Lankar of Callisto

Chapter 6 THE BOY IN THE SPIDER-WEB

The result of this adventure was that we had elephantboar steak for lunch that afternoon. And it wasn’t half bad!

As things turned out, neither Bozo nor I were half as bunged up as I had thought we were going to be. Bozo’s thick hide covers a layer of healthy fat or gristle, drawn like a tough, rubbery sheath over steelspring muscles. Flying loose with his jaws locked in the vastodon’s spinal cord, he had crashed through enough branches and bushes to have put you or me in a hospital for a month. But for Bozo it was all more or less in a day’s work, and outside of the fact that he had to limp on at least three of his six legs, and had a black eye and a fine collection of cuts and bruises, he was in decent shape, considering the mountain of meat we had killed between the two of us.

As for me, well, I had scrapes and cuts and bruises, too, and one skinned knee and one knee that sent sharp pain lancing through _ me if I wasn’t careful to walk just so. But nothing seemed to be broken and nothing was bruised that wouldn’t heal in a few days, so I decided that I had acquitted myself well enough in the encounter and had come out of the battle in pretty good shape, considering.

Neither one of us was any too limber on his feet, so we made that little clearing between the trees our temporary base. My leaf-apron had been torn off in the battle, so I put together a new suit of Robinson Crusoe do-it-yourselfs while I was resting up from the combat. And then I seriously applied myself to the problem of making fire, since we had about half a ton of raw meat sitting there begging to be turned into sizzling steaks.

Even more than with the fact that I managed to come through that grunting, squealing, roaring, bloody battle with flying colors, and got in a few shrewd licks of my own, the last of which seemed to have broken the vastodon’s skull, I am impressed with the fact that I actually made fire. This seems to me my greatest single accomplishment on Callisto, although opinions vary on this point, and both Taran and Glypto, to say nothing of Zantor, are more impressed by my almost impossible feat of making friends with a wild othode. The winning of Bozo does not impress me as being such a feat as my friends think. My wife will tell you that I have a wonderful way with dogs, and can turn a waryeyed German shepherd with half-bared teeth into a wriggling bundle of eager friendliness by just speaking to it in a warm, low, confidential tone for a few moments; and all through my boyhood I was frightening my mother silly by walking up to strange dogs on the street and making friends of them before she could think to call me back.

No, winning over Bozo wasn’t so hard. In fact it was easy. He gave his love to me, actually; I didn’t even have to win it. But making fire in the wilderness was an accomplishment in which I take pardonable pride.

There were flinty-looking, jag-edged, broken stones protruding from a slope where rain water or general erosion had eaten away the topsoil, exposing shale. I tried knocking some of these together and occasionally struck sparks. Then, digging around under the trees for dry grasses and dead, crisp leaves, I made a pile of these and built a sort of wobbly teepee atop them with twigs and broken branches. Then it took patience to strike sparks again and again into the crisp leaves until at last one of the sparks caught. And when it did I nursed it along by the simple expedient of blowing upon it; finally the whole bonfire went up like a mass of tinder and for a few minutes there I thought we had a forest fire on our hands.

All the while Bozo sat there, regarding my actions curiously, head tipped first on one side and then on the other, watching me make magic. I was half-afraid the fire would frighten him into retreat and that I was going to have to spend the rest of that day trying to coax him out of the woods, but such was not the case. Although he seemed to have a healthy respect for my fire, and treated it with caution, he did not seem particularly afraid of it.

Then, trimming off fallen branches, I finagled together a standing frame out of four lengths of wood whose ends were buried in holes dug in the ground with a pointed stick and then wedged in firmly, the raw earth patted down good and hard. Using the jagged pieces of broken stone, I sawed with considerable labor through the leathery hide of the vastodon, and hacked off some crude chunks of meat which came away in pieces rather than in nice steak-sized slabs. These I stuck on a long thin branch, making a sort of shishkebab out of them. Then all I had to do was balance this gobbet-laden stick atop my frame above the fire, and remember to turn it over once in a while until all the pieces were nicely done.

It was delicious, too. And as I relaxed, my back propped up against the slope, my belly full of tough, chewy, but crisp and juicy elephant-boar steak, I paid my compliments to the chef with a hearty and unembarrassed belch. Not bad (thought I) for an ex-Boy Scout who got pulled out of the corps in his first week, when he got hit in the eye by a football!

Bozo, who had filled his own belly in his own way, after one disdainful sniff at the blackened, dripping meat I pried off my cook-pole with gingerly fingers, relaxed beside me, urping a little from time to time, staring into the fire, blinking sleepily, lazily enjoying having the loose flesh behind his ears rubbed with greasy fingers.

The old rascal must have decided, when I had said goodbye to him back in the clearing where we had spent the night, that it was not yet time for farewells. He must have known somehow that this was one unathletic amateur Robinson Crusoe who genuinely needed a Dog Friday. And he must have followed my trail all that day, creeping through the brush behind me, alert for danger. Had it not been so, I would never have survived the charge of the elephant-boar, and I would not be alive now and writing these words. I owed a lot to Bozo―not that he wanted much of anything. It satisfied him just to be near me, just to have me talk to him in that low, warm voice, and it was enough for him to know that I was there when he wanted to have the loose folds of flesh behind his ears rubbed.

I guess there is a lot more pure unadulterated Dog in the genus othode than ever Jandar guessed. He wrote somewhere that they are occasionally domesticated for tracking purposes, just like hunting dogs, although they are not used as pets. Well, maybe so; and maybe the human natives of Callisto have yet to discover the pleasures of keeping pets. When they do, the othode will be ready.

I looked down into his sleepy eyes, wondering at the ease with which I had won his faithful heart. Was it possible he had been a hunting―othode, one already rudely half―domesticated, one already more or less accustomed to the presence and the smell of men? Possibly. I would never know his story, any more than I would ever know the story behind most of the stray dogs Noel or I had rescued from the wintry streets and adopted because they needed a home and ours was open to such as them.

McGurk himself had been a stray, I remembered with a smile. So perhaps Bozo, so McGurklike in many ways, was just another stray. He wore no collar; I would never know.

But we had found each other, and we had made friends. And I would not be alone in the jungle, ever again. Not so long as the loyal, fighting heart of Bozo still beat, strong and true, and those terrible jaws, that now chomped gently and wetly on my wrist because I was no longer petting him and he wanted more, could crush and maim and kill whatever challenged us in our jungle domain.

We spent our second night beside a roaring bonfire that was almost too warm for comfort. And rose, well rested at dawn, to feast on elephant-boar vastodon steak―his raw, mine cooked but cold.

All that third day we continued on our way through the jungles of the Grand Kumala.

