waiting.
Let's see... why should he not modify a song to fit the need of the moment?
Therefore, ergo, and so forth.... "Yellow salamander" didn't scan the same as
"yellow submarine," but it was close enough. "We all live on a yellow
sal'mandee, yellow sal'mandee, yellow sal'mandee...."
At the beginning of the chorus there was a disturbance in the water. It
broadened into a wide whirlpool.
"They're down there, then," murmured Clothahump excitedly, peering at the
surface. He tried to divide his attention between the river and the singer.
"Maybe a little longer on the verbs, my boy. And a little more emphasis on the
subjeets of seeking. Sharply on the key words, now."
"I don't know what the key words are," Jon-Tom protested between verses. "But
I'll try."
What happened was that he sang louder, though his voice was not the kind suited
to shouting. He was best at gentle ballads. Yet as he continued the song became
easier. It was almost as if his brain knew which of the words catalyzed the
strange elements of quasi-science Clothahump called magic. Or was the wizard
right, and science really quasi-magic?
This was no time, he told himself furiously as he tried to concentrate on the
song, for philosophizing. A couple of jetboats might be even more useful....
Careful, remember the riding snake! Ah, but that was a fluke, the natural result
of an uncertain first-time try at a new discipline. Sheer accident. At the time
he'd had no idea of what he'd been doing or how he'd been doing it.
Salamanders Clothahump wanted and salamanders he'd get.
Now the water in the vicinity of the whirlpool was beginning to bubble
furiously.
"There they are!" yelled Talea.
"Blimey but the lad's gone an' done it." Mudge looked pridefully at his wailing
ward.
For his part Jon-Tom continued the song, sending notes and words skipping like
pebbles out across the disturbed river. Water frothed white at the center of the
whirlpool, now bubbling to a respectable height. Occasionally it geysered twenty
feet high, as if something rather more massive than a lowly salamander was
stirring on the river bottom.
Talea and Caz were the first to frown and begin backing away from the shore.
"Jon-Tom," she called to him, "are you sure you know what you're doing?"
Oblivious now to outside comments, he continued to sing. Clothahump had told him
that a good wizard or spellsinger had to always concentrate. Jon-Tom was
concentrating very hard. "
"My boy," said Clothahump slowly, rubbing his lower jaw with one hand, "some of
the words you're using... I know context is important, but I am not sure..."
Bubbles and froth rose three times the height of a man. There was a watery
rumble and it started moving toward shore. If there were any amphibians out
there, it was apparent they now likely numbered more than half a dozen.
The violence finally penetrated Jon-Tom's concentration. It occurred to him that
perhaps he might be better off easing back and trying a new song. But Flor was
watching, and it was the only watery song he knew. So he continued on despite
Clothahump's voiced uncertainty.
At least something was out there.
There was thunder under the water now. Suddenly, a head broke the froth, a head
black as night with eyes of crimson. There was a long narrow snout, slightly
knobbed at the tip and crowded with razor ivories. Bat-wing ears fluttered at
the sides and back of the skull. The head hooked from a thickly muscled, scaly
neek and ran into a massive black chest shot through with lines of iridescent
purple and azure. Red gills ran half the length of the neck.
A forefoot rose up out of the water. It was bigger than Jon-Tom, whose fingers
had frozen on the strings of the duar as completely as the remaining words of
the stanza had petrified in his mouth.
The sun continued to shine. Only a few dark clouds pockmarked the sky, but
around them the day seemed to grow darker. The thick, leathery foot, dripping
moss and water plants from black claws the length of a man's arm, moved forward
to land hi a spray of water. Webbing showed between the digits.
The elegant nightmare opened its mouth. A thin stream of organic napalm emerged
in a spray that turned the water several yards short of the sandy peninsula into
"Ho!" said a distinct, rumbling voice that made Pog sound positively sweet by
comparison, "who dares to disturb the hibernation of Falameezar-aziz-Sulmonmee?
Who winkles me forth from my home inside the river? Who seeks," and the great
toothy jaws curved lower on the muscular neck-crane, "to join great Falameezar
for lunch?"
Mudge had scuttled backward and was nearing the edge of the forest. The dragon
tilted its head, sighted, and closed one eye. His mouth tightened and he spat. A
tiny fireball landed several feet ahead of Mudge, incinerating some bushes and a
medium-sized birch. Mudge halted instantly.
"You have summoned me... but I have not dismissed you." The head was now almost
drooping directly over Jon-Tom, who was developing a crick in his neck from
looking up at it.
"Know that I am Falameezar-aziz-Sulmonmee, Three Hundred and Forty-Sixth of the
line of Sulmonmeecar, Dragons of all the River, who guard the fast depths of all
the rivers of all the worlds! Who, practitioner of rashness, might you be?"
Jon-Tom tried to smile. "Just a stranger here, just passing through, just
minding my own business. Look now, uh, Falameezar, I'm sorry I disturbed you.
