to the south before it. Ice and snow crowned the fiery
summit. --
Snow gave way to conifers and hardwoods, they in turn
surrendered to the climax vegetation of the variety which
flanked the river, and that at last to a city which crept up and
clung to the volcano's flanks. Small docks spread thin wooden
fingers out into the river.
"my home," said Ananthos, "capital and ancestral settle-
ment from which the first weavers laid claim to the scuttleteau
and all the lands that abut it." He spread four forearms, "i
welcome you all to gossameringue-on-the-breath."
The city was a marvel, like the scarf. The similarities did
not end there, for like the scarf it was woven of fine silk.
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THE HOUK OF THE GATE
Morning dew adhered to struts and suspensions and flying
buttresses of webwork. Roofs were hung from supports strung
lacily above instead of being supported by pillars from be-
neath. Millions of thick, silvery cables supported buildings
several stories high, all agleam with jewels of dew.
Other cables as thick as a man's body, spun from the
spinnerets of dozens of spiders, secured the larger structures
to the ground.
On the lower, nearer levels they could discern dozens of
moving forms. It was clear the city was heavily populated.
Spreading as it did around the base of the huge volcano and
climbing thousands of feet up its sides, it appeared capable of
housing a population in the tens of thousands.
There was enough spider silk in that single city, if it could
be unwrapped to its seminal strands, to cocoon the Earth.
Once Jon-Tom had spent an hour marveling at a single
small web woven by one spider on an ocean coast. It had
been speckled with dew from the morning fog.
Here the dew seemed almost choreographed. As the first
rising rays of the sun struck the city, it suddenly turned to a
labyrinth of platinum wires and diamond dust. It was too
bright to look at, but the effect faded quickly as the dew
evaporated. The sun rose higher, the enchanting effect dissi-
pating as rapidly as the sting fro.m a clash of cymbals. Left
behind was a spectacle of suspended structures only slightly
less impressive.
Gossameringue was all spheres and ellipses, arches and
domes. Jon-Tom could not find a sharp angle anywhere in the
design. Everything was smooth and rounded. It gave the
city a soft feeling which its inhabitants might or might not
reflect.
As the sun worked its way up into the morning sky, the
little boat put in at the nearest vacant dock. A few early
morning workers turned curious multiple eyes on the unique
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cargo of warmlanders. They did not interfere. They only
stared. As befitted their historical preference for privacy,
these few Weavers soon turned to their assigned tasks and
ignored the arrivals. It troubled Clothahump. A people fanatic
about minding its own business does not make a ready ally.
Under Ananthos' escort they left the boat and crossed the
docks. Soon they had entered a silk and silver world.
"This mission had best be successful," said Caz as they
began to climb. He placed his broad feet carefully. The
roadway was composed of a fine checkerboard of silk cables.
They were stronger than steel and did not quiver even when
Jon-Tom experimentally jumped up and down on one, but if
one missed a rung of the gigantic rope ladder and fell
through, a broken leg was a real possibility.
After a while caution gave way to confidence and the party
was able to make faster progress up the side of the mountain.
"I'll settle for just getting out of here alive," Talea
whispered to the rabbit.
"Precisely my meaning," said Caz. He gestured back the
way they'd come. The river and docks had long since been
swallowed up by twisting, contorting bands of silk and silken
buildings. "Because we'd never find our way out of here
without assistance."
It was not all silk. Some of the buildings boasted sculp-
tured stone or wood, and there was some use of metalwork.
Windows were made of fine glass, and there was evidence of
vegetable matter being employed in sofas and other furniture.
Though the Weavers were not arboreal creatures, their
construction ignored the demands of gravity. The whole city
was an exercise in the aesthetic applications of geometry. It
was difficult to tell up from down.
Caz was right, Jon-Tom thought worriedly. Without Weav-
er help they would never find their way back to the river.
They climbed steadily. Wherever they passed, daily rou-
152
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
tines ground to a halt as the populace stared dumbfoundedly
at creatures they knew only from legend. Ananthos and his
two fellow guards took an aggressive attitude toward those
few citizens who tried to touch me warmlanders.
The only ones who weren't shoved aside were the curious
hordes of spiderlings who swarmed in fascination around the
visitors' legs. Most of these infants had bodies a foot or more
across. They were a riot of color underfoot; red, yellow,
orange, puce, black, and more in metallic, dull, or iridescent
shades. They displayed stripes and spots, intricate patterns
and simple solids.
It was difficult to make sense of the extraordinary variety
of colors and shapes because the predominant sensation was
one of wading through a shallow pond made of legs. With
remarkable agility the youngsters scrambled in and between
the feet of the visitors, never once having a tiny leg kicked or
stepped on.
They reserved most of their attention for Talea, Flor, and
Jon-Tom. Bribbens and Clothahump they ignored completely.
Nor were they in the least bit shy.
One scrambled energetically up Jon-Tom's right side, pull-
ing thoughtlessly at his fortunately tough cape and pants. It
rode like a cat on his right shoulder, chattering breathily to
its less enterprising companions. Jon-Tom tried hard to think
of it as a cat.
The adolescent displayed a cluster of painted lines that ran
from its mandibles back between its eyes and down the back
of its head. The cosmetics did not give Jon-Tom a clue as to
its sex. He thought of brushing it away, but it behooves a
guest to match the hospitality of his hosts. So he left it alone,
resolutely ignoring the occasional reflexive flash of poisonous
fangs.
The spiderling sat there securely and waved its foot-long
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legs at disapproving adults and envious brethren. It whispered
in a rush to its obliging mount.
"where do you come from? you are warm, not cold like
me prey or the creatures of the forest, you are very tall and
thin and you have hair only atop your head and there very
dense." The youngster's partly clad abdomen brushed rhyth-
mically against the back of Jon-Tom's neck. He assumed it
was a friendly gesture. The fur on the spiderling's bottom
was as soft as Mudge's.
"you have funny mouths and your fangs are hidden, may i
see them?"
Jon-Tom patiently opened his mouth and grimaced to show
his teeth. The spiderling drew back in alarm, then moved
cautiously closer.
"so many. and they're white, not black or brown or gold.
they are so flat, save two. how can you suck fluids with
them?"
"I don't use my fangs—my teeth—to suck fluids," Jon-
Tom explained. "What liquid I do ingest I swallow straight.
Mostly I eat solid food and use my teeth to chew it into
smaller pieces."