be solipsists by nature."
"I can understand that," said Jon-Tom. "I'll be happy to supply whatever
arguments and information I can."
The tail slid back onto the sand. Jon-Tom began the climb up the natural ladder
and glanced back at his companions.
"What are you all waiting for? It's safe. Falameezar's a fellow worker, a
comrade."
The dragon positively beamed.
When they had all mounted and found seats and had secured their baggage, the
dragon moved slowly out into the water. In a few minutes they had reached the
center of the river. Falameezar turned upstream and began to swim steadily and
without apparent effort against the considerable current.
"Tell me now," he said by way of opening conversation, "there is a thing I do
not understand."
"There are things none of us understand," said Jon-Tom. "Just now I'm not too
sure I understand myself."
"You are introspeetive as well as socially conscious. That's nice." The dragon
cleared his throat, and smoke drifted back over the riders.
"According to Marx, the capitalists should long since have been swept away and
the world should now exist in a stateless, classless society. Yet nothing could
be further from the truth."
"For one thing," Jon-Tom began, trying not to sound too much like a tutor, "this
world hasn't yet fully emerged from the feudal stage. But more importantly...
surely you've heard of Rosa Luxemburg's Accumulation of Capital?"
"No." A crimson eye blinked curiously back at him. "Please tell me about it."
Jon-Tom proceeded to do so, with caution and at length.
They had no problems. Falameezar could catch more fish in one snap than the
entire party could in a day's trying, and the dragon was quite willing to share
his catch. Also to cook it.
The assured, easy supply of fresh food led Mudge and Caz to grow exceedingly
lazy. Jon-Tom's biggest worry was not occupying Falameezar but that either of
the two dragon-borne lotus-eaters might let something slip in casual
conversation which would tell the dragon that they were no more Marxists than
they were celibate.
At least they were not merchants or traders. Mudge, Caz, and Talea qualified as
free agents, though Jon-Tom couldn't stretch the definition of their erstwhile
professions far enough to consider them craftsmen. Clothahump could be
considered a philosopher, and Pog was his apprentice. With a little coaching
from Jon-Tom, the turtle was able to acquire a semantic handle on such concepts
as dialectical materialism and thus assist with some of the conversational load.
This was necessary because while Jon-Tom had studied Marxism thoroughly it had
been over three years ago. Details returned reluctantly. Each was challenged by
the curious Falameezar, who had evidently committed to memory every word of both
The Communist Manifesto and Das Kapital.
There was no talk of Lenin or Mao, however, for which Jon-Tom was thankful. Any
time the subject of revolution arose the dragon was apt to wonder if maybe they
oughtn't to attack this or that town or cluster of traders. But without much of
a practical base on which to operate he grew confused, and Jon-Tom was able to
steer their debate to less violent aspects of social change.
Fortunately, there were few traders plying the river to stimulate the dragon's
ire, and the moment they spotted the black silhouette of Falameezar they hastily
abandoned both their boats and the water. The dragon protested that he would
like to talk with the crews as much as he would like to cremate the captains,
but sadly admitted he did not seem to have the ability to get close to people.
"They don't understand," he was saying softly one morning. "I merely wish to be
accepted as an equal member of the proletariat. They will not even stop to
listen. Of course, most of them do not have the necessary grasp and overview of
their society's socioeconomic problems. They rant and rave and are generally so
abusive that they give me heartburn."
"I remember what you said about your fellow dragons' independent natures. Can't
you organize them at all?"
Falameezar let out a disgusted snort, sending orange fire across the water's
surface. "They will not even stop to listen. They do not understand that to be
truly happy and successful it is necessary for all to work together, each
helping his comrade as we march onward toward the glorious, classless, socialist
future."
"I didn't know dragons had classes."
"It embarrasses me to admit it, but there are those among us who hold themselves
better than their fellows." He shook his great head dolefully. "It is a sad,
confused world we live in, comrade. Sad and exploitative."
"Too true," agreed Jon-Tom readily.
The dragon brightened. "But that makes the challenge all the greater, does it
not?"
"Absolutely, and this challenge we go to confront now is the most dangerous one
ever to face the world."
"I suppose." Falameezar looked thoughtful. "But one thing puzzles me. Surely
among all these invaders-to-come there must be some workers? They cannot all be
bosses."
Oh, lord, now how, Jon-Tom? "That's the case, I suppose," he replied as quickly
as he could, "but they're all irrevocably imbued with the desire to be bigger
bosses than those they now serve." Falameezar still seemed unsure.
Inspiration served. "And they also believe implicitly that if they can conquer
the rest of the world, the warmlands and the rest, then they will become
capitalist bosses over the workers here, and their old bosses will remain master
over them. So they will give rise, if successful, to the most implacable class
of capitalists the world has ever known, a class of bosses' bosses."