Everywhere I looked, I was reminded of the fact that I was on a strange and alien world. If for a moment I forgot it, the next moment would remind me of the fact. I would turn and watch a strange red flower the size of an easychair ripping asunder an immense, ungainly dragonfly-thing the length of my arm with hairy muscular tendrils. Or a long, dragoncrested lizard-creature, green as jade, sunning its fantastic self upon a fallen log, like something in a painting by Roy Krenkel.

Towards midday I turned into a long jungle aisle that stretched dimly before me―only to find Bozo pushing in front of me. I could not understand his curious behavior and admonished him sternly.

“What’s the matter with you? It will be a whole lot easier going down this way, than trying to squeeze through those thorny bushes. Get out of the way, now, Bozo, come on―move!”

Again the great brute interposed his body between me and the way that stretched before me, open and unencumbered. I tried to shove him aside; he turned huge liquid eyes upon me, filled with silent pleading. I began to get bad-tempered with him. Looking back in retrospect, I am ashamed of myself; but my back teeth were aching again, and my nerves were on edge, probably due to the fact that I had been going two days now without fresh coffee or cigarettes, to both of which I am heavily addicted.

Finally, snarling a cuss-word he certainly did not deserve, I got past him and darted into the tunnellike aisle that ran for some distance between regularlyspaced trees. It was dim and cool here in this tunnel of trees, and I enjoyed the relief from sweltering jungle sunlight and moist, humid air thick with the reek of rotting flowers.

Almost at once I ran into the spider-web.

I guess it was a spider-web, but if it was, then the spider who spun it must have been the size of a St. Bernard. Because the web was woven of sticky, glassy-looking strands as thick around as my little finger.

My knee was caught in the web, and, because it was my bad knee, the one I had hurt in the battle with the vastodon, I had to be careful about extricating it from the sticky meshes of the web. So I reached down and pried the web off my skin―or tried to. Because now my fingers were gummed shut, closed on the sticky web. Cursing and struggling a little, I tried to push myself away―and my elbow went through the web, which parted and then snapped back, imprisoning my arm. I kicked and fought to free myself, but to no avail. Finally, I hung there, panting and exhausted, in the grip of the monstrous web.

Bozo waddled forward on his six short bowlegs. He sniffed the sticky strands carefully, not touching them. Then he turned upon me a mournful, commiserating took which said, as plain as words, “If only you had listened to my warning.” He was right, of course; I felt like a fool.

Then the giant othode turned about and waddled into the brush without so much as a backwards glance. And I felt very much alone. I did not blame Bozo for deserting me, for, after all, what could he do to help me out of this predicament? Any attempt to get me free of the sticky embrace of the giant web would only serve to entrap Bozo, as well. But I missed him, and, after a while, growing angry with frustration, began to kick and struggle against the gooey stuff which now enmeshed me from head to foot.

Suddenly, without the slightest warning, a human voice spoke up from some place behind me!

‘S’ringa tuar d’ iorndt adara je ximchakadar.”

I started violently as the youthful voice said these words wearily. Craning my neck about painfully, I saw another web behind me, further up the tunnel of trees, deep in shadow. Therein hung imprisoned a young boy of eleven or twelve, helpless as was I. He was the first human being I had met on this strange world, and I was amazed to see how utterly prosaic, how perfectly ordinary he appeared. Put him in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and he could walk down any street in America without attracting any special attention. He looked, as I have said, to be about eleven, perhaps twelve. He was slimly built, with long coltish legs, a bare chest and sturdy shoulders. His face was boyish, with wide, slightly slanting emerald green eyes under thick lashes, and a full-lipped mouth whose softness was belied by the resolute, manly set of his jaw. He had a thick mop of wild, tangled hair of pure reddish gold, and his skin was a dusky shade of golden tan, rather like a Korean or Vietnamese boy.

He didn’t have much on, a loincloth wound about his middle and hanging down fore and aft, leather thong sandals, and a baldric across his chest from shoulder to hip. From this hung an empty scabbard. Behind him, some feet away, a boy-sized long-sword lay fallen in the matted leaves. From the looks of him, the boy had been enmeshed in the web for many hours-perhaps even a day or two. His bare arms were grimy, and there were dark circles of exhaustion under his bright green eyes, and the stain of tears had dried on his cheeks. His lips looked parched and cracked with thirst.

In a listless, hoarse voice he again repeated the mysterious phrase with which he had first caught my attention.

‘S’ringa tuar d’ iorndt adara je ximchakadar.”

The language in which he spoke was unfamiliar to me―or was it? Among the sequence of incomprehensible sounds one word stood out that made sense to me ximchak. Wasn’t that the Thanatorian word for a species of giant spider which infested the jungle country? Of course―then we were in the web of a ximchak!

I guessed, correctly as it turned out, that what the boy had said to me was “it is useless to struggle against the ximchak-web.”

“I’ve got a hunch I know pretty much what you mean, young fellow,” I said, “but I’m afraid I can’t reply in the same lingo.”

The emerald eyes widened to hear these incomprehensible words pour from my lips. Now the weary listlessness vanished, as he examined me with eyes filled with astonishment, noting my bare skin, paler and pinker than his own dusky golden tan, my blue gray eyes, which must also have been strange to him, and my brown hair and short beard, such an ordinary, unremarkable shade back on Earth, but so rare and unusual here on Callisto.

It came to him suddenly that I posed a real enigma. And a flow of excited language poured from his mouth, of which I understood not one single word. Laughingly, I shook my head, and said, “Boy, I can’t understand a word you’re saying! Let’s see, now, what’s the universal word of greeting here on Thanator? I think it is …” I fumbled, searching my memory; then “Saoma!”

The puzzled expression partially cleared from his brilliant eyes. He grinned, revealing white, even teeth, and said “Saoma, chart!”* Then he indicated himself, by nodding his chin towards his chest, and uttered a short phrase.

“What was that? ‘Taran of the Ku Thad’?” I repeated. He nodded with another bright, eager grin. Although everyone on Callisto speaks the same language, and the very concept of another tongue is thoroughly alien to the Callistans’ experience, the quick-witted boy had taken my unfamiliarity with the language in his stride.

Taran of the Ku Thad! Well, the Ku Thad were the Golden People, the warrior race of Shondakor where over Jandar and Darloona reigned. But … Taran? I grinned, thinking of my friend Lloyd Alexander, and how surprised he would be if I could tell him I had encountered a boy on a distant world with the precise same name as the hero of his Prydain novels. A questioning sound; I looked up to see that the boy was waiting for me to give my name in return. I pronounced it as clearly as I could, but he wrinkled up his little snub nose at the peculiar sound of it.

“H’llan … kar’t? …” he gave it a try.

I repeated my name again, and this time he caught the unfamiliar sound of it more clearly.

