badly, selling me should solve your problem. I'm worth
something." She turned away, unable to meet his eyes.
"Even after the way I've been used."
He tried hard not to be angry with her. "Where I come
from, Folly, we don't sell people."
"You don't?" She looked genuinely puzzled. "Then
what do you do with people who have nothing else to
do?"
"We put 'em on welfare, social security."
She shook her head. "Those words mean nothing to
me."
He tried to explain. "We see to it that everyone is
guaranteed some sort of minimum income, some kind of
sustenance."
"Even if they're no good at anything?"
"Even if they're no good at anything."
"That doesn't seem very efficient."
"Maybe it's not efficient, but it's human."
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Alan Dean Foster
"Brock's blocks, now there you 'ave it, luv. That
explains it all. Sounds like the sort o' bizarre scheme a
bunch o' 'umans would dream up."
"Nobody gets sold," Jon-Tom announced with finality.
"Right then, mate. Wot do you propose we do for
funds?" He indicated the rows of buildings lining the
harborfront. "We need food and a place to sleep and
supplies."
Jon-Tom glanced up at the heretofore silent Roseroar.
"You wouldn't sell her, would you?"
The tigress turned away. "It ain't fo me to say." She
sniffed toward the girl. "Perhaps she's just tryin' to tell yo
she wants to go her own way."
Jon-Tom posed the question. "Is that true, Folly?"
"No. I have no place to go, but I don't want to cause
trouble or be in the way, and I do want to help."
"Sensibly put," said Mudge brightly. "If you'll allow
me, mate, I'll begin searchin* out the likely markets, and
we can—"
"Wait a minute." Jon-Tom was nodding to himself.
"We can sell the sloop."
"The magic boat?" Jalwar looked doubtful. "Is that
wise?"
"Why not? From what Clothahump told me, Cranculam
lies overland from Snarken. We've no further need for a
boat, magic or not. As for returning home, I hope to be
able to pay our way. I'm tired of sailing. I'd like to be a
passenger for a while." He put a hand on Mudge's
shoulder.
"You saw the way the wharfmaster jumped at the
chance to get those two hammers. Think what some rich
local would pay for the whole boat. There's nothing like it
anywhere around here."
"I'd rather sell the girl," he murmured, "but the boat
would fetch more. You're right about that, guv. I'm no
yacht broker, but I'll do me best to strike us the best
bargain obtainable."
Teas DAY or THE DISSONANCE
143
"Mudge, with you doing the dealing, I know we'll
come out well."
The otter concluded a sale that very afternoon. Payment
was made in gold. They left behind a delighted trader in
ships and a wharfmaster greedily counting out his commis-
sion. Jon-Tom had no regrets. He'd obtained the sloop for
a song.
By nightfall they were established in a clean, moderate-
ly priced harborfront inn.
"Wot now, mate?" Mudge dug into his dinner and
talked around mouthfuls of food. Jalwar displayed refined
table manners, while Roseroar ate with precision and
unexpected delicacy. Folly gobbled down everything set
before her and still finished well ahead of the others.
Confident she could take care of herself, Jon-Tom parceled
out a pocketful of coin and sent her off in search of attire
more suited to her new surroundings.
"We need to find out which way Crancularn lies," he
told the otter as he sipped at his own tankard, "acquire
sufficient supplies, and be on our way. Clothahump is
waiting on us, and much as I'd like to, we can't linger
here."
"Ah'm ready fo some clean countryside," agreed Roseroar.
"Ah've had enough o' the ocean to last me fo a while."
"You're bound and determined to see this insanity
through to the bitter end, aren't you, mate?"
"You know that I am, Mudge. I gave my word."
"I was afraid you'd say somethin' like that." He sighed,
wiped gravy from his lips. "Wait 'ere."
The otter vanished into the main dining room of the inn,
returned moments later. He was not alone. With him was a
finely coiffed orangutan. This individual was dressed in
old but well-cared-for clothing. Lace ruffles billowed from
collar and sleeves. His orange beard was trimmed short
and he puffed on a long, curved pipe. One earring of silver
and garnet dangled from his left ear.
"So you weesh to traveel eenland?" There was an odd
144
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
145
lilt to his voice that reminded Jon-Tom of the other orang
he'd met, the venerable Doctor Nilanthos of Lynchbany.
That reminded him of the mugging victims the good doctor
had worked on, and of the mugger, the flame-haired Talea.
He forced his thoughts back to the present. Talea was far
away.
"That's right. We need a certain medicine."
The primate nodded once. "Weel, you'll find no better
place to seek eet than here een Snarken. Eet's the beegest
city on the western shore of the Gleetergeist, and eef what
you seek ees not to be found here, eet ees not to be found
anywhere.''
"You see, lad," said Mudge hopefully. "Wot did I tell
you? Might as well start lookin' for 'is sorcerership's fix
right 'ere."