Falameezar's voice echoed like an avalanche across the water. "This must be
stopped!"
"I agree." Jon-Tom's attention for the past hour had been more and more on the
shoreline. Hills had risen in place of low beaches. On the left bank they merged
into sheer rock walls almost a hundred feet high, far too high for even the
powerful Falameezar to negotiate. The dragon was swerving gradually toward his
right.
"Rapids ahead," he explained. "I have never traveled beyond this point. I
dislike walking and would much rather swim, as befits a river dragon. But for
the cause," he said bravely, "I will of course dare anything, so I will walk the
rapids."
"Of course," Jon-Tom murmured.
It was growing dark. "We can camp the first place you can easily climb ashore,
comrade Falameezar." He looked back in distaste. Mudge and Caz were playing at
dice on a flat section of the dragon's back. "For a change maybe our 'hunters'
can find us something to eat besides fish. After all," he murmured with a wicked
grin, "everyone must contribute to the welfare of the whole."
"How very true," said the dragon, adding politely, "not that I mind catching you
fish."
"It's not that." Jon-Tom was enjoying the thought of the two somnolent gamblers
slogging through the muck to find enough meat to feed the voracious dragon.
"It's time some of us did some real work f
or you. You've sure as hell done
enough for us."
"Well put, comrade," said the dragon. "We must bow to social decorum. I would
enjoy a change from fish."
The hilly shore bordered a land of smaller trees, narrower of bole and widely
scattered amid thick brush. Despite his insistence that he preferred water to
land, the dragon had no trouble smashing his way through the foliage bulwarking
the water's edge.
A small clearing close to the river was soon located. They settled into camp to
the accompaniment of rising moonlight. Ahead was the steady but soothing roar of
the rapids Falameezar would have to negotiate the next day.
Jon-Tom dumped a load of wood by the fire, brushed bark and dirt from his hands,
and asked Caz, "What do ships traveling past this point do about the rapids?"
"Most are constructed and designed so as to make their way safely through them
when traveling down to the Glittergeist," the rabbit explained. "When traveling
upstream it is necessary to portage around. There are places where it can be
done. Logs have been laid across ancient, well-known paths. The ships are then
dragged across this crude cellulose lubrication until quieter water is reached."
He nodded curiously toward the dragon. Falameezar lay contentedly on the far
side of the clearing, his tail curled across his jaws.
"How did you ever manage to talk the monster into conveying us atop his belly
instead of inside it? I understood nothing of his riddle or your reply, nor of
the lengthy talk you have engaged in subsequently."
"Never mind," said Jon-Tom, stirring the fire with a twig. "I'll take care of
the dialectic. You just try to say as little as possible to him."
"No fear of that, my friend. He is not my idea of a scintillating
conversationalist. Nor do I have any desire to become someone's supper through
misapplication of a word or two." He patted Jon-Tom on the back and grinned.
Despite the rabbit's somewhat aloof bearing, Jon-Tom couldn't help liking him.
Caz was inherently likable and had already proven himself a willing and
good-natured companion. Hadn't he volunteered to come on what was likely to be a
dangerous journey? To be quite fair, he was the only true volunteer among them.
Or was there some other motive behind the rabbit's participation that so far
he'd kept well hidden? The thought gave Jon-Tom an unexpected start. He eyed the
retreating ears. Maybe Caz had reasons of his own for wanting to travel
upstream, reasons that had nothing to do with their mission. He might desert
them at the first convenient opportunity.
Now you're thinking like Clothahump, he told himself angrily. There's enough for
you to worry about without trying to analyze your companion's thoughts.
Speaking of companions, where the devil had Mudge got himself to? Caz had
returned a few moments ago with a fat, newtlike creature. It drew deprecatory
comments from Talea, the designated chef for the evening, so they'd given it to
the delighted Falameezar.
But Mudge had been gone a long time now without returning. Jon-Tom didn't think
the mercurial otter would try to split on them in so isolated a place when he'd
already passed up excellent opportunities to do so in far more familiar
surroundings.
He walked around the fire, which was now crackling insistently for fuel, and
voiced his concern to Clothahump. As usual, the wizard sat by himself. His face
shone in the firelight. He was mumbling softly to himself, and Jon-Tom wondered
at what lay behind his quiet talk. There was real magic in the sorcerer's words,
a source of never ending amazement to Jon-Tom.
The wizard's expression was strained, as befitted one on whose shoulders (or
shell) rested the possible resolution of a coming Armageddon.
Clothahump saw him without having to look up. "Good eve to you, my boy.
Something troubles you." Jon-Tom had long since overcome any surprise at the
wizard's sensitivity.