“Lan … kar? Lankar!” he said it over a few times to get it right. I shrugged, as much as I could in the grip of the sticky web. I suppose “Lankar” was close enough; I remember the passage in which Jandar describes the difficulty the Callistan natives had with his name, and how to their ears “Jon Dark” sounded like “Jandar.” This being the case, it was only natural that “Lin Carter” would come out sounding something like “Lankar.”

“Okay, Taran, Lankar it is.”

His eyes sparkled. “Saoma, Lankar!”

And Lankar I was to the boy from that moment on … Lankar of Callisto, I thought to myself with a grin!

And then things stopped being funny.

The bushes near the mouth of the tree-tunnel rustled suddenly. I froze, globules of cold sweat ‘popping out on my bare forearms and face. Behind me, the boy sucked in his breath sharply, eyes haunted with fear.

“Ximchaka, chan!” he whispered hollowly.*

Even if I hadn’t already guessed the meaning. of the word, I would have instinctively known it, from the cold horror in the boy’s voice. For that rustling in the bushes, which sounded like a large beast forcing its way through the branches, could have only one explanation!

The dreadful ximchak―the gigantic spiders of the jungle country―were coming to investigate their webs.

And they would find two helpless human beings enmeshed therein―two bound and defenseless captives on which to feed!

Chapter 7 I BEGIN TO LEARN THE LANGUAGE

The red-leafed bushes parted, revealing an immense shape. At the sight of the beast which emerged from the depths of the jungle, the boy cried out sharply in astonishment. I, too, was astonished, but in a different way and for a different reason.

“Bozo!” I exclaimed, delightedly.

For it was indeed the giant othode, and not one of the dreadful spider-monsters. I had assumed, sadly, that Bozo had deserted me, unable to help me out of my predicament. Now I cursed myself for having such a low estimate of the loyalty and affection contained in that great heart. For, instead of leaving me to my own devices, the mighty othode had gone to fetch the means of setting me free!

Somewhere in the depths of the Kumala, Bozo had found a peculiar tree, known to his kind by its smell, as wise old Zastro, the savant and sage of the Ku Thad, explained to me later. The tree is known to the Thanatorians as the yakadar, a name which may be interpreted as the “web-proof” tree. The wood of this tree is slick and smooth, under the bark, which peels off easily; and, once peeled, the wood exudes a quantity of oil which counteracts the adhesive qualities of the ximchak web.

Bozo had gone to find a yakadar tree; finding it, he had torn away one branch of the yakadar in his powerful jaws, and then he had ripped the bark away in long strips, baring one end of the greenish, wet-looking wood, which resembled that of an elm tree of my native world. This accomplished, the faithful brute had retraced his steps to where I hung in the monstrous web, and all the while he had held the branch in his mighty jaws.

I felt ashamed of myself for having dared to think he would desert me, and I told him so.

He looked up at me with adoring love eloquent in those solemn, goggling eyes, and again his hindquarters rippled with that indescribable movement that was the result of trying to wag a tail that wasn’t there. Then he thrust the oily branch full against that portion of the ximchak web which held my arm in its toils.

I watched with fascination as the oily wood brushed against the web-strands. Within mere moments after contact with the oil of the yakadar tree, the strands dulled, blackened, shriveled, and fell away to dust. And my hand was free!

Behind me, Taran chattered out something. I later had reason to understand his astonishment and alarm. It was due to the presence of Bozo, of course. The giant othodes of the jungle country are terrible and dreaded predators in their own right, as mighty and as much to be feared as Bengal tigers. And the notion of a tame and friendly othodeespecially what was evidently a wild othode of the jungle country―was as amazing to Taran as the notion of a tame and friendly tiger of the wilderness would have been to a native of India.

Once my arm was free I carefully took the yakadar branch from Bozo’s mouth and used it to free myself from the grip of the giant web. The miraculous oil that oozed from the slick, greenish wood performed its work admirably, and before long I staggered away .from the web, free at last of its meshes. It was a mighty good feeling, I assure you!

While Bozo crouched watchfully at the mouth of the tunnel, I went further in the dimness to where Taran hung, helplessly spread-eagled in the grip of the second web. The boy watched me, wide-eyed with astonishment. I understood that he regarded me as a magician or some kind of a miracle worker, for who else could bend the savage beasts of the jungle to obey his will? I tried to reassure the wide-eyed boy with a smile and a few quiet words. He could not, of course, have understood the meaning of the words, but something in the tone of voice with which I spoke them must have reassured him, for he relaxed and the fear left his eyes. He regarded me trustfully as I approached and used the yakadar branch to free him.

When the last strand parted, shriveled into a mere vestige and fell away, and he was free, the boy collapsed weakly against me. I scooped him up in my arms and carried him out of the tunnel and set him down, stretched out on the grass in the warm daylight, with his back propped against a tree. He thanked me with a feeble grin and some jabber meaningless to me.

From the fact that the boy was unable to walk I felt pretty sure that he had hung there, crucified against the monster spider-web, for some days. I began rubbing his arms and legs, chafing them briskly, in an attempt to help restore his circulation, talking to him all the while in a low, reassuring voice. I knew my words were as much meaningless jabber to him as were his words to me, but I knew he recognized that I was trying to help him. The boy turned pale and bit his underlip at the pins-and-needles pain of returning circulation, but he was a plucky youngster, and not a sound of protest escaped from him as I kneaded and rubbed his stiff, lame legs.

Before long he was able to hobble about stiffly, with his arm around my waist and my arm around his shoulders. Then I let him rest again, once the numbness had worked out of his limbs, and went off to find water. Bozo, guessing my intent, led me to another gurgling brook, and followed as I carried water back and forth in one of the large, rubbery leaves I had with me from which to fashion new footgear when my old wore out. It took several trips to satisfy Taran’s thirst, and I began to wish I had thought to bring along one of those capacious clamshells.

Once Taran had had his fill of water, I gave him some of the elephant-boar steak to chew on. Before leaving the scene that morning, I had cut off quite a few pieces of cooked vastodon from which to dine later when I grew hungry. It made me smile to see how eagerly Taran devoured the half-burnt, half-raw meat. Then, while I collected my bundle of leaves, found my cudgel and rewrapped what was left of the vastodon meat, the boy limped stiffly into the tunnel of trees again, found his fallen sword and also a light cloak or something like a cloak, which had fallen from him when he had blundered into the web days before.

He then did something charming and very thoughtful by way of thanking me for my assistance. Squatting on his heels, the boy tore open the seams of the cloak by drawing them along the edge of his sword, and quickly and neatly made a loin-cloth for me to use instead of the flimsy and rather useless apron of leaves (which I had lost in my struggles in the ximchak web, by the way). Grinning at my ignorance, the boy demonstrated how to wear this garment, which you wound about your hips and looped between your legs in such a manner as to leave a length of the cloth hanging down in back and in front. I soon got the hang of wearing the thing and thanked him with a word and a smile.

