Dragon Wing

19

Jarre waited impatiently for the Kicksey-Winsey to slowly and laboriously wind up the cable from which dangled the help-hand. Occasionally, if some other Geg happened by, she would pull her scarf low over her face and stare with intense and frowning interest at a large round glass case in which lived a black arrow that did practically nothing all its life but hover uncertainly between a great many black lines all marked with strange and obscure symbols. The only thing the Gegs knew about this black arrow—known fondly as the pointy-finger—was that when it flopped over into the area where the black lines all turned red, the Gegs ran for their lives.

This night the pointy-finger was behaving, giving no indication that it was about to unleash blasting gusts of steam that would parboil any Geg caught within reach. Tonight everything was fine, just fine. The wheels were turning, the gears shifting, the cogs cogging. Cables came up and went down. The dig-claws deposited their loads of ore into carts pushed by the Gegs, who dumped the contents into the gigantic maw of the Kicksey-Winsey, which chewed up the ore, spit out what it didn’t want, and digested the rest. Most of the Gegs working tonight were members of WUPP. During the day, one of their crew had sighted the dig-claw with Limbeck’s L on it. By extraordinary good fortune, the claw belonged to the part of the Kicksey-Winsey located near the capital city of Wombe. Jarre, traveling—with the aid of WUPP members—by flashraft, had arrived in time to meet her beloved and renowned leader. All the dig-claws had come up except one which appeared to have broken down on the isle below. Jarre left her supposed work station and came over to join the other Gegs, peering anxiously down into the gap—a large shaft that had been bored straight through the coralite isle, opening out onto the sky below. Occasionally Jarre glanced around nervously, for she wasn’t supposed to be on this work crew, and if she was caught, there would be a lot of explaining to do. Fortunately, other Gegs rarely came into the help-hand area, doing so only if there was trouble with one of the claws. She looked up uneasily at the carts being rolled around on the level above her.

“Don’t worry,” said Lof. “If anyone looks down here, they’ll just think we’re helping to fix a claw.”

Lof was a comely young Geg. He admired Jarre immensely and hadn’t been exactly deeply grieved to hear of Limbeck’s execution. Lof squeezed Jarre’s hand and seemed inclined to hang on to it, but Jarre needed her hand herself and took it back.

“There it is!” she cried excitedly, pointing down into the gap. “That’s it!”

“You mean that thing that just got struck by lightning?” asked Lof hopefully.

“No!” Jarre snapped. “I mean yes, but it wasn’t hit.” They could all see the help-hand, clutching its bubble, rising up out of the gap. Never before had it seemed to Jarre that the Kicksey-Winsey was so slow. Several times she wondered if it hadn’t broken down, and looked at the giant winder-upper, only to see it crankily winding away.

And, at length, the help-hand rose up into the Kicksey-Winsey. The winder-upper screeched to a halt, the gap closed beneath the hand with a rumble, floor plates sliding across to provide safe footing.

“It’s him! It’s Limbeck!” exclaimed Jarre, who could see a blurry blob through the glass of the bubble that was streaming with rain.

“I’m not sure,” said Lof dubiously, still clinging to a fragment of hope.

“Does Limbeck have a tail?”

But Jarre didn’t hear. She rushed across the floor before the gap had quite closed all the way, the other Gegs hastening after her. Reaching the door, she began to yank on it impatiently.

“It won’t open!” she cried, panicked.

Lof, sighing, reached up and turned the handle.

“Limbeck!” shrieked Jarre, and jumped inside the bubble, only to tumble out again with undue haste.

There came from inside a loud and unfriendly-sounding wuff. The Gegs, noting Jarre’s pale face, backed away from the bubble.

“What is it?” questioned one.

“A d-dog, I think,” stammered Jarre.

“Then it’s not Limbeck?” said Lof eagerly.

A weak voice came from inside.

“Yes, it’s me! The dog’s all right. You startled it, that’s all. It’s worried about its master. Here, give me a hand. This bubble’s a tight fit with all of us in here.”

Tips of fingers could be seen waggling from the door. The Gegs glanced at each other apprehensively and, with one accord, took another step back. Jarre paused expectantly, looking for help from each Geg in turn. Each Geg, in turn, looked at the winder-upper or the munching-chopper or the rumble-floor—anywhere but at the bubble that had wuffed.

“Hey, help me get out of this thing!” shouted Limbeck. Her lips pursed together in a straight line that boded no good for anyone, Jarre marched up to the bubble and inspected the hand. It looked like Limbeck’s hand—ink stains and all. Somewhat gingerly she grasped hold of it and tugged. Lof’s hopes were dashed, once and for all, when Limbeck—face flushed and sweating—appeared in the doorway.