Sometimes I'm not too prudent in certain things. Like, my elocution never seems
able to keep up with my enthusiasm. I was really trying to summon some
salamanders and--"
"There are no salamanders here," thundered the voice from behind the teeth. The
dragon made a reptilian smile. A black gullet showed beyond the teeth. "I have
already eaten all who swam hereabouts. The others have fled to safer waters,
where I must soon follow." The smile did not fade. "You see, I am often hungry,
and must take sustenance where I can find it. To each according to his needs,
isn't that right?"
Clothahump raised his hands.
"Ancestor of the lizard neat,
Troubler of our tired feet,
On your way I bid you go,
Lest we your internal temp'rature low."
The dragon glanced sharply at the turtle. "Cease your mumblings, old fool, or
I'll boil you in your shell. I can do that before you finish that incantation."
Clothahump hesitated, then fell silent. But Jon-Tom could see his mind working
furiously. If someone could give him a little more time...
Without thinking, he took several steps forward until the water was lapping at
the tops of his boots. "We mean you no harm," there was a faint dragon-chuckle
and puffs of smoke drifted from scaly nostrils, "and I'm sorry if we disturbed
you. We're on a mission of great importance to--"
"The missions and goings and comings of the warmlanders are of no interest to
me." The dragon sounded disgusted. "You are all economically and socially
repressive." His head dipped again and he moved closer, a black mountain
emerging from the river. Now Falameezar was close enough to smash the duar
player with one foot.
Somewhere behind him he could hear Flor whispering loudly, "A real dragon! How
wonderful!" Next to her, Talea was muttering sentiments of a different kind.
"You live or become food," said the dragon, "at my whim. That is the way of
dragons who chance upon travelers. As is our way, I will offer you the chance to
win your freedom. You must answer a riddle."
Jon-Tom sloshed water with one foot. "I'm not much at riddles."
"You have no choice. In any case, you need not worry yourself much." Saliva was
trickling from his lower jaw. "Know that not one who has come my way has been
able to answer my riddle."
" 'Ere now, mate," Mudge called to him encouragingly, "don't let 'im intimidate
you. 'E's just tryin' t' frighten you out o' careful consideration o' your
reply."
"He's succeeding," Jon-Tom snapped back at the foolhardy otter. He looked back
up at the mouth waiting to take him in one bite. "Isn't there some other way we
can settle this? It's not polite to eat visitors."
"I did not invite you," growled the dragon. "Do you prefer to end it now by
passing over your right to try and answer?"
"No, no!" He glanced sideways at Clothahump. The wizard was clearly mumbling
some sort of spell soft enough so the dragon could not overhear, but either the
spell was ineffective or else the wizard's capricious memory had chosen this
inopportune moment to turn to mush.
"Go ahead and ask," he said, still stalling. Sweat was making his indigo shirt
stick to his back.
The dragon smelled of mud and water and pungent aquatic things. The thick smell
gave Jon-Tom something to concentrate on besides his fear.
"Then riddle me this," rumbled the dragon. He lolled in the shallow water,
keeping a sharp, fiery eye on the rest of the frightened group.
"What is the fundamental attribute of human nature... and of all similar
natures?" He puffed smoke, hugely enjoying Jon-Tom's obvious confusion.
"Love!" shouted Talea. Jon-Tom was shocked at the redhead's uncharacteristic
response to the question.
"Ambition," suggested Flor.
"Greed." No need to see who'd said that. It could only have come from Mudge.
"A desire to better one's self without harming one's fellows." That was Caz's
graceful offering. At least, it was graceful until he added, "Any more than
necessary."
"Fear," said the stuttering Pog, trying to find a tree to hide behind without
drawing the dragon's attention.
"The wish to gain knowledge and become wise," said Clothahump, momentarily
distracted from his spell weaving.
"No, no, no, no, and no!" snorted the dragon contemptuously, searing the air
with a gout of flame. "You are ignorant as all. All that fools have to recommend
themselves is their taste."
Jon-Tom was thinking heetically about something the dragon had said before.
Yes... his comment about the warmlanders being "economically and socially
repressive." Now the riddle sounded almost familiar. He was sure he recognized
it, but where, and was there more to it that might be the answer? His brain
rumbled and hunted desperately for the distant memory.
Falameezar hissed, and water boiled around Jon-Tom's boots. He could feel the
heat even through the thick leather. He wondered if he would turn red, like a
lobster... or black, like burnt toast.
Perhaps the dragon could read minds as well as he could pose riddles. "I will
now give you another choice. I can have you steamed or broiled. Those who would
prefer to be steamed may step into the river. Those who prefer broiling remain
where you are. It is of no matter to me. Or I can eat you raw. Most meals find
precooking preferable, however."
Come on, meal, he chided himself. This is just another test, but it may be the
last one if you don't...
"Wait. Wait a minute! I know the answer!"
