another fifteen minutes."
The mare snorted. "That senile bastard. I don't know
what the world's coming to when you can't rely on your
local service people anymore."
"Tell me about it," said the stallion yoked to her.
"Unfortunately we were bom with hooves instead of
hands, so we still have to hire slow-moving fools with
small brains to handle business details for us."
"Right on, Elvar," said the stallion behind him.
The discussion continued until the stage left the depot.
"All aboard?" asked the mare second in harness. "Hold
on to your seats, then."
The two chipmunks squatted in the rear along with the
luggage, preening themselves and trying to catch their
breath. There was no need for drovers, since the horses
knew the way themselves. The chipmunks were loaders
and unloaders and went along to see to the needs of the
team, who, after all, did the real work of pulling the stage.
This would have been fine as far as Jon-Tom and the
other passengers were concerned except that the horses had
an unfortunate tendency to break into song as they galloped,
and while their voices were strong and clear, not a one of
them could carry a tune in a bucket. So the passengers
were compelled to suffer a series of endless, screeching
songs all the way through to Timswitty.
When one passenger had the temerity to complain, he
was invited to get out and walk. There were two other
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
19
unscheduled stops along the way as well, once when the
team got hungry and stopped to graze a lush meadow
through which the road conveniently cut, and again when
the two mares got into a heated argument about just who
boasted the daintier fetlocks.
It was dark when they finally pulled into Timswitty.
"Come on," snapped the lead stallion, "let's get a
move on back there. Our stable's waiting. I know you're
all stuck with only two legs, but that's no reason for
loafing."
"Really!" One of the outraged travelers was an elegantly
attired vixen. Gold chains twined through her tail, and her
elaborate hat was badly askew over her ears from the
jouncing the stage had undergone. "I have never been
treated so rudely in my life! I assure you I shall speak to
your line manager at first opportunity,"
"You're talking to him, sister," said the stallion. "You
got a complaint, you might as well tell me to my face."
He looked her up and down. "Me, I think you ought to
thank us for not charging you for the extra poundage."
"Well!" Her tail swatted the stallion across the snout as
she turned and flounced away to collect her luggage.
Only the fact that his mate restrained him kept him from
taking a bite out of that fluffy appendage.
"Watch your temper, Dreal," she told him. "It doesn't
do to bite the paying freight. Rotten public relations."
"Bet all her relations have been public," he snorted,
pawing the ground impatiently. "What's slowing up those
striped rats back there? I need a rubdown and some sweet
alfalfa."
"I know you do, dear," she said as she nuzzled his
neck, "but you have to try and maintain a professional
-attitude, if only for the sake of the business."
"Yeah, I know," Jon-Tom overheard as he made his
way toward the depot. "It's only that there are times when
I think maybe we'd have been better off if we'd bought
ourselves a little farm somewhere out in the country and
20
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSOKAWCE
21
hired some housemice and maybe a human or two to do
the dirty work."
He was the only one in the office. The fox and the other
passengers already had destinations in mind.
"Can I help you?" asked the elderly marten seated
behind the low desk. With his long torso and short waist,
the clerk reminded Jon-Tom of Mudge. The marten was
slimmer still, and instead of Mudge's jaunty cap and bright
vest and pantaloons he wore dark shorts and a sleeveless
white shirt, a visor to shade his eyes, and bifocals.
"I'm a stranger in town."
"I suspect you're a stranger everywhere," said the
marten presciently.
Jon-Tom ignored the comment. "Where would a visitor
go for a little harmless fun and entertainment in Timswitty?"
"Well now," replied the marten primly, "I am a family
man myself. You might try the Golden Seal. They offer
folksinging by many species and occasionally a string trio
from Kolansor."
"You don't understand." Jon-Tom grinned insinuatingly.
"I'm looking for a good time, not culture."
"I see." The marten sighed. "Well, if you will go down
the main street to Born Lily Lane and follow the lane to its
end, you will come to two small side streets leading off
into separate cul-de-sacs. Take the north close. If the smell
and noise isn't enough to guide you further, look for the
small sign just above an oil lamp, the one with the carving
of an Afghan on it."
"As in canine or cloth?"
The marten wet his lips. "The place is called the
Elegant Bitch. No doubt you will find its pleasures suita-
ble. I wouldn't know, of course. I am a family man."
"Of course," said Jon-Tom gravely. "Thanks."
As he made his solitary way down the dimly lit main
street, he found himself wishing Talea was at his side.
Talea of the flame-red hair and infinite resourcefulness.
Talea of the blind courage and quick temper. Did he love
her? He wasn't sure anymore. He thought so, thought she
loved him in return. But she was too full of life to settle
down as the wife of an itinerant spellsinger who had not
yet managed to master his craft.
Not long after the battle of the Jo-Troom Gate, she had
regretfully proposed they go their separate ways, at least
for a little while. She needed time to think on serious
matters and suggested he do likewise. It was hard on him.
He did miss her. But there was the possibility she was
simply too independent for any one man.
He held to his hopes, however. Perhaps someday she
would tire of her wanderings and come back to him. There
wasn't a thing he could do but wait.
As for Flor Quintera, the cheerleader he'd inadvertently
brought into this world, she had turned out to be a major
disappointment. Instead of being properly fascinated by
him, it developed that she lusted after a career as a
sword-wielding soldier of fortune and had gone off with
Caz, the tall, suave rabbit with the Ronald Colman voice
and sophisticated manners. Jon-Tom hadn't heard of them
hi months. Flor was a dream that had brought him back to
reality, and fast.
At least this was a fit world in which to pursue dreams.
At the moment, though, he was supposed to be pursuing
medicine. He clung to that thought as he turned down the
tiny side street.
True to the marten's information he heard sounds of
singing and raucous laughter. But instead of a single small
oil lamp there were big impressive ones flanking the door,
fashioned of clear beveled crystal.
Above the door was a swinging sign showing a finely
coiffed hound clad in feathers and jewels. She was gazing
back over her furry shoulder with a distinctly come-hither
look, and her hips were cocked rakishly.
There was a small porch. Standing beneath the rain
shield, Jon-Tom knocked twice on the heavily oiled door.
It was opened by a three-foot-tall mouse in a starched suit.
22
Alan Dean Poster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
23
Sound flooded over Jon-Tom as the doormouse looked him