“Hullo, my dear,” said Limbeck, shaking hands with Jarre, completely ignoring, in his distraction, that she had held her face up to be kissed. Stepping out of the bubble, he immediately turned back around and appeared to be entering it again.

“Here, now help me get him out,” he called from inside, his voice echoing weirdly.

“Who’s him?” asked Jarre. “The dog? Can’t it get out by itself?” Limbeck turned around to beam at them. “A god!” he said triumphantly. “I’ve brought back a god!”

The Gegs stared at him in amazed and suspicious silence.

Jarre was the first to recover her power of speech. “Limbeck,” she said sternly, “was that really necessary?”

“Why, uh . . . yes! Yes, of course!” he answered, somewhat taken aback. “You didn’t believe me. Here, help me get him out. He’s hurt.”

“Hurt?” demanded Lof, seeing, once more, hope glimmer. “How can a god be hurt?”

“Aha!” shouted Limbeck, and it was such a mighty and powerful “Aha” that poor Lof was blown off the track and was completely, finally, and forever out of the race. “That’s my point!” Limbeck vanished back into the bubble. There was some difficulty with the dog, which was standing in front of its master and growling. Limbeck was more than a little concerned at this. He and the dog had developed an understanding on the ride up in the bubble. But this understanding—that Limbeck would remain unmoving in his corner and the dog wouldn’t rip out his throat—didn’t seem likely to be useful in placating the animal and persuading him to move. “Nice doggy’s” and “There’s a good boy’s” didn’t get him anywhere. Desperate, fearful his god would die, Limbeck attempted to reason with the beast.

“Look,” he said, “we don’t want to hurt him. We want to help him! And the only way we can help him is to get him out of this contraption and to a place where he’ll be safe. We’ll take very good care of him, I promise.” The dog’s growling lessened; the animal was watching the Geg with what appeared to be wary interest. “You can come along. And if anything happens that you don’t like, then you can rip out my throat!”

The dog cocked his head to one side, ears erect, listening intently. When the Geg concluded, the dog regarded him gravely.

I’ll give you a chance, but remember that I still have my teeth.

“It says it’s all right,” shouted Limbeck happily.

“What says?” demanded Jarre when the dog, jumping lightly out of the bubble, landed on the floor at Limbeck’s feet.

The Gegs instantly scrambled for cover, dodging behind those parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that seemed likely to be proof against sharp fangs. Only Jarre held her ground, determined not to desert the man she loved, no matter what the danger. The dog wasn’t the least bit interested in the quivering Gegs, however. Its attention was centered completely on its master.

“Here!” panted Limbeck, tugging at the god’s feet. “You get this end, Jarre. I’ll take his head. There, carefully. Carefully. That’s got him, I think.” Having braved the dog, Jarre felt equal to anything, even hauling gods around by their feet. Casting a withering glance at her cowardly compatriots, she grasped hold of the god’s leather boots and tugged. Limbeck guided the limp body out of the bubble, catching hold of the shoulders when they appeared. Together the Gegs eased the god onto the floor.

“Oh, my,” said Jarre softly, her fear forgotten in pity. She touched the gash on his head with a gentle hand. Her fingers came away covered with blood.

“He’s hurt awfully bad!”

“I know,” said Limbeck anxiously. “And I had to handle him kind of roughly, dragging him out of his ship before the dig-claw smashed him to bits.”

“His skin’s icy cold. His lips are blue. If he were a Geg, I’d say he was dying. But maybe gods are supposed to look like that.”

“I don’t think so. He didn’t look like that when I first saw him, just after his ship crashed. Oh, Jarre, he just can’t die!”

The dog, hearing the compassion in Jarre’s voice and seeing her touch his master soothingly, gave her hand a swipe with his tongue and looked up at her with pleading brown eyes.

Jarre was startled at first at feeling the wet slurp, then relaxed. “Why, there, don’t worry. It’s going to be all right,” she said softly, reaching out and timidly giving the animal a pat on the head. He suffered her to do so, flattening his ears and wagging his bushy tail ever so slightly.

“Do you think it will be?” asked Limbeck in deep concern.

“Of course! Look, his eyelids are moving.” Briskly Jarre swung around and began giving orders. “The first thing to do is get him someplace warm and quiet where we can take care of him. It’s almost time for scrift change. We don’t want anyone to see him—”

“We don’t?” interrupted Limbeck.

“No! Not until he’s well and we’re ready to answer questions. This will be a great moment in the history of our people. We don’t want to spoil it by rushing into anything. You and Lof go get a litter—”

“A litter? The god won’t fit on a litter,” Lof pointed out sulkily. “His legs’ll hang over the edge and his feet’ll drag the floor!”

“That’s true.” Jarre wasn’t accustomed to dealing with a person whose body was so long and narrow. She paused, frowning, when suddenly a clanging gong sounding very loudly caused her to glance around in alarm. “What’s that?”

