o' our charmin' guide Chokas about. I've 'card descrip-
tions o' orphanages, and this place makes the best o' them
look like mat dungeon we fled in Malderpotty. That's wot
bothers me, mate." He gazed up at the silent walls. "It's
too sweet."
"I'm not sure I follow you."
"Look, guv. Cubs is dirty. They make filth the way I
makes sweat. 'Tis natural. This place is supposed to be
full o' cubs and it's as clean as milady's intimates."
Roseroar spoke softly as she studied the barred upper
windows. "Ah did think it uncommon neat fo such an
establishment. Almost like a doctah's office."
"You too, Roseroar?" Jon-Tom said in surprise.
"Me too what? What the ottah says makes sense. Ain't
no secret ah've little love fo the cub, but ah'd sleep easier
knowin' she's been properly cared fo."
"If you both feel that way, then we need to talk with her
before we go." Jon-Tom started back for the entrance.
Mudge held him by an arm.
"Slow there, spellsinger. Ol' Chokas were friendly enough
because we didn't ask no awkward questions or try to poke
into places 'e didn't want us to see. If 'e'd wanted us to
meet any o' 'is kids 'e'd 'ave brought 'em down to us. I
don't think Vll be likely to accede to our little request."
"He has a good reason. They're likely to all be asleep.
It's late."
"All of 'em?" wondered Mudge. "I doubt it. Wot about
those offspring of the night-lifers? The gophers and the
moles?"
"Maybe they have separate quarters so they can be
active at night without disturbing the others," Jon-Tom
suggested. "If they're nocturnal, they wouldn't need lights
in their rooms."
"There'd still be some hint o' activity. Remember,
mate, we're talkin' about a bunch o' young cubs."
Jon-Tom chewed his lower lip. "It was awfully quiet in
there, wasn't it?"
"Like a tomb, mate. Tell you wot. Why don't you
16O
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OP THE DISSONANCE
161
spellsing the lot o' them to sleep the way you did that
bunch on the pirate ship?"
"Wouldn't work. On the ship, everyone was within
range of the duar and of my voice. Too many walls here."
Mudge nodded. "Right then. My turn to perform a little
magic."
"You?"
The otter grinned, his whiskers twitching. "You ain't
the only master o' strange arts around 'ere, mate."
They followed him around the side, until they were far
from the entrance. As they walked Jon-Tom noted that no
other doors were visible in the complex. There was only
the single entrance. Still, there might be other doors
around the back. And the Friends of the Street were not
constrained by, say, the Los Angeles Fire Code.
Mudge halted near a tree that grew closer to the build-
ings than any of the others.
"Now then, my petite purr-box, I 'ave a little job for
you." He pointed up into the tree. "See that branch there?
The second one up?" She nodded. "Can you climb up
there and then climb out along it?"
She frowned. "What foah? It won't hold man weight."
"That's precisely the idea, luv."
Jon-Tom immediateiy divined the otter's intent. "It's no
good, Mudge. That branch'11 throw you headfirst into the
wall. I'll end up with a furry Frisbee on my hands instead
of a valuable friend."
"Don't worry about me, guv. I knows wot I'm about.
We otter folk are born acrobats. Most o' the time there's
nothin' more to it than play, but we can get serious with it
if we need too. Let me give 'er a try."
"One try is all you'll get." He swing the duar around
until it rested against his chest. "Why don't I try spell-
singing you onto the roof?"
Mudge looked unwilling. "That would work fine, wouldn't
it, mate? With you standin' 'ere below these barred win-
dows caterwaulin' fit to shiver a bat's ears."
"Ah resent the comparison, watah rat." Roseroar ad-
vanced up the tree trunk.
Mudge shrugged. "Don't matter 'ow you describe it.
"I could try singing quietly."
'Aye, and likely catapult.. .sorry again, Roseroar.. .me
into the middle o' some far ocean. No offense, mate, but
you know well as I that there be times when your spellsmgin'
don't quite strike the mark. So if it's all the same, I'd
rather take me chances with the tree."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Jon-Tom muttered.
A glance showed Roseroar already crawling carefully out
onto the chosen limb. "Go ahead, but I think you're
nuts."
"Why, guv, I didn't think me mental condition were a
matter o' dispute anymore. An' the proof of it's that I'm
standin' 'ere askin' you to let me catapult meself toward a
stone wall instead o' lying in a soft bed somewhere back in
the Bellwoods."
He moved aside as the thick branch began to bend
toward the ground beneath Roseroar. She kept crawling
along it until she couldn't advance any more, then swung
beneath and continued advancing toward the end of the
limb hand-over-hand. Seconds later the leaves were brushing
the street.
Mudge nestled himself into a crook between two smaller
branches near the end. "Wot's your opinion o' this, luv?"