We made slow progress through the jungles during what was left of that day. Taran stuck very close to me, for he was still afraid of Bozo and shy of getting too near the great waddling brute. I believe Bozo was more than a little jealous of my newfound young friend; for he gave voice to a low, warning rumble deep in his heavy chest whenever Taran got too close to him. But the faithful beast made no move to attack the boy, merely tended to avoid him with wary, suspicious glances from time to time.

Taran and I passed the time with language lessons. We threaded a path single file through the trees, with Bozo going first and Taran at my heels. The boy had given me his small sword with a confident grin and a burst of chatter I did not understand, taking my cudgel up for his weapon. Doubtless the boy assumed I was more competent to use the sword than he was―which was incorrect, of course, but he could not know that.

The sword was about three feet from pointed tip to hilt and looked more like a rapier than anything else to which I could assign a name. The blade was thin and sharp, honed to razor keenness on each edge, and made of good, springy steel. It was obviously tailored to the boy’s proportions and looked rather small and unimpressive in my fist, but I bore it with a measure of confidence. It had been too many years since I had last practised with the sword for me to feel very confident of my ability to use it expertly; still, it was a slim, exquisitely balanced weapon of beautiful workmanship and a joy to have in your hand. I strode along the jungle path, feeling like John Carter of Barsoom in my loincloth, my naked sword by my side, thinking: If only Sprague could see me now!

To pass the time, as I have just mentioned, I let Taran tutor me in the universal language of Thanator (his name for the moon Callisto). I am not very good at picking up foreign languages, I’m afraid, but it was very important that Taran and I be able to communicate on a verbal level just as soon as possible, for I was going to need the boy’s help. We spent some hours at it and by the end of the day I was quite surprised at how many Thanatorian words I was able to use. In all honesty it must be admitted that I already had quite a healthy headstart on learning the language of Callisto. Jandar’s manuscripts had given me an acquaintance with something like forty or fifty words, so we had a sketchy but serviceable background on which to rear more complicated linguistic structures. And sign language helped a lot, of course. Even before the language lessons began, I apprised the youngster of my intentions by pointing ahead in the direction I wished to travel and repeating the name Shondakor. He wrinkled up his nose at my pronunciation* but he caught my meaning, and eagerly indicated the correct direction, which was a bit further to the south than I had thought. We headed off in that direction, since it was probable that the boy knew better than I where the city lay.

These language lessons with which we passed the hours of our weary trek, by the way, were pretty rudimentary. I learned the names of trees and flowers, and the Thanatorian words for “walking,” “sword,” and so on. The boy taught me the proper word for various parts of the body by simply pointing to his foot or knee or ear or whatever, and repeating in a clear voice the native word for each appropriate part. As I already knew some words, I picked up a very rough vocabulary surprisingly fast, although of course it was quite a while before I was able to make anything resembling a coherent sentence―and I’m sure I never did manage to get rid of a terribly “Earthian” accent.

Dinner that night consisted of the remnants of the vastodon meat, varied by a number of curious fruits, such as a deliciously sweet and meaty purple-fleshed berry that looked like a kind of prickly-skinned banana, and a large, succulent fruit that resembled a bright red pumpkin, but which tasted almost exactly like a very large and very overripe peach. We camped even before daylight ended and night fell, for I was still stiff and sore from all this unaccustomed exercise, and Taran was still pretty weak from his many hours of imprisonment in the ximchak web.

I tried to make fire again, having carried along in my bundle of leaves two of the flinty stones, but failed. The grasses were too damp and dry leaves were scarce in this part of the jungle. Taran took charge at that point; borrowing the sword he vanished into the depths of thicket, returning with an armful of thorny branches which he began to arrange around the trunk of a large tree in barricade-fashion. For some reason this reminded me of the “thorn-boma” people are always making in the Tarzan books, and I couldn’t help laughing at the sight. Between the two of us, Taran and I gathered enough of these sharp-spined branches to build a waist-high barrier around the base of the tree. There were no masses of dry grass to burrow under, so the youngster and I spent that night cuddled together for warmth while Bozo (still suspicious of the strange boy) kept guard outside the barricade.

Towards the middle of night, though, he must have joined us. For when day came, I awoke to find Taran sound asleep, his tousled head pillowed comfortably on the burly warm shoulder of the great othode, and his arms locked about the chest of the sleeping beast. I grinned at the sight, assuming that from now on, both of my friends would be friends. In this assumption I was right, for beginning’ that night, Bozo displayed no further wariness or suspicion towards the little boy, and defended him as staunchly as he defended me.

The following day we discovered a .wide, shallow pool amidst a jungle clearing. Fed by subterranean springs, the water was crystal clear―and gaspingly cold, as I soon discovered. As I started to make my way around the pool, Taran grabbed my arm, halting me. He jabbered something in his bright, inquisitive voice, pointing at the pool. Then, impatient at my inability to understand his words, the boy illustrated them by kicking off his sandals, dropping his cudgel, stripping off his loincloth and diving in.

He bobbed to the surface, flinging the wet hair out of his eyes, grinning and chattering cheerfully, and began frisking in the shallow water like a hairless monkey. I stood watching him from the edge of the pool, sorely tempted. After days of tromping through the jungle, I was perfectly filthy, my hands muddy paws, my nails black half-moons of grime. And I itched all over! Well, why not, after all? So, while the boy frisked and splashed, I sat down on the bank, removed baldric, footgear and clout, and slid gingerly into the pool.

It was colder even than I had guessed, and clear as glass. For a while I stood there shivering, turning (I am sure) several shades of blue. Finally, summoning up my courage, I immersed myself and, before very long, found the temperature endurable.

Taran showed me how to take a bath in the wild, how to scoop up handfuls of clean white crystalline sand from the bottom of the pond and use the abrasive stuff in lieu of soap, to scrub away the more durable patches of grime. Feeling rather like one of the ancient Romans, who used the same method before the invention of soap, I scrubbed myself with rasping sand until I was fairly clean, if not actually raw in a few places. I found that once you got used to the positively breathtaking coldness of the water, taking a bath, even under such primitive conditions, was a blissful pleasure.

We splashed and scrubbed while Bozo crouched above us on the bank, watching with huge, solemn, slightly puzzled eyes, standing guard. The jungle scene―the naked boy frolicking in the pool―the faithful, guardian beast crouched on the bank above―the whole thing reminded me of an illustration from The Jungle Book, with Taran as Mowgli and Bozo making a passable substitute for Bagheera.

Once we were as clean as we were going to get, we emerged and let the humid air dry our bodies. We assumed our garments and gear and trudged off, feeling clean, refreshed and invigorated, but not without a wistful backwards glance or two at the pool behind us.