“They’re going to be opening the floor!” Lof gasped.

“What floor?” inquired Limbeck curiously.

“This floor!” Lof pointed at the metal plates beneath their feet.

“Why? Oh, I see.” Limbeck looked upward at the dig-claws that had dumped their load and were being readied to descend into the gap to fetch up another.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Lof said urgently. Sidling up to Jarre, he whispered, “Let the god stay. When the floor opens, he’ll drop back into the air where he came from. His dog too.”

But Jarre wasn’t paying attention. She was watching the carts trundle along overhead.

“Lof!” she said excitedly, grabbing hold of him by his beard and yanking—a habit she had acquired when dealing with Limbeck and one she found difficult to break. “Those carts! The god will fit inside one of those! Hurry! Hurry!” The floor was beginning to vibrate ominously, and anything was better than having his beard pulled out by the roots. Lof nodded and ran off with the other Gegs to acquire an empty cart.

Jarre wrapped the god snugly in her own cloak. She and Limbeck dragged him away from the center of the floor, as close to the edge as they could possibly get. By this time, Lof and company had returned with the cart, rolling it down the steep ramp that connected the bottom level with the one above. The gong sounded again. The dog whined and barked. Either the noise hurt its ears or it sensed the danger and was urging the Gegs on. (Lof insisted it was the first. Limbeck argued it was the second. Jarre ordered them both to shut up and work.)

Between them, the Gegs managed to drag the body of the god into the cart. Jarre swaddled the god’s injured head in Lof’s cloak (Lof seemed inclined to protest, but a smack on the cheek delivered by a nervous and exasperated Jarre brought him around). The gong sounded a third time. Cables creaking and screeching, the dig-claws began to descend. The floor rumbled and started to open. The Gegs, all but losing their footing, lined up in back of the cart and gave a great heave. The cart leapt forward and rolled up the ramp, the Gegs sweating and straining behind it, the dog running around their feet and nipping at their heels.

Gegs are strong, but the cart was made of iron and quite heavy, not to mention that it had the added weight of the god inside. It had never been intended to travel a ramp used mainly by Gegs, and it was far more inclined to roll down the ramp than up it.

Limbeck, noting this, had vague thoughts of weight, inertia, and gravity and would have undoubtedly developed another law of physics had he not been in dire peril of his life. The floor was gaping wide open beneath them, the dig-claws were thundering down into the void, and there came one particularly tense moment when it seemed that the Gegs couldn’t hold on and that the cart must win and end up carrying Gegs, god, dog, and all into the gap.

“Now, once more, together!” grunted Jarre. Her stout body was braced against the cart, her face fiery red from the exertion. Limbeck, beside her, wasn’t much help, being naturally weak anyway and further weakened by his grueling experience. But he was valiantly doing what he could. Lof was flagging and seemed about to give up.

“Lof,” gasped Jarre, “if it starts to roll back, put your foot under the wheel!”

This command from his leader gave Lof, who was naturally flat-footed but saw no reason to carry it to extremes, extra incentive. Strength renewed, he put his shoulder to the cart, gritted his teeth, shut his eyes, and gave a mighty shove. The cart surged forward with such force that Limbeck fell to his knees and slid halfway down the ramp before he could manage to stop himself. The cart popped over the top of the ramp. The Gegs tumbled, exhausted, to the floor of the upper level, and the dog licked Lof’s face—much to that Geg’s consternation. Limbeck crawled up the ramp on his hands and knees and, reaching the top, sank down in a swoon.

“This is all I need!” Jarre muttered in exasperation.

“I’m not hauling him around too!” protested Lof bitterly. He was beginning to think that his father had been right and that he should never have involved himself in politics.

A vicious tug on his beard and a sound smack on the cheek brought Limbeck to semi-consciousness. He began babbling something about inclines and planes, but Jarre told him to keep quiet and make himself useful by picking up the dog and hiding it in the cart with its master.

“And tell it to keep quiet, too!” Jarre commanded. Limbeck’s eyes opened so wide that it seemed they might fall out of his head.

“M-me? P-pick up th-that—”

But the dog, seeming to understand, solved the problem by jumping lightly into the cart, where it curled up at its master’s feet.

Jarre took a peep at the god and reported that he was still alive and looked somewhat better now that he was wrapped up in the cloaks. The Gegs covered his body with small chunks of coralite and various debris that the Kicksey-Winsey let fall from time to time, tossed a gunnysack over the dog, and headed the cart for the nearest exit.

No one stopped them. No one demanded to know why they were shoving an ore cart through the tunnels. No one wanted to know where they were going or what they were going to do once they got there. Jarre, grinning wearily, said it was all for the best. Limbeck, sighing, shook his head and pronounced this lack of curiosity a sad commentary on his people.