Roseroar had to use all her weight to hold the branch
down. She studied the distant roof speculatively. "A lot to
miss and little to land on. Wheah do y'all wish the remains
sent?"
"Two optimists I'm blessed with," the otter mumbled,
"I thank the both o' you for your encouragin' words." He
patted the wood behind him. "Wortyle wood. I thought
she'd bend without breakin'. They make ship's ribs out o'
this stuff." He glanced back at Roseroar. "Any time you're
ready, lass."
"Yoah sure about this?"
162
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
163
"No, I'm not, but I ain't doin' no good sittin' 'ere on
me arse talkin' about it."
"That ain't the part that's goin' to get smashed," she
said as she stepped away from the quivering branch.
The wortyle wood whipped upward so fast the air
vibrated in its wake. Mudge was thrown with tremendous
force into the night sky. The otter did a single flip and
described an elegant arc as he began to descend.
As it developed, his judgment was only slightly off. He
didn't reach the roof, but neither did he smash into the side
of the building. He fell only a little short.
At first it looked as if he was going to land hard on the
cobblestones, but at the last instant he grabbed with his
right hand. Short, powerful muscles broke his fall as his
fingers locked onto the iron grating barring one window.
He hung there for a long moment, catching his breath.
Then he reached up with the other hand and pulled himself
&n
bsp; on to the iron.
His companions stood beneath the window, staring up at
him. "Can you get in?" Jon-Tom asked softly.
Mudge responded with a snort of contempt, fiddled with
the grate. Seconds later a metallic click reached Jon-Tom
and Roseroar.
"He's very clevah, yo friend."
"He's had a lot of experience with locks," Jon-Tom
informed her dryly. Another click from above signified the
opening of the window.
They waited below, feeling exposed standing there on
the otherwise empty, moonlit street. Minutes passed. A
pink rope snaked down from the open window. Jon-Tom
reached up to take hold of the chain of knotted bedsheets.
"They'll support me," he told Roseroar. "I don't think
they'll hold you."
"Nevah mind. Y'all are just goin' to spend a few '
minutes talkin' to the girl-cub anyways." She nodded
toward the nearby grove. "Ah'll wait foah y'all up in the
same tree. Ain't nobody goin' to spot me up theah. If I see
anyone comin' this way and it looks tricky, I'll whistle
y'all a warnin'."
As she stood there in the pale light Jon-Tom was
conscious of her strength and power, but her words struck
him as odd. "I didn't know tigers could whistle."
"Well, ah'll let ya'all know somehow." She turned and
loped toward the trees.
Jon-Tom braced his feet against the wall and pulled
himself up. Mudge was waiting to help him inside.
Jon-Tom found himself standing in near blackness. "Where
are we?" he whispered.
"Some sort o' storage closet, mate." Mudge's night
vision was several cuts above his friend's.
But as they moved cautiously through the darkness
Jon-Tom's eyes adjusted to the weak illumination, and he
was able to make out buckets, pails, piles of dust rags,
curry combs, and other cleaning supplies. Mudge stopped
at the door and tried the handle.
"Locked from the other side." The otter hunted through
the darkness, came back holding something that looked
like an awl. He inserted it into the door lock and jiggled
delicately. Though Jon-Tom heard nothing, the otter was
apparently satisfied by some sound. He put the awl aside
and pushed.
The door opened silently. Mudge peered into a dark
dormitory. Against opposite walls stood beds, cots, mats,
and diverse sleeping stations for children of different
species. On the far wall windows looked down into the
courtyard with the trees and fountains. Unlike those on the
outside, these were not barred.
They tiptoed out of the closet and found themselves
walking between rows of silent youngsters. All of them
appeared to be neatly groomed and squeaky clean. There
wasn't a hair or patch of fur out of place. The dormitory
itself was comfortably cool and as spotless as the dining
room and entry hall had been.
164
Alan Dean Poster
"I don't see any indications of abuse here," Jon-Tom
whispered as they went from bed to bed.
Mudge was shaking his head doubtfully. "Too neat,
mate. Too perfect." They reached the end of the long
chamber without finding Folly. The door at the end was
also locked from the outside. "And another thing, mate.
Too many locks 'ere." He used the tool to pick it.
Beyond was a short hall. A stairway led downward off
the the left. Mudge picked the lock on the door across the
hall and they entered a second dorm.
Grunts and whistles and snores covered their footsteps
as they commenced an inspection of the new group of
beds. Halfway down the line they found Folly. Jon-Tom
shook her gently awake. She rolled over, woke up.
She was gasping with fright. There was no mistaking
the look in her eyes, the tenseness of her body, the
expression on her face. It reminded Jon-Tom a little of the
look she'd display on the pirate ship whenever Corroboc
appeared.
As soon as she recognized him she threw her arms
around him and started sobbing.