Along towards nightfall we hastily took refuge in the upper branches of a huge tree Taran called a borath. The occasion for our precipitous ascent was a prowling yathrib―a monstrously huge, perfect horror of a thing that looked like a gigantic, reptilian version of a tiger―if you can imagine a tiger covered with rippling, scaly hide, armed with a long, whiplike barbed tail, grown to the size of a Percheron and colored an incredible scarlet.

Bozo warned us of the approach of the monster with a rumbling growl which raised my nape-hairs and sent Taran scrambling up the nearest tree. I followed him with no less haste but considerably less agility and we crouched upon an upper branch for what seemed like hours while the tremendous yathrib-looking like something dreamed up by Alex Raymond―prowled about the foot of the tree, menacing us with thunderous roars. I held the shuddering boy tightly, his skinny arms locked around my neck, wishing with all my might for just one hand grenade. Eventually, long after nightfall, the yathrib departed with an audible slithering through the bushes after a more accessible dinner and Bozo, who had seen us safely up the tree before taking to his six heels in a very sensible manner, reappeared, searching for us anxiously.

We climbed out of our tree-top and left the vicinity at top speed, uncertain at every step whether we should have stayed aloft or not. Finally, quite exhausted, we sought refuge for the rest of the night under a thornyleafed bush, since it was much too dark to hope to locate the makings of another “thorn-boma.” I confess to doubting whether or not such a scratchy barricade as the one we had slept behind the night before would even slow down a hungry yathrib, much less stop him in his tracks.

I also confess to getting very little sleep that night. I kept remembering those blazing, mindless eyes, filled with infinite ferocity. And those yawning jaws, lined with more fangs than it seemed could possibly be crammed into one mouth … thoughts hardly conducive to slumber, you will admit.

Taran slept like a log, however. But even Bozo got no sleep, and as I lay awake, pillowed on itchy leaves, shivering in the damp chill, I could hear the great othode padding in circles around us all that night, like a faithful dog, guarding our rest.

Chapter 8 BARIN OF THE JUNGLE LEGION

We managed to cover quite a distance during the next two days. And I must admit, with more than a little pride which seems to me only justifiable under the circumstances, that I was beginning to feel fit and hardy and well able to survive in the wilderness, after my first few miserable days.

I felt stronger and tougher than I had in years, and was able to stride through the underbrush for miles without needing rest. I no longer suffered quite as much as I had at first from the lack of such civilized luxuries as fresh hot coffee and cigarettes―although it took an effort of will to keep my mind off such tempting thoughts, and more than once I woke from dreams of tender, succulent filet mignon, dry martinis, or fresh, fragrant, steaming cups of fresh-brewed Maxwell House. And, as for thoughts of food, I learned that raw fruit, a handful of nuts and berries, and an occasional morsel of vastodon steak may sound like a Spartan diet, but they certainly satisfy the inner man and you can easily learn to get along on them―because you have to, especially when the nearest decent restaurant is something like four hundred million miles away.

Yes, for a lazy, self-indulgent, unathletic science-fiction writer nearing forty and of sedentary habits, I had come through the ordeal a whole lot better than even I could have imagined possible. My head was clear, my eyes were keen, my “wind” was better than it had been since my twenties, and I could keep going for half a day before sitting down to rest.

“Lo saraj, Lankar-chan!”* chirped Taran, trudging along at my rear, pointing off to the left. I didn’t ask how the boy knew where water was, because I couldn’t yet phrase out the question. But Bozo sensed the nearness of the brook in almost the same instant. The big fellow had been forging along steadily for a couple of hours now, and, from the way his pink tongue was lolling between his frog-like jaws, he was beginning to get thirsty, as were we. Sniffing the air, he uttered a guttural sound that was an othode’s equivalent of a dog’s bark, and went waddling off to the left as fast as his six short, fat, bowed legs could carry him. When we arrived he was standing in the middle of the stream, lapping up cold, fresh water.

Taran knelt at my side and drank noisily from cupped palms, again and again, before settling back with a sigh of repletion. He cast me a bright-eyed glance and said something untranslatably colloquial, which might be rendered as “That’s mighty good!” or “Nothing like a bellyful of water on a hot day!” All I can say for certain is that the remark terminated in “Lankar-chan,” which he had recently taken to calling me. The term was a respectful one, such as a youngster might politely use towards an older man, serving for the nonce, as was I, in loco parentis. The word chan meant “sir.” Therefore I suppose Lankar-chan would translate to something like “Mr. Carter.”

My acquaintance with the Thanatorian language was still a crude thing, merely a matter of a few verbs and nouns. So I had not yet learned anything of the youngster’s story, of who he was and how he had come to be caught in that ximchak-web. A long time after our jungle journey I elicited from him the fact that he had been born and raised in a small Ku Thad hunters’ settlement deep in the Grand Kumala. The Ku Thad had once lived amidst the vast tract of black-and-crimson jungle, driven into hiding in those regions by the Chac Yuul who had invaded and conquered their homeland. Even after Jandar’s arrival on Thanator, and the subsequent destruction of the bandit legion, which the Ku Thad had driven out of Shondakor, many of the Ku Thad preferred the rough, hardy, outdoors life of hunting in the dense jungles; Taran’s father had been one of these.

But his father had died under the fangs of a yathrib, leaving the boy a homeless orphan. Well, not exactly homeless, I suppose, for the hunters of the village would have opened their hearts to him and raised him among them as one of their own. But the boy yearned for strange scenes, unfamiliar vistas, curious adventures. Thus, when the Xaxar returned from her epic voyage to the other side of the world and began enlisting warriors for a second journey into the unknown, and word of this penetrated even to the little colony of Ku Thad huntsmen,. the heart of the boy had thrilled to the lure of far-off lands among weird, uncanny peoples, and he had run away from home to enlist in the Second Armada, as it would be called.

However, the journey across the breadth of the jungle country is difficult enough for a full-grown man such as 1, even with the full-hearted aid of a mighty othode like Bozo. For a small boy like Taran, all alone in the world, it could easily have proven impossible. Prowling predators had chased him; he had flung aside his weapons and gear and provisions, with the sole exception of the small rapier his father had given him. Striving to elude the jungle beasts, he had sought to hide in the tunnel of trees, only to become caught and entangled within the web of the ximchak. Even the hunting beasts who had been close on his trail were wary of falling into the power of the horrible ximchak, and thus they had turned aside, not daring to enter the tunnel trap.

In time the ximchak had returned to its lair, spinning a new web at the very mouth of the tunnel―the very one into which I had blundered, when I had foolishly ignored the warnings of Bozo. Had I not done so, Taran might well be dead by now. For, while the ximchak do not feed very often, when hunger does arise in their hideous little bodies, the ghastly treedwelling arachnidae can strip the flesh from a fullgrown man, leaving a white skeleton to bleach in the jungle shadows.

