“Sacred Sun is barely visible,” observed the prairiecat. A feline’s excellent night vision was of no use in a sky befouled with debris. On top of that, the big cat was continually sneezing in Noplis’ direction.

If the Witchmen were driven to learn the secrets of how mutant telepathy worked, it was something taken for granted by the Kindred, as natural a part of their daily lives as breathing or eating. Something about the earthquake was interfering with both the cat’s and the bard’s farspeak, although they could still communicate one-to-one. Was it magnetic disturbance released from the earth? Was it smoke and dust in the air? Whatever the reason, long-range telepathy was impeded in this locality.

“Last mindcall was over there,” observed the prairiecat, his good ear twitching in the direction of the wall of rock that had been vomited from the bowels of the plateau only a short distance from Noplis.

“Then we can’t follow,” moaned the bard, “and the other way lies certain death.” The wall of fire was a safe distance from them, but how much longer that would last neither dared venture a guess.

“We must find another route or perish,” said Flatear, already moving with grace and precision along the side of the new barrier. “There needs be an opening somewhere,” insisted the cat. “Help me look, two-legs.”

Well into the afternoon they searched, the inferno blazing nearer, a reminder of the urgency of their plight. There was little opportunity for the exchange of bantering words, and no breath was wasted. Search, hope, move swiftly ... or die.

It wasn’t exactly friendship that was formed by the ordeal, but there was a lessening of enmity. Treating a companion as an enemy is a luxury that danger does not allow.

The fire crept nearer, hot and hungry for them; the wall of rock remained impervious; the great eye of the sun was ever more occluded by the shroud of dust. Over and over, Noplis said a silent prayer: Let me not lose courage before this brave prairiecat. He had not even noticed that his prayer had changed from a screaming, hysterical plea of: Get me out of here!

They found a dead mountain pony. All they could salvage of his gear was a coil of rope. As Noplis worked at this task, he received a surprise. “Two-legs,” beamed Flatear, his tongue hanging from his mouth, perspiring, “if I don’t have another chance to tell you truly, I like one thing about your songs.”

“You do?” asked Noplis, a sudden weight removed from his heart.

“You pronounce names correctly.”

* * *

The Judge had been in a bad humor. Earthquakes tended to do that to him. The last occasion he had felt this way had been four hundred years earlier, during the submergence of Florida. Between his phenomenal memory and love of history, it was natural that he had made the joke: “Well, this will put a real dent in the tourist industry.” Alas, the technicians at the Center were no more likely to laugh at his humor than were the vaguely human forms that made up his new community, but at least he didn’t expect anything from the latter.

His mood was instantly lightened by glad tidings. “We’ve found Milo-men,” said a Ganik, using a term that his master had taught him.

“Splendid! At times like this, nothing is so welcome as a trial.”

The closet in which he kept his handmade vestments and favorite mirror (a floor-length one) had survived the tremors. Hurrying there, he eagerly reached out clawlike hands to fondle a moldy black robe—-yet another reason to be grateful that his olfactory senses didn’t work—and draped the garment around his bony frame. Even more absurd was the makeshift wig, once the working end of an old mop. One had to make do. Outfitted in the splendor of his office, he proceeded to court.

Bigboy always had trouble entering what had been the operations room a millennium ago but now served as the courtroom. Once inside, there was ample room for him; but despite a sloppy job of enlargement, the doorway still represented a tight squeeze. When there was to be a trial, the giant knew that the Judge would insist on his playing the role of something called “Abailiff.” Bigboy stood close to the olive-green wall, and waited.

Von was standing in the center of the room. When he closed his eyes, little sparkles of light danced behind the lids, and his balance was uncertain. How delightful it would be to simply lie down upon the hard floor . . . and sleep forever. With a start, he opened his eyes. No, he would not succumb; through force of will he would be as formidable as ever. The enemy would not claim his people or himself while life beat within the veins of any member of the Horseclans.

Yet no amount of bravado could completely remove the sour memories of being brought into this Hold. Down a flight of metal stairs, assailed by the stench of shaggy men’s unwashed bodies—so concentrated that it was indescribably revolting—they had been forced to march. Their weapons and supplies were dumped in a pile at the foot of the stairs. The scene was bathed in merciless white light from the ceiling. This made it more of a torment, because it was all too easy to see the shaggies clearly; and some of the Ganik females, with an even more noxious odor than their mates, poked and prodded them. Disarmed and surrounded by such as these, Von had to wonder if he had made the right decision. The machine gun remained a persuasive argument.

The sound of a dull thud attracted his attention. Berti had collapsed at Terrell’s feet. “Let me help,” said Ethera, but before she could take a step, a swarm of Ganiks surrounded the fallen man and made off with him. There was nothing Terrell could do, but he tried nonetheless. His attempt to hold on to his friend was met by one hamhock of a hand lifting him by the shoulders. Bigboy was the most alert giant Von had ever seen.

“Bigboy!” shouted Von. “Tell your chief Judge that should butchery befall our kinsman, he will answer to me, anon.”

The laughter of these part-men is said to be able to curdle milk. Von had to agree with that assessment as he listened to them snort and snuffle in a parody of mirth.

When the Judge entered the room, there was an end to levity. Von could see why. On first sight, there was little that could be more startling than the human monster that addressed the assembly: “In honor of our guests, I will speak in their language. Translations are available upon request. Now, which one of you is the theologian?” Nothing amused the Judge more than bafflement on the part of others. “Come, come, 1 mean the one of your group who knew about the Ganik demon, Plooshuhn, that forbids these, my children, to smelt ore or work bronze.”

Bigboy pointed to Terrell, who maintained a stony silence. “That’s all right,” said the Judge. “I don’t expect cooperation. Are you impressed that my giant remembers you? Of all the monsters I’ve collected in Muhkohee lands, he’s my favorite. He’s smarter than my children, if truth be told.” Here the Judge pointed first to a small band of large, hairless

Ganiks, then to the far larger number of small, hair-covered

ones.

“What are you?” asked Von, his voice a threat.

“You are the leader of your side; I the leader of mine.” “Ganiks don’t have leaders, just bullies, until they fall and are eaten,” said Terrell.

“Bravo, the scholar breaks his silence. 1 am flattered that you contribute to the discussion. 1 am their leader. Perhaps it is due to my being a special envoy from one of their gods. Why, I even chat with Kahlohdjee, chief of their deities, now and again. The future belongs to the Ohrgahnikahnsehrva-shuhnee. As for this theological question, you don’t appreciate the subtle nuances of High Church Ganik worship. They are not allowed to make anything interesting; but they are allowed to steal and use interesting things made by other people. In the long-ago days, they would have found many professions suited to these nice distinctions.”