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frightened. She had plenty of company.
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"Can't we talk to them at all?" he asked hopefully. "What
about the one who had Clothahump gagged? Do you know hb
real name?"
"I already told you," said Caz. "His name is Bigmouth.
Flattop, Baldy, and Bigmouth: that's how their names translate.
And no, I don't think we can talk to them. Even if I knew the
right words I don't think they'd let me get a word in
edgewise. It seems that he who talks loudest without letting
his companions make their points is the one who wins the
debate."
"Then if it's just a matter of shouting, why don't you give
it a try?"
"Because I think they'd cut out my tongue if I interrupted
them. I am a better gambler than that, my friend."
It didn't matter, because as he watched the debate-came tc
an end. Baldy shook a threatening finger less than an inch
from Bigmouth's proboscis, whereupon Bigmouth frowned
and kicked the overly demonstrative Baldy in the nuts. As he
doubled over, Rattop brought a small but efficient-looking
club down on Baldy's head. This effectively concluded the
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discussion.
Considerable cheering rose from the excited listeners, who
never seemed to be standing still, a condition duplicated by
their mouths.
Jon-Tom wondered at the humanoid metabolism that could
generate such nonstop energy.
"I am afraid our single champion has been vanquished,"
said Caz.
48
THE HOUR Or THE GATE
"I don't want to die," muttered Flor. "Not here, not in
this place." She started reciting Hail Marys in Spanish.
"I don't want to die either," Jon-Tom yelled at her in
frustration.
"This isn't happening," she was saying dully. "It's all a
dream."
"Sorry, Flor," he told her unsympathetically. "I've already
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been that route. It's no dream. You were enjoying yourself
until now, remember?"
"It was all so wonderful," she whispered. She wasn't
crying, but restraining herself required considerable effort.
"Our friends, the quest we're on, when we rescued you that
night in Polastrindu... it's been just as I'd always imagined
mis sort of thing would be. Being murdered by ignorant
aborigines doesn't fit the rest. Can they actually kill us?"
"I think they can." Jon-Tom was too tired and afraid even
to be sarcastic. "And I think we'll actually die, and actually
be buried, and actually be food for worms. If we don't get out
from here." He looked across at Clothahump, but the wizard
could only close his eyes apologetically.
If we could just lower the gag in Clothahump's mouth
when they're busy elsewhere, he thought anxiously. Some
kind of spell, even one that would just distract them, would
be enough.
But while the Mimpa were uncivilized they were clearly
not fools, nor quite so ignorant as Caz believed. That night
they confidently ignored all their captives except the carefully
watched Clothahump.
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At or near midnight they were all made the centerpiece of a
robust celebration. Grass was cut down with tiny axes to form
a cleared circle, and the captives were deposited near the
center, amid a ground cover of foul-smelling granular brown
stuff.
Plor wrinkled her nose, tried breathing through her mouth
49
Alan Dean Foster
instead. "Mierda... what have they covered the ground here
with?"
"I believe it is dried, powdered lizard dung," said Caz
worriedly. "I fear it will ruin my stockings."
"Part of the ceremony?" Jon-Tom had grown accustomed
to strange smells.
"I think it may be more than that, my friend. It appears to
retard the growth of the Sward grasses. An efficient if
malodorous method of control."
Small fires were lit in a circle, uncomfortably near the
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bound prisoners. Jon-Tom would have enjoyed the resultant
celebration for its barbaric splendor and enthusiasm, were it
not for the fact that he was one of the proverbial pigs at the
center of the banquet table.
"You said they'd sacrifice us to the gods of the Sward."
As he spoke to Caz he fought to retain both confidence and
sanity. "What gods do they have in mind?" His thoughts
were of the lithe, long-limbed predators they'd seen sliding
ribbonlike through the grass their first week out of Polastrindu.
"I have no idea as yet, my friend." He sniffed disdainfully.
"Whatever, I'm sure it will be a depressing way for a
gentleman to die."
"Is there another way?" Even Mudge's usually irrepress-
ible good humor was gone.
"I had hoped," replied the rabbit, "to die in bed."
Mudge let out a high whistle, some of his good spirits
returning. "0' course, mate. Now why didn't I think o' that
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