"What do you think of their warning?"
Sand was building up around the otter's feet, and he
kicked angrily at it. "They were both scared. Wot of I
couldn't say, but scared they were. I think we'd better
listen to 'em and get a move on. Make Redrock by
nightfall, they said. If they can do it, so can we. Let's get
to it."
They began to jog, keeping up a steady pace and taking
turns in the lead. They barely paused to eat and made
lavish use of their water. The more they drank, the less
there was to carry, and if the warning was as significant as
it had seemed, they would have to drink in Redrock that
night or not drink at all.
As for the nature of the menace, that began to manifest
itself as they ran.
It was evening, and still no sign of the city, nor of the
caravan, which had far outdistanced them. The sand was
moving rapidly now, threatening to engulf their feet every
time they paused to catch their breath.
At first he thought he was sinking. A quick glance
revealed the truth. The ground behind them was rising. It
was as. if they were running inland from a beach and the
beach was pursuing, a steadily mounting tidal wave of
sand. He thought about turning and trying to scramble to
the crest of the granular wave. What stopped him was the
possibility that on the other side they might find only
another, even higher surge.
So they ran on, their lungs heaving, legs aching. Once
Mudge stumbled and they had to pull him to his feet while
the sand clutched eagerly at his legs.
When he fell a second time, he tried to wave them off. It
was as if his seemingly inexhaustible energy had finally
given out.
" 'Tis no use, lad. I can't go on anymore. Save your-
selves." He fluttered weakly with a paw.
Jon-Tom used the pause to catch his wind. "You're
right, Mudge," he finally declared. "That's the practical
thing to do. I'll always remember how nobly you died."
He turned to go on. Roseroar gave him a questioning look
but decided not to comment.
A handful of sand struck Jon-Tom on the back of the
neck. "Noble, me arse! You would've left me 'ere, wouldn't
you? Left poor old Mudge to die in the sand!"
Jon-Tom grinned, took care to conceal it from the
apoplectic otter. "Look, mate. I'm tired, too, and I'm
damned if I'm going to carry you."
The otter staggered after his companions. "I suppose you
think it's funny, don't you, you 'ypocritical, angular bastard?"
Jon-Tom fought not to laugh. For one thing, he couldn't
spare the wind. "Come off it, Mudge. You know we
wouldn't have left you."
"Oh, wouldn't you, now? Suppose I 'adn't gotten up to
follow you, eh? Wot then? 'Ow do I knows you would've
come back for me?"
"It's a moot point, Mudge. You were just trying to hitch
a ride."
"I admit nothin'." The otter pushed past him, taking the
lead, his short, stubby legs moving like pistons.
"A strange one, yoah fuzzy little friend," Roseroar
whispered to Jon-Tom. She matched her pace to his.
"Oh, Mudge is okay. He's a lazy, lying little cheat, but
other than that he's a prince."
Roseroar considered this. "Ah believes the standards o'
yoah world must be somewhat different from mine."
214
Alan Dean Foster
"Depends on what part of my culture you come from.
Mudge, for example, would be right at home in a place
called Hollywood. Or Washington, D.C. His talents would
be much in demand."
Roseroar shook her head. "Those names have no meanuT
fo me."
"That's okay. They don't for a lot of my contemporaries,
either."
The sand continued to rise behind them, mounting
toward the darkening sky. At any moment the wave might
crest, to send tons of sand tumbling over them, swallowing
them up. He tried not to think of that, tried to think of
anything except lifting his legs and setting one foot down
ahead of the other. When the angle of the dune rising in
their wake became sharper than forty-five degrees the sand
would be rushing at them so rapidly they would be hard
put to keep free of its grasp.
All around them, in both directions as far as they could
see, the desert was climbing for the stars. He could only
wonder at the cause. The Conjunction, the pack rat had
said. The moon was up now, reaching silvery tendrils
toward the panting, desperate refugees. At moonrise, the
rat told him. But when would the critical moment come?
Now, in minutes, or at midnight? How much time did they
have left?
Then Roseroar was shouting, and a cluster of hills
became visible ahead of them. As they ran on, the outlines
of the hills sharpened, grew regular and familiar: Redrock,
so named for the red sandstone of which its multistoried
towers and buildings had been constructed. In the first
moonlight and the last rays of the sun the city looked as if
it were on fire.
Now they found themselves among other stragglers—
some on foot, others living in free association with camels
and burros. Some snapped frantic whips over the heads of
dray lizards.
Several ostrich families raced past, heavy backpacks
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
215
strapped to their useless wings. They carried no passen-
gers. Nor did the family of cougars that came loping in
from the north, running on hind legs like Roseroar. Bleating
and barking, honking and complaining, these streams of
divergent life came together in pushing, shoving lines that
struggled to enter the city.
"We're going to make it!" he shouted to his compan-
ions as they merged with the rear of the mob. He was
afraid to look back lest an avalanche of brown-and-yellow
particles prove him a fatal liar. His throat felt like the
underside of the hood of a new Corvette after a day of
drag-racing, but he didn't dare stop for a drink until they
were safely inside the city walls.
Then the ground fell away beneath him.
They were on a bridge, and looking down he could see
through the cracks in the wood. The lumber to build it
must have come from distant mountains. There was no
bottom to the moat, a black ring encircling the city.
His first thought was that Redrock had been built on a
hill in the center of some ancient volcanic crater. A glance
at the walls of the moat proved otherwise. They were too
regular, too smooth, and too vertical to have been fashioned
by hand. Something had dug the awesome ring. Who or
what, he could not imagine.
Thick smells and heavy musk filled the air around him.
The bridge seemed endless, the gaps between the heavy
timbers dangerously wide. If he missed a step and put a
leg through, he wouldn't fall, but he would be trampled by
the anxious mass of life crowding about him.
Once within the safety of the city walls, the panic
dissipated. Lines of tall guards clad in yellow shepherded
the exhausted flow of refugees into the vast courtyard
beyond the gate. There were no buildings within several
hundred yards of the wall and the moat just beyond. A
great open space had been provided for all who sought
shelter from the rising sands. How often did this phenom-
216
Alan Dean Foster
enon take place? The camel and the pack rat hadn't said,
but it was obviously a regular and predictable occurrence.
"I have to see what's going on outside," he told
Roseroar. She nodded, towering above most of the crowd.
Tents had been set up in expectation of the flood of
refugees. Jon-Tom and his companions were among the
last to enter, but they had interests other than shelter.