This, then, was the tale of Taran, although I did not learn it until much later. I understood the basic situation, for I had read of the loss of the First Armada and of the disappearance of Jandar himself, believed a captive of the mysterious Mind Wizards. These things had all been in the manuscript I read on the plane which bore Noel and me to Cambodia. Like Taran, I too had worried and wondered over the unknown fate of Jandar of Callisto. .

It was then we heard the voices.

We had just turned from the streamlet and were heading back to the trail we had been following. Suddenly there came the murmur of voices not far ahead, mixed with a curious harsh, grating cry that I soon came to know was the squawk of riding-thaptors.

Taran and I stopped short, exchanging a startled glance. Bozo froze, ears pricking, sounding a low growl of warning. Together we cautiously crept forward until we could look out on the trail from the dense shadow of the trees that bordered it.

We saw a party of about a dozen men, mounted on fantastic beaked and clawed and feathered steeds. These creatures were four-legged riding-beasts about the size of horses, but there all resemblance to the terrene quadrupeds ceased. For thaptors are bird-horses, like the hippogriffs of myth and legend―four-legged, befeathered birds, with cruel hooked beaks and mad, round, glaring eyes like parrots. I stared upon them with awe and amazement, for all that I had read their description before and knew what they were.

As for the men, they were a lean, hard-faced, rangy-looking lot who had the military bearing of soldiers. They were golden-skinned, green-eyed, redhaired men of the same race as Taran, and wore leather helmets and open-throated, supple tunics and high boots, with scarlet loincloths under their short tunics and loose-sleeved blouses covering their upper torso and arms. All of them wore swords slung across their shoulders on broad brass-studded baldrics, and a few carried long, leaf-bladed spears and small, round, leather-stretched-across-wicker-frame shields or targes. Over his heart, each man carried a peculiar yellow hieroglyph worked into the leather of his tunic, and the foremost spearman had a regimental guidon which flapped from his spearhead.

Recognizing the golden symbol emblazoned on the breast of each soldier, Taran uttered a gleeful cry, jabbered something at me brightly, then jumped out into the trail before the men before I had a chance to stop him.

The foremost soldier uttered an exclamation and jerked back on the reins, drawing his steed up short. He fired off a volley of sharp questions at Taran, to which the boy eagerly replied in a stream of similarly incomprehensible volubility. Other men slid down from their steeds and strode forward to question the excited boy. Taran gestured in my direction, and my heart sunk, knowing there was no further point in trying to conceal myself. So, signaling to Bozo, I climbed through the brush fringing the edge of the trail and stepped out in full view of the soldiers.

They stared at me in surprise which rapidly changed into slack-jawed amazement. It was the color of my hair and of my eyes which most impressed them―at least until Bozo timidly emerged from the brush to stand trembling, pressed up against my thigh. The sight of a man accompanied by a tame othode was incredible to them―that much I could read in their expressions.

One of them, a tall, broad-shouldered, young man with a firm jaw and clear, steady eyes―I later discovered him to be the captain of this troop―addressed me in a polite, but grimly questioning, manner.

There wasn’t much I could do―I didn’t even understand what it was he had asked me. So, getting my wits together, and marshaling what little I knew of the language, I took a deep breath and attempted to make my first sentence in Thanatorian:

“E - Lankar-chan! Kandol a Jandar a Shondakor Saoma!”

It wasn’t a bad sentence at all, considering. In fact, I felt mighty proud of myself.

My pronunciation of the words was probably a bit off―but, what the hell, they understood me! I could tell that from the bright gleam that flashed into the eyes of their leader, who repeated my phrases, halfwonderingly to himself. Then he fired off another phrase of his own, in which the only word I could recognize was Thanator, the native name for this world.

I shook my head and pointed into the sky.

They got my meaning again, and stared at one another in utter and dumbfounded amazement.*

For the captain, noting my racial resemblance to Jandar―who also had grayish eyes and a fair skin, although his hair was yellow and not brown like mine, sprang to the conclusion that I was, like Jandar, a visitor from another world. (The existence of the Gate is, of course, no secret to the Thanatorians; and Jandar has never sought to conceal his extra-Thanatorian origin, which is widely known.) When I shook my head in answer to his startled query and pointed aloft, he understood me to say that 1, too, like Jandar, had come from a distant world.

The captain looked me over with awe and wonder written in his face. I could read the thoughts traveling through his brain as if by telepathy: to him I was a mysterious being from a distant world, doubtless a personage of vast importance. He mumbled some remark I did not catch; then he whipped off his scarlet cloak and gave it to me to cover my nakedness with, making a little bow of respect. He did not dare approach too closely because of Bozo. The great othode stood between me and the troop of soldiers, his burly shoulders firmly pressed against my thighs, watching with alert, wary eyes every motion made by these strangers. From time to time a warning rumble came from his mighty chest.

I quieted him with a word and a touch and slung the cloak about me, sheathing the toy sword Taran had given me. The boy was trembling with excitement, his bright green eyes sparkling as he drank in the splendid vision of the mounted warriors, their gleaming weapons and splendid accouterments, the restless thaptors pawing at the dust, arching their proud necks restlessly, the brilliant bannerol snapping in a brisk breeze. This was the sort of thing he had dreamed of: and now it was actually happening!

It seems that the Shondakorians maintained a patrol to keep watch over the edge of the Kumala jungles, for there are bands of nomadic savages therein, as well as outlaws, bandits and savage beasts. This patrol is called the Kumala Yuul, which is to say, the “Jungle Legion.” And the tall, broad-shouldered young officer who had accosted me was the captain of the troop. His name was Barin.

It would not have been polite to laugh out loud, but I couldn’t keep back a grin. Barin gave me a baffled, but respectful, glance and managed to refrain from asking me what was so funny. It was just as well he did! How could I possibly have conveyed to him that I had only just gotten used to the fact that my young companion bore the name of the hero of Lloyd Alexander’s Prydain books, while he, himself, bore the name of the Prince of Mongo in Alex Raymond’s old Flash Gordon strip!

I chuckled, resolving to myself that if I ever got back home and wrote up my adventures into a book I was going to have to do quite a bit of name-changing!

The courteous young captain, all the while calling me kytar or “lord,” obviously on the premise that I was far too important to be a mere chan or “sir,” dismounted and helped me into the saddle of his thaptor. The bird eyed me suspiciously over one feathery shoulder and clacked his sharp beak as if to say “As soon as the captain looks the other way, I think I’ll take a chunk out of this bloke’s leg.”

While I usually enjoy riding, it had been years since I was last in the saddle, and then, of course, the saddle was on a horse. Riding around on the back of a giant bird was somewhat new to my experience, but I resolved to make the best of it. Captain Barin had given me his scarlet cloak and I slung it about me and mounted the thaptor. I was grinning again, again reminded of the befeathered steeds in Jane Gaskell’s Atlan trilogy, and of the ornithohippus in one of my own novels about Ganelon Silvermane.

