"I don't know either, my friend," said Malu. "I have not
seen the hard-shelled oldster all evening."
"Don't worry yourself, Jon-Tom." Caz looked at him from
another seat down. "Our wizard is rich in knowledge, but not
rich in the ability to enjoy himself. Leave him to his private
meditations. Who knows when again we will have an oppor-
tunity for such rare entertainment as this?" He gestured
grandly toward the dancers.
But the concern took hold of Jon-Tom's thoughts and
would not let go. As he surveyed the room, he saw no sign of
Pog, either. That was still more unusual, familiar as he was
with the bat's preferences. He should have been out on the
floor, teasing and flirting with some lithesome screech owl.
Yet he was nowhere about.
Jon-Tom's companions were having too good a time to
notice his departure from the table. In response to his ques-
tions a potted tarsier with incredibly bloodshot eyes pointed
toward a tunnel leading deeper into the mountainside. Jon-
Tom hurried down it. Noise and music faded behind him.
He almost ran past the room when he heard a familiar
moaning: the wizard's voice. He threw aside the curtain
barring the entryway.
Lying on a delicate bunk that sagged beneath his weight
was the wizard's bulky body. He'd withdrawn arms and legs
into his shell so that only his head protruded. It bobbed and
twisted in an unnerving parody of the head movements of the
195
Alan Dean Foster
Weavers. Only the whites of his eyes showed. His glasses lay
clean and folded on a nearby stool.
"Hush!" a voice warned him. Looking upward Jon-Tom
saw Pog dangling from a lamp holder. The flickering wick
behind him made his wings translucent.
"What is it?" Jon-Tom whispered, his attention on the
lightly moaning wizard. "What's the matter?" The echoes of
revelry reached them faintly. He no longer found the music
invigorating. Something important was happening in this little
room.
Pog gestured with a finger. "Da master lies in a trance
I've seen only a few times before. He can't, musn't be
disturbed."
So the two waited, watching the quivering, groaning shape
in fascination. Pog occasionally fluttered down to wipe mois-
ture from the wizard's open eyes, while Jon-Tom guarded the
doorway against interruptions.
It is a terrible thing to hear an old person, human 01
otherwise, moan like that. It was the helpless, weak sound a
sick child might make. From time to time there were snatches
and fragments of nearly recognizable words. Mostly, though,
the high singsong that filled the room was unintelligible
nonsense.
It faded gradually. Clothahump settled like a fallen cake.
His quivering and head-bobbing eased away.
Pog flapped his wings a couple of times, stretched, and
drifted down to examine the wizard. "Da master sleeps
now," he told the exhausted Jon-Tom. "He's worn
out."
"But what was it all about?" the man asked. "What was
the purpose of the trance?"
"Won't know till he wakes up. Got ta do it naturally.
Dere's nothin' ta do but wait."
196
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
Jon-Tom eyed the comatose form uncertainly. "Are you
sure he'll come out of it?"
Pog shrugged. "Always has before. He better. He owes
me...."
197
XII
Once there were inquiring words at the curtain and Jon-
Tom had to go outside to explain them away. Time passed,
the distant music faded. He slept.
A great armored spider was treading ponderously after
him, all weaving palps and dripping fangs. Run as he might
he could not outdistance it. Gradually his legs gave out, his
wind failed him. The monster was upon him, leering down at
his helpless, pinioned body. The fangs descended but not into
his chest. Instead, they were picking off his fingers, one at a
time.
"Now you can't play music anymore," it rumbled at him.
"Now you'll have to go to law school... aha ha ha!"
A hand was shaking him. "Da master's awake, Jon-Tom
friend."
Jon-Tom straightened himself. He'd been asleep on the
floor, leaning back against the chamber wall. Clothahump
was sitting up on the creaking wicker bed, rubbing his lower
199
Alan Dean Foster
jaw. He donned his spectacles, then noticed Jon-Tom. His
gaze went from the man to his assistant and back again.
"I now know the source," he told them brightly, "of the
new evil obtained by the Plated Folk. I know now from
whence comes the threat!"
Jon-Tom got to his feet, dusted at himself, and looked
anxiously at the wizard. "Well, what is it?"
"I do not know."
"But you just said... ?"
"Yes, yes, but I do know and yet I don't." The wizard
sounded very tired. "It is a mind. A wonderfully wise mind.
An intelligence of a reach and depth I have never before
encountered, filled with knowledge I cannot fathom. It con-
tains mysteries I do not pretend to understand, but that it is
dangerous and powerful is self-evident."
"That seems clear enough," said Jon-Tom. "What kind of
creature is it? Whose head is it inside?"
"Ah, that is the part I do not know." There was worry and
amazement in Clothahump's voice. "I've never run across a
mind like it. One thing I was able to tell, I think." He
glanced up at the tall human. "It's dead."
Pog hesitated, then said, "But if it's dead, how can it help
da Plated Folk?"
"I know, I know," Clothahump grumbled sullenly, "it
makes no sense. Am I expected to be instantly conversant
with all the mysteries of the Universe!"
"Sorry," said Jon-Tom. "Pog and I only hoped that—"
"Forget it, my boy." The wizard leaned back against the
black wall and waved a weary hand at him. "I learned no
more than I'd hoped to, and hope remains where knowledge
is scarce." He shook his head sadly.
"A mind of such power and ability, yet nonetheless as dead
as the rock of this chamber. Of that I am certain. And yet
200
THB HOUR Or THE GATS
Eejakrat of the Plated Polk has found a means by which he
can make use of that power."
"A zombie," muttered Jon-Tom.
"I do not know the term," said Clothahump, "but I accept
it. I will accept anything that explains this awful contradic-
tion. Sometimes, my boy, knowledge can be more confusing
than mere ignorance. Surely the universe holds still greater
though no more dangerous contradictions than this inventive,
cold mind." He reached a decision.
"Now that I am sensitized to this mind, I am confident we
can locate it. We must find out whose it is and destroy him or
her, for I had no sense of whether the possessor is male or
female."
"But we can't do dat, Master," Pog argued, "because as
you say dis brain is under da control of da great sorcerer
Eejakrat, and Eejakrat stays in Cugluch."
"Capital city of the Plated Folk," Clothahump reminded
Jon-Tom.
"Dat's right enough. So it's obvious dat we can't.. .we
can't..." The words came to a halt as Pog's eyes grew wide
as a lemur's. "No, Master!" he muttered, his voice filled
with dread. "We can't. We can't possibly!"
"On the contrary, famulus, it is quite possible that we can.
Of course, I shall first discuss it with the rest of our
companions."
"Discuss what?" Jon-Tom was afraid he already knew the
answer.
"Why, traveling into Cugluch to find this evil and obliter-
ate it, my boy. What else could a civilized being do?"
"What else indeed." Jon-Tom had resigned himself to
going. Could this Cugluch be worse than the Earth's Throat?