"Jon-Tom, Jon-Tom. And Mudge too. I thought you'd
forgotten me. I thought you'd go off and leave me here!"
"I didn't forget you, Folly." Acutely conscious of her
curves beneath the thin black nightdress, he gently pushed
her away. "What's wrong?"
She looked around wildly. "You've got to get me out of
here! Quickly, before the night patrol shows up."
"Night patrol? You mean, someone looks in on you?"
"No, I mean patrol. No one's allowed out of bed after
dark. If they catch you, they beat you. Bad. Not like
Corroboc, but bad enough."
"But we were here earlier, and we didn't see any
indications of—"
"Don't be a fool, mate," said Mudge tightly. "D'you
think these servants o' the downtrodden would be stupid
enough to hit their charges where it'd show?"
"No, I guess not. They beat you here?"
THE DAY or THK DISSONANCK
165
Folly spat on the floor. "Only out of love, of course.
Every time they beat you it's out of love. They beat you if
you don't learn your lessons, they beat you if you don't
hold your knife right at mealtime, they beat you for not
saying yes sir and no ma'am, and sometimes I think they
beat you for the fun of it, to remind you how bad the
world outside is." Her nails dug into his arms.
"You've got to get me out of here, Jon-Tom!" How
much truth there was to her accusations, he couldn't tell,
but the desperation in her voice was genuine enough.
Mudge kept a paw on the hilt of his short sword. "Let's
make up our feeble minds, mate. Some o' these cubs are
startin' to move around."
"I'm awake." Jon-Tom turned to the bed next to Fol-
ly's. It was occupied by a young margay. She sat up
rubbing at her eyes. She wore the same black nightdress.
"Is what Folly says true?" he asked the young cat.
"Who...who are you?" asked the now wide-awake
youngster. Folly hastened to reassure her.
"It's okay. They're friends of mine."
"Who're you?" Jon-Tom countered.
"My name's Myealn." To his surprise she began to
sniffle. He'd never seen a feline cry before. "Pu-please,
sir, can you help me get away from this place, too?"
Then he was being assailed by a volley of anxious
whispers.
"Me too, sir... and me... me also...!"
The whole dorm was awake and crowding around Fol-
ly's bed, pawing at the adults, pleading in a dozen dialects
for help. Tails twitched nervously from the backsides of
dozens of nightclothes, all black.
"I don't understand," he muttered. "This looks like
such a nice place. But it's not right if they beat you all the
time."
"That's not all they do," said Folly. "Haven't you noticed
how perfect this place is?"
"You mean, clean?"
166
Alan Dean Foster
She shook her head. "It's not just clean. It's sterile.
&
nbsp; Woe unto any of us caught with a dirt smudge or piece of
lint on us. We're supposed to be perfect at mealtime,
perfect at study, and perfect at devotions, so we can be
perfect citizens when we're old enough to be turned out
on the street again.
"A bunch of the supervisors here were raised here and
this is the only home they know. They're the worst. We
wear only black because a perfect person can't have any
distractions and color is distracting. There're no distrac-
tions of any kind. No dancing, no singing, no merriment at
all. Maybe all the jokes the pirates told were brutal and
crude, but at least they had a sense of humor. There's no
humor in this place."
Myealn had slipped out of her bed. Now she leaned
close to Folly. "The other thing," she whispered urgently.
"Tell them about the other thing."
"I was getting to that." Nervously, Folly glanced at the
doorway at the far end of the room. "Since a perfect
person doesn't need silly things like merriment and pleas-
ure, one of the first things they do here is make sure
you're made perfect in that regard."
Mudge frowned. "Want to explain that one, luv?"
"I mean, they see to it that no pleasurable diversions of
any kind remain to divert you from the task of becoming
perfect." The otter gaped at her, then waved to take in the
shuffling crowd of anxious, black-clad youngsters.
"Wot a bloody 'ouse o' devils we stumbled into! You
mean every one o' these... ?"
Folly nodded vigorously. "Most of them, yes. The
males are neutered and the females spayed. To preserve
their perfection by preventing any sensual distractions.
They're going to operate on me tomorrow."
"Against your will?" Jon-Tom struggled to come to
grips with this new, coldly clinical horror.
"What could we do?" Myealn sobbed softly. "Who
would object on our behalf? We're all orphans, none of us
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCK
167
even have guardians. And the Friends of the Street have a
wonderful reputation with the people who run the city
government because there's never any trouble here."
' 'And the Friends of the Street put model citizens back
into the population," Folly added. "People who never
give the city any trouble.
Jon-Tom was so furious he was shaking. "If you got out
of this place," he asked the trembling, altered youngsters,
"where would you go?"
Again a flurry of desperate pleas. "Anywhere.. anyplace
... the waterfront, I want to be a sailor.. I can sew, be a