"Sorry, Mudge."
"C'mon, mate. Couldn't we at least try a local chem-
ist's shop?"
"What ees thee problem, stranger?" asked the orang.
The aroma drifting from the bowl at the end of the thin
pipe was fragrant and powerful. Jon-Tom suspected it
contained more than merely tobacco. Evidently the orang
noticed Jon-Tom's interest, because he turned the pipe
about. "Care for a heet?"
Jon-Tom forced himself to decline. "Thanks, but not
until we get this business straightened out."
"Hey guv, 'ow about me?" Mudge eyed the pipe
hungrily.
"You were not offered," said the orang imperturbably.
"The medicine we seek," Jon-Tom said hastily, before
Mudge could comment, "is available only from a certain
shop. In the town of Crancularn."
The orang started ever so slightly, puffed furiously on
his pipe. "Crancularn, ai?"
"In the Shop of the Aether and Neither."
"Weel now." The orang banged his pipe on the side of
the table, knocking out the dottle while making certain not
to stain his silk-and-satin attire. "I have neever been to
Crancularn. But I have heard rumor of theese shop you
seek. Some say eet ees no more than that, a device of the
veelagers of theese town to breeng attention upon them-
selves. Others, they say more."
"But you've never been there," said Roseroar.
"No
. I don't know anyone who's actually been there.
But I do know where eet ees supposed to lie."
"Where?" Jon-Tom leaned forward anxiously.
The orang lifted a massive, muscular arm and pointed
westward. "There. That way."
Mudge tugged irritably at his whiskers. "Precise direc-
tions, why can't any of these helpful blokes we run into
ever give us precise directions?"
"Don't worry." The orang smiled. "Eef you want to
find eet badly enough, you weel. People know where eet
ees. They just don't go there, that's all."
"Why not?"
The orang shrugged, smacked thick lips around the stem
of his pipe. "Beats mee, stranger. I've neever had the
desire to go and find out. Thee fact that no one else goes
there strikes mee as reeson enough not to go. Eef you are
bound to go, I weesh you thee best of luck." He stepped
back from the table. The main room of the inn's restaurant
was jammed with diners now, and his table lay on the other
side of the floor. He reached up, grabbed the nearest
chandelier, and made his way across the ceiling gracefully,
without disturbing any of the other customers.
"It doesn't make any sense," Jon-Tom was muttering.
"If no one knows of any specific danger in Cranculam,
why doesn't anyone go mere?"
fully.
"Can you really, baggy-nose?" said Mudge. "Why
don't you enlighten us then, guv'nor?"
"There may be dangers there mat remain little known."
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Alas Dean Foster
"He would have told us anything known," Jon-Tom
argued. "No reason to keep it from us. What else, Jalwar?"
"There may be nothing there at all."
"I'll take Clothahump's word that there is. Go on."
The ferret spread his hands. "This shop you speak of so
hopefully. It may be less than you wish for. Many such
establishments never live up to their reputations."
"We'll find out," Jon-Tom said determinedly, "because
no matter what anyone says, we're going there." His
expression altered suddenly as he stared past the ferret.
"Wot is it, mate?" asked Mudge, abruptly alert. "Wot
do you see?"
"Darkness. Nighttime. It's been night out for a long
time. Too long. Folly should have returned by now."
He whirled angrily on the otter. "Damn it, Mudge, did
you...?"
"Now 'old on a minim, mate." The otter raised both
paws defensively. "I said my piece and you said you
didn't want to sell *er. I wouldn't do anythin' like that
behind your back."
"If you were offered the right price you'd sell your own
grandmother without her permission."
"I never knew me grandmum, mate, so I couldn't guess
at 'er worth, but I swears on me works that as far as I
know the girl's done only wot you said she could do: gone
tshoppin' for some respectable coverin' for that skinny
naked body o' 'ers. Well, not all that skinny."
Jon-Tom had a sudden thought, turned on the largest
member of their party. "Roseroar?"
The massive torso shaded the table as the tigress daintily
set down half a roast lizard as big as the duar. She picked
with maddening slowness at her teeth before replying.
"Ah will pretend ah didn't heah that insult, suh. Ah
think it's obvious enough what has happened."
"What's obvious?" He frowned.
"Why, you gave her some gold. As she told yo herself,
you owe her nothing and she owes you little, since you
THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
147
turned down her offah to sell herself. It's cleah enough to
me that she's gone off to seek her own fortune. We've
given her her freedom. She held no love fo us and ah must
admit the feelin's mutual."
"She wouldn't think of it like that," Jon-Tom muttered
worriedly. "She isn't the type."
Mudge let out a sharp, barking laugh. "Now, wot would
you know about 'er type, mate? I didn't know wot 'er
'type' was, and I've forgotten more about women of more
species than you'll ever think on."
