they were down among trees and bushes, and snow was only
a fading memory.
Jon-Tom slowed his pace to stay alongside Clothahump.
The wizard was in excellent spirits and showed no ill effects
from the past weeks of marching.
"Sir?"
"Yes, my boy?" Eyes looked up at him through the thick
glasses. Abruptly Jon-Tom felt uncomfortable. It had seemed
so simple a while ago when he'd thought of it, a mere
question. Now it fought to hide in his throat.
"Well, sir," he finally got out, "among my people there's
a certain mental condition."
"Go on, boy."
"It has a common name. It's called a death wish."
"That's interesting," said Clothahump thoughtfully. "I
presume it refers to someone who wishes to die."
Jon-Tom nodded. ' 'Sometimes the person isn't aware of it
himself and it has to be pointed out to him by another. Even
then he may not believe it."
They walked on a while longer before he added, "Sir, no
disrespect intended, but do you think you might have a death
wish?"
"On the contrary, my boy," replied the wizard, apparently
not offended in the least, "I have a life wish. I'm only putting
myself into danger to preserve life for others. That hardly
means I want to relinquish my own."
"I know, sir, but it seems to me that you've taken us from
206
THE HOUR Of THE GATS
one danger to another only to take successively bigger risks.
In other words, the more we survive, the more you seem to
want to chance death."
"A valid contention based solely on the evidence and your
personal interpretation of it," said Clothahump. "You ignore
one thing: I wish to survive and live as much as any of you."
"Can you be certain of that, sir? After all, you've already
lived more than twice a normal human lifetime, a much fuller
life than any of the rest of us." He gestured at the others.
"Would it pain you so much to die?"
"I follow your reasoning, my boy. You're saying that I am
willing to risk death because I've already had a reasonable
life and therefore have less than you to lose."
Jon-Tom didn't reply.
"My boy, you haven't lived long enough to understand
life. Believe me, it is more precious to me now because I
have less of it. I guard every day jealously because I know it
may be my last. I don't have less to lose than you: I have
more to lose."
"I just wanted to be sure, sir."
"Of what? The reasons for my decisions? You can be, boy.
They are founded upon a single motivation: the need to
prevent the Plated Masses from annihilating civilization.
Even if I did want to die, I would not do so until I had
expended every bit of energy in my body to prevent that
conflagration from destroying the warmlands. I might kill
myself if I suffered from the aberration you suggest, but only
after I'd saved everyone else."
"That's good to hear, sir." Jon-Tom felt considerably
relieved.
"There is one thing that has been troubling me a little,
however."
"What's that, sir?"
"Well, it's most peculiar." The wizard looked up at him.
207
Alan Dean Foster
"But you see, I'm not at all certain that I remember the
formula for preparing our disguises."
Jon-Tom hesitated, frowned. "Surely we can't enter Cugluch
without them, sir?"
"Of course not," agreed Clothahump cheerfully. "I sug-
gest therefore that you consider some appropriate spellsongs.
You have seen one of the Plated Folk. That is what we must
endeavor to look like."
"I don't know if..."
"Try, my boy," said the wizard in a more serious tone,
"for if you cannot think of anything and I cannot remember
the formula, then I fear we will be forced to give up this
attempt."
Though he worked at it for the next several days, Jon-Tom
was unable to think of a single appropriate tune. Insects were
not a favorite subject for groups whose music he knew by
heart, such as Zepplin or Tull, Queen or the Stones or even
the Beatles, who, he felt sure, had written at least one song
about everything. He searched his memory, went through the
few classical pieces he knew, jumped from Furry Lewis to
Periin Husky to Foreigner without success.
The dearth of material was understandable, though. Love
and sex and money and fame were far more attractive song
subjects than bugs. The thinking helped to kill the time and
made the march more tolerable.
Never once did it occur to him that Clothahump might
have invented the request simply in order to keep Jon-Tom's
mind on harmless matters.
Three more days passed before they reached the outskirts
of the vast, festering lowlands that formed the Greendowns.
They rested on a slope and munched nuts, berries, and lizard
jerky while studying the fog and mist that enshrouded the
lands of the Plated Folk.
Conifers had surrendered the soil to hardwoods. These now
208
THE HOUR OF Tm GATE
fought to assert their dominance over palms and baobabs,
succulents and creepers. Occasionally a strange cry or whistle
would rise from the mist.
Jon-Tom finished his meal and stood, his leathern pants
sticking to his legs from the humidity. To the west towered
the snow-crowned crags of Zaryt's Teeth. It was difficult to
believe that a pass broke that towering rampart. It lay some-
where to the southwest of their present position. At its far end
was the Jo-Troom Gate and beyond that, a section of Swordsward
and bustling, friendly Polastrindu.
His own home was somewhat more distant, a trillion miles
away on the other side of time, turn right at the rip in the
fabric of space and take the fourth-dimensional offramp.
He turned. Clothahump was busy with wizard's business.
Pog assisted him.
"We'd better come up with something." Talea had moved
to stand next to him, stood looking down into the mist. "We
go down there looking like ourselves and we'll be somebody's
supper before the day's out."
"Aye, that's the truth, lass," agreed Mudge. " 'E'U 'ave t'
make us look like a choice slice o' 'ell."
"He already has, I think," was Caz's comment. "You'd
better straighten your antenna. The left one is pointing back-
ward instead of forward."
"I'll do that." Mudge reached up and was in the middle of
straightening the errant sensor when he suddenly realized
what had happened. " 'Cor, but that was quick!"
Clothahump rejoined them. Rather, they were joined by a
squat, pudgy beetle that sounded something like Clothahump.
Pale red compound eyes inspected them each in turn. Four
arms crossed over the striated abdomen.
"What do you think, my friends? Have I solved the
problem and allayed your fears, or not?"
When the initial shock finally wore off, they were able to
209
Alan Dean Foster
take more careful stock of themselves. The disguises seemed
foolproof. Talea, Ror, Mudge, and the rest now resembled
giant versions of things Jon-Tom usually smashed underfoot.
The middle set of arms moved in tandem with their owners
actual ones. Pog had turned into a giant flying beetle.
"Is that really you in there, Jon-Tom?" The thing with
Hor's voice ran a clawed hand over the pale blue chitin
encasing him.
"I think so." He looked down at himself, noted with
astonishment the multijointed legs, the smooth undercurve of
abdomen, the peculiar wave-shaped sword at his hip.
"Not too uncomfortable, my boy?"
Jon-Tom looked admiringly at the squat beetle. "It's a
wonderful job, sir. I feel like I'm inside a suit of armor, yet