"It's Mudge, sir."
"That miscreant again?" The aged face looked up at him. "What has he done now?"
"It's not what he's done so much as what he hasn't done, sir, which is come
back. I'm worried, sir. Caz returned a while ago, but he didn't go very far into
the forest and he hasn't seen Mudge."
"Still hunting, perhaps." Most of the wizard's mind seemed to be on matters far
off and away.
"I don't think so, sir. He should have returned by now. And I don't think he's
run off."
"No, not here, my boy."
"Could he have tried to catch something that caught him instead? It would be
like Mudge to try and show off with a big catch."
"Not that simpleton coward, boy. But as to something else making a meal of him,
that is always a risk when a lone hunter goes foraging in a strange forest.
Remember, though, that while our otter companion is somewhat slow upstairs,
there is nothing sluggish about his feet. He is lightning fast. It is
conceivable that something might overpower him, but it would first have to
surprise him or run him down. Neither is likely."
"He could have hurt himself," persisted a worried Jon-Tom. "Even the most
skillful hunter can't outrun a broken leg."
Clothahump turned away from him. A touch of impatience crept into his voice.
"Don't belabor it, boy. I have more important things to think upon."
"Maybe I'd better have a look for him." Jon-Tom glanced specula-lively at the
silent ring of thin trees that looked down on the little clearing.
"Maybe you had." The boy means well, Clothahump thought, but he tends not to
think things through and to give in to his emotions. Best to keep a close watch
"Yes, that would be a prudent thing to do. You go and find him. We've enough
food for the night." His gaze remained fixed on something beyond the view of
mere mortals.
"I'll be back with him soon." The lanky youth turned and jogged off into the
woods.
Clothahump was fast sinking into his desired trance. As his mind reeled,
something pricked insistently at it. It had to do with this particular section
of Tailaroam-bordered land. It was full night now, and that also was somehow
significant.
Was there something he should have told the boy? Had he sent him off unprepared
for something he should expect to encounter hereabouts? Ah, you self-centered
old fool, he chided himself, and you having just accused him of not thinking
things through.
But he was far too deeply entranced now to slip easily back into reality. The
nagging worries fell behind his probing, seeking mind.
He's a brave youngster, was his fading, weak appraisal. He'll be able to take
care of himself....
Untold leagues away, underneath the infectious mists of the Green-downs in the
castle of Cugluch, the iridescent Empress reclined on her ruby pillows. She
replayed her sorcerer's words mentally, lingering over each syllable with the
pleasure that destruction's anticipation sent through her.
"Madam," he had bowed cautiously over this latest pronouncement, "each day the
Manifestation reveals powers for which even I know no precedent. Now I bel
ieve
that we may be able to conquer more thoroughly than we have ever dreamed."
"How is this, Sorcerer?--and you had better be prepared to stand by any promises
you make me." Skrritch eyed his knobby legs appraisingly.
"I will give you a riddle instead of a promise," Eejakrat said with untoward
daring. Skrritch nodded.
"When will we have completed the annihilation of the warm-lands?" he asked her.
"When every warmlander bows to me," she answered without hesitation.
The wizard did not respond.
"When every warmlander has been emptied to a dead husk?"
Still he did not reply.
"Speak, Sorcerer," Skrritch directed testily.
"The warmlands will be ours, my lady, when every warm-blooded slave has been
returned to the soil and in his plaee stands a Plated subject. When the
farmlands, shops, and cities of the west are repopulated with Plated Folk your
empire will know no limit!"
Skrritch looked at him as if he'd gone mad and began to preen her claw tips.
Eejakrat took a prudent step backward, but his words held the Empress in
mid-motion.
"Madam, I assure you, the Manifestation has the power to incinerate entire races
of warmlanders. Its death-power is so pervasive that we shall not only crush
them, we will obliterate their memory from the earth. Your minions will march
into their cities to find the complete welcome of silence."
Now Skrritch smiled her weird, omnivorous smile. The wizard and his queen locked
eyes, and though neither really understood the extent of the destruction at
their disposal, the air reverberated with their insidious obsession to find
out....
It was very dark in the forest. The moon made anemic ghosts of the trees and
turned misshapen boulders to granite gargoyles. Bushes hid legions of tiny
clicking things that watched with interest and talked to one another as the tall
biped went striding past their homes.
Jon-Tom was in fair spirits. The nightly rain had not yet begun. Only the usual
thick mist moistened his face.
He carried a torch made from the oil rushes that lined the river's edge. Despite
the persistent mist the highly combustible reeds readily caught fire when he
applied the tip of the well-spelled sparker Caz had lent to him. The torch lit
readily and burned with a satisfying slowness.
For a moment he had thoughts of swinging round his duar and trying to conjure up