Bozo would not leave my side, even after I bestrode the thaptor. My gryphonlike steed was in a nervous flap due to the presence of the giant othode, which may have distracted its attention from me; at any rate it did not even attempt to remove a piece of my leg en route. The troop mounted up and one of the legionnaires, grinning hugely, scooped up Taran and set the boy before him on the saddlebow. The lad kicked his heels delightedly and crowed something at me in a breathless rush of words, of which I caught only the bit about “Lankar-chan.” I smiled and waved at him. Then the captain gave an order and we moved out.

Since the other thaptors were made restive by the mighty othode who would not leave me, Barin bid me take the lead. And so it was that, cloaked in scarlet, at the head of a troop of warriors, the great othode pacing at my side, I rode for the gates of golden Shondakor like a visiting emperor.

Chapter 9 THE EMPTY THRONE

We rode first to an encampment of the Jungle Legion, built on the outskirts of the Grand Kumala. It was a collection of log cabins, surrounded by a tall palisade, with a spindle-legged watchtower looming over all, from which the gold flag of Shondakor unrolled its rich fires on the wind. It looked like something left over from F Troop.

There we rested, and Taran and I were given a civilized meal while Barin went in to report the news of my arrival to the komor, as the commandant of the Legion was called. The meal was a simple one, a crockery bowl of meat stew and a fist-sized lump of coarse brown bread, topped off with a mug of cheap red wine. The meat of the stew was unfamiliar to me, and the spices wherewith it was seasoned were curious and alien, but rarely have I downed a meal with such gusto. After nearly a week of munching nuts and sucking raw fruit, a decent meal was a luxury to be savored with relish.

The komor, a heavy-faced man with frank and honest eyes, under close-cropped, grizzled hair, came out to inspect me. His eyes widened at the gray-touched brown of my hair and beard, and the blue gray of my eyes, and my pale, un-Thanatorian complexion. Evidently he had not accepted Barin’s account and had to see the man from Jandar’s world with his own eyes. One look convinced him.

He made me a profound salute whose significance I did not understand until later, when I saw it used at the Shondakorian court and came to realize it was usually given to royalty. I’m afraid I just took it in my stride, giving him a pleasant smile and a nod in return (which must also have impressed him, and, if anything, tended to convince him of my immense aristocratic rank). He backed out of the room respectfully and later sent in the regimental barber, a fat, fussy little man, to comb and trim my hair and beard and shave my cheeks.

Afternoon was upon us; still under escort by Captain Barin, we departed camp and rode straight for Shondakor, not far distant. The city rose beyond a broad river, spanned by an ancient stone bridge. I must confess I thrilled at the sight of it, for it was like some magnificent capital out of fabled antiquity, somehow survived the ages intact. A mighty stone wall surrounded the city proper, and guards strolled about the circumference of this barrier, daylight flashing from .their polished helms and spear blades. The gates were open And we rode through, the gate-captain tossing a salute at Barin, gaping at me, and turning a look of sheer unbelief at the huge purple othode who trotted at my heels.

We paused first at the military headquarters, a low, rambling structure like a fortress, built just within the circuit of the city wall by the main or Ajand Gate, and, in fact, leaning up against the fabric of the wall. There while Barin conferred with various mystified and terribly impressed officers, and courtiers sped further into the city to inform the palace of my arrival, they rapidly outfitted me in something more suitable to wear at court than a ragged loincloth and a captain’s red cloak.

The garment they selected for me was a sort of long-sleeved gown of stiff, crinkly, shiny stuff like silk, darkly gold in color, with a high stiff collar like that worn by Ming the Merciless in the old “Flash Gordon” serials. This outfit seemed to me a trifle effeminate, and I felt a bit uncomfortable in it, but the people here ought to know what was worn at court, so I went along with it without protest. They returned my plain leather baldric and boy-sized sword to Taran, lending me a slim basket-hilted rapier twinkling with topazes, scabbarded on a light baldric adorned with badges and ornaments of precious metals, and shod my feet in buskins of fine, supple leather, dyed imperial purple.

This and a huge purple velvet cloak completed my costume. In the privacy of the robing chamber I tried a few passes with the rapier, swirled my cloak about in high good humor, and felt ready to walk into the costume ball of any world science-fiction convention and carry off first prize.

Taran they crammed into a loose-sleeved whit blouse and trim leather jerkin, belted at the waist and extending down a few inches below the hips, with a bright red loincloth and a pair of ankle-high, soft leather boots, complete with boysized spurs. The boy, who shared my dressing room, crowed with delight over such finery and envied my gold silk gown and purple cloak with glistening eyes. Bozo stuck to the like a shadow all the while: the poor beast was bewildered and highly upset by the strange confinement of rooms and walls, but just to be by my side and hear my voice comforted him, and he behaved himself splendidly. It was amusing to see how the soldiers regarded him with fearful caution, and me with immense awe and respect as his master.

Then we set out for the palace, which rose in the center of the city, facing upon a broad, octagonal stone-paved plaza which was reached by a superb boulevard known as the Processional Way. We rode with banners snapping, daylight sparkling from gems and helms, a man in a gilt cuirass brandishing a slender trumpet clearing the way before us. I assumed him to be the Callistan equivalent of a herald.

The city was built largely of stone and brick, and most of the buildings were of one or two storeys, three at most, which were covered either with plaster or whitewash, it was hard to tell which. They were generally painted a pale shade of gold, with roofs of red tile. Most of the buildings we passed on our way to the heart of the metropolis were constructed in something of the Mediterranean style, which is to say, the structures faced inward on tiled courts and private gardens, with a railing around the gallery of the second storey. But everything was gay and barbaric, with gorgeous carpets hung from balconies and banners unfolding from the tops of spires, and veiled palanquins borne through the streets by slaves in livery.

Stone bridges arched above the streets between the third storeys. Circular windows, closed with greenpainted shutters or barred with iron grilles, broke the smooth monotony of walls. And somehow he whole scene reminded me inescapably of the walled stone city in Roy Krenkel’s cover-painting for King Kull, the original of which hangs framed in my home.

I rode through the streets of ancient Shondakor in gold and purple, under tawny afternoon skies, dreamily, smiling to myself, thinking that if only Roy were here beside me, his pencil would be flying over his sketch pad at this moment.

The palace was a rambling, many-tiered, immense structure of such complexity that I could not at first look take it all in, and am left with only the haziest impression of its external appearance. I got the impression that it had been added to over years and generations and centuries in a haphazard fashion, new wings tacked on as needed, and so forth. This may not be too far wide of the mark, actually.