"She's just not the type, Mudge," Jon-Tom insisted.
"This city's as new to her as it to us, and we're the only
friends or security she's got."
"A type like that," said Roseroar disdainfully, "can find
friends wherevah she goes."
"She just wouldn't run off like that, without saying
anything. Maybe you're right, Mudge. Maybe she does
want to strike off on her own, but she'd have told us first.''
"Wot for?" wondered Mudge sarcastically. "To spare
you from worryin' about 'er? Maybe she don't like long
good-byes. Not that it matters. You've seen 'ow big this
town is. Wot can we do about it?"
"Wait until morning," Jon-Tom said decisively. "We
can't do much without sleep, and it'll be good to sleep on
something that doesn't roll and pitch."
"Me sentiments exactly, mate."
"In the morning we'll make some inquiries. You're
good at making inquries, Mudge. Like finding that orang
to tell us the way to Crancularn."
"Cor, some 'elp > was." He pointed wildly backward.
"That way! 'Ow 'elpftil! That may be the most I can find
out about the girl. I don't know why you bother, mate. I
thought the main thing was gettin' that dope back to
Clothy-wothy."
"Check on the girl first. She may be in some kind
of trouble. I'll let her go her own way, but I want to make
sure that's what she wants. I want her to say it to me."
148
Mudge looked disgusted. "It's your funeral, mate. Just
don't make it mine, too."
They slept soundly. In the morning they began checking
the clothing stores in the area. Yes, a girl of that descrip-
tion had been into several of the shops and then had moved
on. The trail halted abruptly at the eighth shop. Beyond it,
Folly had not been seen.
"Face it, mate, she's gone off on 'er lonesome."
"One last try." Jon-Tom nodded toward the corner,
where a pair of uniformed skunks were lounging. Civil
patrol, just as in Lynchbany, where their particular anatomi-
cal capabilities made them the logical candidates for the
police service. It was simple for them to control an angry
mob or recalcitrant prisoner through nonviolent means.
Jon-Tom would much rather be beaten up.
The cops turned as he approached, taking particular note
of the heavily armed Roseroar.
"Trouble, strangers?" one of the police inquired.
"No trouble." Both striped tails relaxed, for which
Jon-Tom was grateful. "We're looking for someone. A
companion, human female of about mid-to-late adoles-
cence. Attractive, blonde fur. She was shopping in this
area last night."
The cops looked at each other. Then the one on the left
raised a hand over his head, palm facing the ground.
"About so tall?"
"Yes!" Jon-Tom said excitedly.
&nbs
p; "Wearing funny sort of clothes, dark blue pants?"
"That's her!" Suddenly he remembered who he was
talking to. "What happened to her?"
"Not much, as far as I know. We were just coming on
duty." He turned to gesture up a steep street. "Was about
four blocks up that way, two to the left. She was out cold
when we stumbled over her. Friend of yours, you say?"
Jon-Tom nodded.
"Well, we tried to bring her around and didn't have
much luck. It was pretty plain what had happened to her.
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
149
The pockets of her pants and blouse had been ripped open
and she had a lump here," he touched his head near his
left ear, "about the size of a lemon."
"Somebody rolled 'er," said Mudge knowledgeably.
"My fault," said Jon-Tom. "I thought she'd be okay."
He stared at Mudge.
"Hey, don't be mad at me, mate. I didn't slug 'er."
"She kept saying she could take care of herself."
"I thought 'er mouth was bigger than 'er brain," the
otter commented sourly. "Take care o' 'erself, wot? Not
by 'alf." He turned to the cop. "Wot 'appened to 'er,
then?"
"We relayed it in." He glanced at his partner. "Do you
know what headquarters did with her afterwards?" The
other skunk shrugged and the first looked thoughtful. "Let
me think."
"Hospital," Jon-Tom suggested. "Did they send her to
a hospital?"
"Not that bad a bump, stranger. She was half-conscious
by the time we got her into the station. Kept moaning
about her mother or something. She didn't have a scrap of
identification on her, I remember that. Also kept mum-
bling for someone named—" he fought to recall, "Pom-
pom?"
"Jon-Tom. That's me."
"She couldn't tell us where you were... that sock on
the head rattled her pretty good, I'd think... and the name
meant nothing to us. Weird as it was, we thought she was
still off her nut. Mid-adolescent, you said?" He nodded.
"I thought she looked underage for a human. Now I
remember what happened to her. Social Services took her
in. Several groups put in a claim and the Friends of the
Street won."
"Yeah, that's right," said his partner. "I saw that on the
report sheet."
"Who are the Friends of the Street?" Jon-Tom asked,
"Kind of like an orphanage, stranger," the cop explained.
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Alan Dean Foster
He turned and pointed. "They're up on Pulletgut Hill
there. Never been there myself. No reason. But that's