over.
"Step inside and enjoy, sir," he finally said, moving
aside.
Jon-Tom nodded and entered. The doormouse closed the
door behind him.
He found himself in a parlor full of fine furniture and a
wild assortment of creatures representing several dozen
species. All were cavorting without a. care as to who they
happened to be matching up with. There were several
humans in the group, men and women. They moved freely
among their intelligent furry counterparts.
Jon-Tom noted the activity, listened to the lascivious
dialogue, saw the movement of hands and paws, and
suspected he had not entered a bar. No question what kind
of place this was. He was still surprised, though he
shouldn't have been. It was a logical place to look for
Mudge.
Still, he didn't want to take the chance of embarrassing
himself. First impressions could be wrong. He spoke to the
doormouse.
"I beg your pardon, but this is a whorehouse, isn't it?"
The mouse's voice was surprisingly deep, rumbling out
of the tiny gray body. "All kinds we get in here," he
muttered dolefully, "all kinds. What did you think it was,
jack? A library?"
"Not really. There aren't any books."
The doormouse showed sharp teeth in a smile. "Oh, we
have books, too. With pictures. Lots of pictures, if that's
to your taste, sir."
"Not right now." He was curious, though. Maybe later,
after he'd found Mudge.
"You look like you've been a-traveling, sir. Would
you like something to eat and drink?"
"Thanks, I'm not hungry. Actually, I'm looking for a
friend."
"Everyone comes to the Elegant Bitch in search of a
friend.''
"You misunderstand. That's not the way I mean."
"Just tell me your ways, sir. We cater to all ways here."
"I'm looking for a buddy, an acquaintance," Jon-Tom
said in exasperation. The doormouse had a one-track
mind.
"Ah, now I understand. No divertissements, then? This
isn't a meeting house, you know."
"You're a good salesman." Jon-Tom tried to placate
him. "Maybe later. I have to say that you're the smallest
pimp I've ever seen."
"I am not small and I am not a pimp," replied the
doormouse with some dignity. "If you wish to speak to the
madam..."
"Not necessary," Jon-Tom told him, though he won-
dered not only what she'd look like but what she'd be.
"The fellow I'm after wears a peaked cap with a feather in
it, a leather vest, carries a longbow with him everywhere
he goes, and is an otter. Name of Mudge."
The doormouse preened a whisker, scratched behind one
ear. For the first time Jon-Tom noticed the small earplugs.
Made sense. Given the mouse's sensitivity to sound, he'd
need the plugs to keep from going deaf while working
amid the nonstop celebration.
"I recognize neither name nor attire, sir, but there is one
otter staying with us currently. He would be in room
twenty-three on the second floor."
"Great. Thanks." Jon-Tom almost ran into the mouse's
outstretched palm. He placed a small silver piece there and
saw it vanish instantly.
"Thank you, sir. If there is anything I can do for you
after you have met with this possible friend, please let me
know. My name is Whort and I'm the majordomo here."
"Maybe later," Jon-Tom assured him as he started up
the carved stairway.
He had no intention of taking the doormouse up on his
24
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
25
offer. Not that he had anything against the house brand of
entertainment. His long separation from Talea plagued him
physically as well as mentally, but this wasn't the place to
indulge in any lingering fancies of the flesh. It looked
fancy and clean, but you never could tell where you might
pick up an interesting strain of VD, and not only the
human varieties. In the absence of modern medicine he
didn't want to have to count on curing a good dose of the
clap with a song or two.
So he restrained his libido as he mounted the second-
floor landing and hunted for the right door. He was
interrupted in his search by a sight that reminded him this
was a real place and not a drug-induced excursion into a
dreamland zoo.
A couple of creatures had passed him, and he'd paid
them no mind. Coming down the hall toward him now was
an exceptionally proportioned young woman in her early
twenties- She was barely five feet tall and wore only a
filmy peach-colored peignoir. The small pipe she smoked
did little to blur the image of prancing, bouncing femininity.
"Well, what are you staring at, tall-skinny-and-hand-
some?"
It occurred to Jon-Tom this was not intended as a
rhetorical question, and he mumbled a reply that got all
caught up in his tongue and teeth. Somehow he managed
to shamble past her. Only the fact that Clothahump lay
dying in his tree along with any chance Jon-Tom had of
returning home kept him moving. His head rotated like a
searchlight, and he followed the perfect vision with his
eyes until she'd disappeared down the stairs.
As he forced himself down the hall, that image lingered
on his retinas like a bright light. Sadly, he found the right
door and knocked gently, sparing a last sorrowful glance
for the now empty landing.
"Mudge?" He repeated the knock, was about to repeat
the call, when the door suddenly flew open, causing him to
step back hastily. Standing in the opening was a female
otter holding a delicate lace nightgown around her. Her
eyebrows had been curled and painted, and the tips of her
whiskers dipped in gold. She was sniffling, an act to which
Jon-Tom attached no particular significance. Otters sniffled
a lot.
She took one look at him before dashing past his bulk
down the hallway, short legs churning.
Jon-Tom stared after her, was about to go in when a
second fur of the night came out, accompanied by an
equally distraught third otter. They followed their sister
toward the stairs. Shaking his head, he entered the dark
room.
Faint light flickered from a single chandelier. Golden
shadows danced on the flocked wallpaper. Nothing else
moved. Two curved mirrors on opposing walls ran from
floor to ceiling. An elegant china washbasin rested on a
chellow-wood dresser. The door to the John stood half-
agape.
A wrought-iron bed decorated with cast grapevines and
leaves stood against the far wall. The headboard curved
slightly forward. A pile of sheets and pillows filled the
bed, an eruption of fine linen. Jon-Tom guessed this was
not the cheapest room in the house.
From within the silks and satins came a muffled but still
familiar voice. "Is that you, Lisette? Are you comin' back
to forgive me, luv? Wot I said, that were only a joke.
Meant nothin' by it, I did."
"That would be the first time," Jon-Tom said coolly.
There was silence, then the pile of sheets stirred and a head
emerged, black eyes blinking in the darkness. "Cor, I'm
'aving a bloody nightmare, I am! Too much bubbly."
"I don't know what you've had," Jon-Tom said as he
moved toward the bed, "but this is no nightmare."
Mudge wiped at his eyes with the backs of his paws.
"Right then, mate, it is no nightmare. You're too damned
big to be a nightmare. Wot^the 'ell are you doin' 'ere,
anyways?"
"Looking for you."
26
Alan Dean Poster
"You picked the time for it." He vanished beneath the
linens. "Where's me clothes?"
Jon-Tom turned, searched the shadows until he'd located