The dragon cocked a bored eye at him. "Hurry up. I'm hungry."
Jon-Tom took a deep breath. "The fundamental attribute of human nature is...
productive labor." For good measure he added casually, "Any fool knows that."
The dragon's head reared back, dominating the sky. Batwing ears fluttered in
confusion, and for a moment he was so startled he choked on his own smoke.
Still menacingly, but uncertain now, he brought his massive jaws so near that
Jon-Tom could have reached out and caressed the shiny black scales. The air was
full of dampness and brimstone.
"And what," he rumbled, "determines the structure of any society?"
Jon-Tom was beginning to relax a little. Unbelievable as it seemed, he felt safe
now. "Its economic means of production."
"And societies evolve... ?"
"Through a series of crises caused by internal contradictions," Jon-Tom finished
for him.
The dragon's eyes flashed and his jaws gaped. Though confident he'd found the
answer, Jon-Tom couldn't help but back away from those gnashing teeth. A pair of
gigantic forefeet rose dripping from the water. Tiny crustaceans scrambled
frantically for cover.
The feet lunged toward Jon-Tom. He felt himself being lifted into the air. From
somewhere behind him Flor was yelling frantically and Mudge was muttering a
dirge.
An enormous forked tongue as startlingly red as the slitted eyes emerged from
the mouth and flicked wetly at Jon-Tom's face.
"Comrade!" the dragon declaimed. Then Jon-Tom was gently deposited back on dry
land.
The dragon was thrashing at the water in ecstasy. "I knew it! I knew that all
the creatures of this world could not exist ignorant of the true way." He was so
happy he blew fire simply from pure joy, though now he carefully directed it
away from his stunned audience.
The otter ran out onto the sand, sidled close to the tall human. "Crikey, mate,
be this more o' your unexpected wizardry?"
"No, Mudge." He wiped dragon spit from his cheeks and neek. It was hot to the
touch. "Just a correct guess. It was sparked by something he'd said to us
earlier. Then it came back to me. What I don't understand is how this bonafide
dragon was transformed into a dedicated Marxist."
"Maziwhich? Wot's that? Some otherworldly magickin', maybe?"
"Some people think so. Others would regard it more as pure superstition. But for
God's sake, don't say anything like that to him or we'll all find ourselves in
the soup, literally."
"Pardon my curiosity," he called to the dragon, "but how did you happen to
stumble on the," he hesitated," 'true way'?"
"It happens on occasion that dragons stumble into interdimensional warps,"
Falameezar told him as he calmed himself down. "We seem prone to such
manifestations. I was suspended in one for days. That is when it was revealed to
me. I have tried to make others see but," he shrugged massive black shoulders,
"what can but one do in a world aswarm with voracious, ravenous capitalists?"
"What indeed?" murmured Jon-Tom.
"Even if one is a dragon. Oh, I try now and then, here on the river. But the
poor abused boatmen simply have no comprehension of the labor theory of valu
e,
and it is quite impossible to engage even the lowliest worker in an honest
socialist dialectic."
"I know the problem," said Jon-Tom sympathetically.
"You do?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, we're all embarked on a journey right now, we seven
comrades, because this land which you say is filled with capitalists is about to
be invaded and overrun by an entire nation of totalitarian capitalists, who wish
to enslave completely the, uh, local workers to a degree the primitive bosses
hereabouts can't begin to match."
"A terrible prospect!" The dragon's gaze turned to the others. "I apologize. I
had no idea I was confronting fellow crusaders of the proletariat."
"Dead right," said Mudge. "You ought t' be ashamed o' yourself, mate." He began
cautiously moving back toward the sand. Clothahump looked at once intrigued and
puzzled, but for the moment the wizard was quite content to let Jon-Tom do the
talking.
"Now then, comrade." The massive black shape folded its forelegs and squinched
down in the sandy shallows. "What can I do to help?"
"Well, as you would say, from each according to his ability to each according to
his need."
"Just so." The dragon spoke in a tone usually employed for the raising of
saints.
"We need to warn the people against the invasion of the bosses. To do so we must
warn the local inhabitants of the most powerful center of government. If we
could get upstream as quickly as possible--"
"Say no more!" He rose majestically on hind legs. A great surge of water nearly
washed away their packs. As the dragon turned, his thick black and purple tail,
lined with rigid bumps and spinal plates, stretched delicately onto the sand.
"Allow me the honor. I will take you wherever you wish, and far more quickly
than any capitalist pig of a boat master could manage. On one condition." The
tail slipped partway back into the river.
Jon-Tom had been about to start up the tail and now hesitated warily. "What's
that?"
"That during the course of our journey we can engage in a decent philosophical
discussion of the true nature of such matters as labor value, the proper use of
capital, and alienation of the worker from his output. This is for my own use. I
need all the ammunition I can muster for conversing with my fellows. Most
dragons are ignorant of the class struggle." He sounded apologetic. "We tend to