
lightly, and traveled down the face to the neck before with-
drawing. Somehow Jon-Tom kept from flinching. He concen-
trated on those brightly colored eyes studying him.
"no fur at all like the short bewhiskered one, except on
top. and soft... so soft!" He shuddered, "what a terrible
fragility to live with."
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"You get used to it," said Jon-Tom. It occurred to him mat
the spider found him quite repulsive.
They continued studying each other. "That's beautiful
silk," the man commented. "Did you make it yourself?"
"do you mean, did i spin the silk or manufacture the scarf?
in truth i did neither." He waved a leg at the others, "we
differ even more in size than you seem to. some of our
smaller cousins produce far finer silk than a clumsy oaf like
myself is capable of. they are trained to do so, and others
carefully weave and pattern their produce." He reached down
and unwrapped a four-foot turquoise length and handed it to
Jon-Tom.
A palmful of feathers was like lead compared to the scarf.
He could have whispered at it and blown it over the side of
the boat. The dye was a faint blue, as rich as the finest
Persian turquoise with darker patches here and there. It was
the lightest fabric he'd ever caressed. Wearing it would be as
wearing nothing.
He moved to hand it back. Ananthos' head bobbed to the
left. "no. it is a gift." Already he'd refastened two other long
scarves to compensate for the loss of the turquoise. Jon-Tom
had a glimpse of the intricate knot-and-clip arrangement that
held the quasi-sari together.
"Why?"
Now the head bobbed down and to me right. He was
beginning to match head movements to the spider's moods.
What at first had seemed only a nervous twitching was
becoming recognizable as a complex, highly stylized group of
suggestive gestures. The spiders utilized their heads the way
an Italian used his hands, for speech without speaking.
"why? because you have something about you, something
i cannot define, and because you admired it."
"I'll say we've got something about us," Talea grumbled.
"An air of chronic insanity."
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Alan Dean Foster
Ananthos considered the comment. Again the whispery
laughter floated like snowflakes across the deck. "ah, humor!
humor is among the warmlander's richest qualities, perhaps
the most redeeming one."
"For all the talk of hostility our legends speak of, you
seem mighty friendly," she said.
"it is my duty, soft female," the Weaver replied. His gaze
went back to Jon-Tom. "please me by accepting the gift."
Jon-Tom accepted the length of silk. He wrapped it muffler-
like around his neck, above the indigo shut. It didn't get
tangled in his cape clasp. In fact, it didn't feel as though it
was there at all. He did not consider how it might look
sandwiched between the iridescent green cape and purpled
shirt.
"I have nothing to offer in return," he said apologetically.
"No, wait, maybe I do." He unslung his duar. "Do the
Weavers like music?"
Ananthos' answer was unexpected. He extended two limbs
in an unmistakable gesture. Jon-Tom carefully passed over
the instrument.
The Weaver resumed his half-sit, half-squat and laid the
duar across two knees. He had neither hands nor fingers, but
the eight prehensile claws on the four upper limbs plucked
with experimental delicacy at the two sets of strings.
The melody that rose from the duar was light and ethereal,
alien, atonal, and yet full of almost familiar rhythms. It
would begin to sound almost normal, then drift off on strange
tangents. Very few notes contributed to a substantial tune.
Ananthos' playing reminded Jon-Tom more of samisen music
than guitar.
Flor leaned blissfully back against the mast, closed her
eyes, and soaked up the spare melody. Mudge sprawled
contentedly on the deck while Caz tried, without success, to
tap time to the disjointed beat. Nothing soothes xenophobia
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TBB HOUR Or TBE GATE
so efficiently as music, no matter how strange its rhythms or
inaudible the words.
An airy wail rose from Ananthos and his two companions.
The three-part harmony was bizarre and barely strong enough
to rise above the breeze. There was nothing ominous in their
singing, however. The little boat made steady progress against
the current. In spite of his unshakable devotion to his job,
even Bribbens was affected. One flippered foot beat on the
deck in a futile attempt to domesticate the mystical arachnid
melody.
It might be, Jon-Tom thought, that they would find no
allies here, but he was certain they'd already found some
friends. He fingered the end of the exquisite scarf and
allowed himself to relax and sink comfortably under the
soothing spell of the spider's frugal fugue....
It was early in the morning of the fourth day on the
Scuttleteau that he was shaken awake. Much too early, he
mused as his eyes opened confusedly on a still dark sky.
He rolled over, and for a moment memory lagged shockingly
behind reality. He started violently at the sight of the furry,
fanged, many-eyed countenance bending over him.
"i am sorry," said Ananthos softly, "did i waken you too
sharply?"
Jon-Tom couldn't decide if the Weaver was being polite
and offering a diplomatic way out or if it was an honest
question. In either case, he was grateful for the understanding
it allowed him.
"No. No, not too sharply, Ananthos." He squinted into the
sky. A few stars were still visible. "But why so early?"
Bribbens' voice sounded behind him. As usual, the boat-
man was first awake and at his duties before the others had
risen from beneath their warm blankets. "Because we're
nearing their city, man."
Something in the frog's voice made Jon-Tom sit up fast. It
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Alan Dean Foster
was not fear, not even worry, but a new quality usually absent
from the boatman's plebian monotone.
Pushing aside his blanket, he turned to look over the bow,
matching Bribbens' gaze. Then he understood the strange
new quality he'd detected in the boatman's voice: wonderment.
The first rays of the sun were arriving, having mounted the
mountain shield soaring ahead of the boat. In the distance lay
a range of immense peaks more massive than Zaryt's Teeth.
Several crags vanished into the clouds, only to reappear
above them. Jon-Tom was no surveyor, but if the Teeth
contained several mountains higher than twenty thousand feet
then the range ahead had to average twenty-five.
More modest escarpments dominated the north and south.
Swathed in glaciers and clouds, the colossal eastern range
also displayed an additional quality: dark smoke and occa-
sional liquid red flares rose from several of the peaks. The
towering range was still alive, still growing.
The sparks and smoke that drifted overhead came from a
massif much closer than the eastern horizon, however. Quite
close a black caldera rose from surrounding foothills to a
height a good ten thousand feet above me river, which banked