We passed through guard-post after guard-post; left our steeds in an outer courtyard, and marched through what seemed miles of corridor and stairways before reaching the throne room. Bozo waddled gamely at my side, sneaking wary looks at flapping tapestries andbead curtains and frowning stone faces cut into the entablature over archways. More than ever he reminded me of my dog McGurk, who entertains much the same suspicions of anything above his head, like chandeliers, or marble busts atop bookcases.

The throne room itself was built on Babylonian proportions and looked like something out of a Cecil B. De Mille movie. We ascended a very broad stone staircase of at least a hundred steps, each level lined by motionless guards in glittering armor ranked to either side. At the top spread a broad tier, carpeted in crimson, which bore two huge stone chairs whose backs were sculpted with curious heraldic emblems. Only one of these thrones was occupied, the other stood empty.

The woman in the first throne―I knew her at once―was Darloona, warrior princess of the Ku Thad. She could be no other, with that magnificent, rippling mane of glorious red gold hair, that flawless creamy cameo of a face, full-upped, passionate, with strong cheekbones, and superb eyes of liquid emerald under arched, winging brows. I must confess I drew in my breath at the very sight of her; she was an incredible beauty―spirited, majestic, proud and fiery as a thoroughbred. With her flaming red hair and vivacious eyes, she reminded me a little of Maureen O’Hara … but a Maureen O’Hara raised to the nth degree.

She was, quite simply, one of the most gorgeously beautiful women I have ever seen. Every inch a woman; and every inch a queen!

About her throne a group of courtiers and officials stood in a cluster. Foremost among these was a tall, slender old man with wise, smiling eyes. His gaunt form was wrapped in a narrow robe of lavender silk. I guessed him at a glance to be a councillor to the throne, and I was soon proven correct, for he was none other than Zastro, the wise man of the Ku Thad.

Others stood near him. One, from his massive shoulders, bowed legs and truculent visage I took to be the exgladiator, Ergon, from descriptions given in Jandar’s manuscripts. Beside him stood a towering warrior with arms folded upon his mighty chest, his grim eyes studying me from a strong-boned, impassive face. This impressive figure turned out to be Zantor of Zanadar, the captain of the sky-ship Xaxar, who had been lucky enough to bring back his own ship, at least, from the ill-fated first expedition to shadowy Kuur. The identity of the others I did not know.

The military courier who had ridden ahead to apprise the queen of my coming was, all the while I looked about, introducing me and explaining my presence here, and that of my odd companions, the boy and the monster othode. When he was finished, the Princess turned her great eyes upon me with a warm smile of greeting. Royalty is something new in my experience, although I was very slightly acquainted with the Crown Prince of Japan, then attending the same university as I, and I have met a baron in my time, and a knight or two. The protocol of the Shondakorian court was a subject upon which I was completely uninformed, but I assumed correctly enough that such ignorance was only to be expected of a visitor from a distant world and any errors in regal etiquette would be forgiven me. So, deciding that a simple, dignified bow should do the trick, I rapidly ran through my memory similar scenes from all the Errol Flynn movies I could recall, and attempted the polite obeisance and, from the murmur which arose from the clustered courtiers, in which I thought I heard the note of approval, I gathered I had pulled it off competently.

The Princess had been staring at me with wonder in her eyes―at the color of my skin, my eyes, my hair. Now she did me, as I later learned, a very great honor by rising to her feet and stepping forward, extending her hand, which I kissed. Then she surprised me by addressing me in English!

“Please be welcome, sir, to our realm in my husband’s name.”

I was taken aback at being addressed in my native tongue. Her grammar was quite correct, if her pronunciation was a trifle unorthodox. Fumbling for an appropriate response, I murmured an awkward reply which I have since forgotten.

She nodded regally, resuming her throne. The old man in the lavender robe interrogated the courier and then addressed a rapid stream of questions to Captain Barin, who all this while had knelt a step or two lower down than I, with little Taran, all eyes, beside him. Bozo sat by my feet, pressing his furry shoulder against my knee, peering around with solemn, wary gaze. The Princess, I noticed,. looked pale, weary, a trifle distraught, although composed and regal on the surface. One slim hand fidgeted with the bejeweled tassel of her girdle―I have neglected to mention that she wore breast-plates of intricately-worked silvery metal, a jewel-studded girdle about her slim waist, and gauzy overskirts which did not conceal the slim grace of her long legs. That and silver-gilt sandals and a flashing tiara of many jewels unfamiliar to me completed her costume. She looked like the heroine of a Leigh Brackett novel, I must confess; but the air of serene and majestic poise she wore like a cloak lent her the dignity of an empress.

As the exchange of question and answer seemed interminable, I noticed she paled and bit her lip. There were small lines of strain or fatigue about her magnificent eyes. From time to time she seemed to forget herself, and when this occurred, her head would droop wearily and she would heave a deep sigh. At such times her sad gaze would stray to the empty throne beside her.

I knew the cause of her sorrow. It was that the throne was empty. For the second throne was―must have been―the seat of Jandar of Callisto, her husband and Prince, missing now for months, lost on the far side of the planet.

When the interrogations turned to me, my slight acquaintance with the universal language of Thanator was soon discovered too inadequate to the task; neither did my hosts have enough English to conduct the session appropriately. It became obvious that we should have to adjourn to other, less formal quarters, to converse slowly and haltingly in both tongues until we could piece together the answers to all the questions that needed answering.

So Barin and the boy and I, with Bozo pacing nervously and watchfully at my side, were led from the Hall of Thrones (as I later learned it to be called) by Zastro. With us went the ugly, bowlegged little man with the broad, heavily muscled shoulders, who was introduced to me as Ergon, and two or three of the other notables I did not at once recognize.

At the exit, I lingered for a last look on the splendid scene.

Darloona sat in her great chair amidst her attendants and courtiers. She sat straight and regal, her face composed, if pale, her glorious eyes serene but troubled.

Her gaze was fixed upon the empty throne by her side, and her thoughts (I knew) were upon her beloved Jandar whose fate was still unknown.

Chapter 10 THE THIEF OF THARKOL

Zastro led us into a spacious suite of apartments that was probably his own private quarters, or so I guessed from the Spartan simplicity of the decor, and the crowded but neatly ordered profusion of books, tablets and scrolls which stood about to either hand. A servant drew the curtains shut while another fetched a crystal decanter of a pale golden wine unfamiliar to my taste but delicious enough, and a tray of goblets.

We settled ourselves comfortably in chairs of rather medieval design, which were arranged by the servants into a halfcircle about a fireplace of carven blue stone upon whose hearth a cheery blaze flickered and crackled.

I sipped the pale wine cautiously, and found it .superb. A light, delicious beverage which reminded me of sparkling Burgundy, but with a honeyed aftertaste like mead. After the stiff formality of the throne room, we relaxed comfortably and I was introduced to the notables I had not yet met.

Bluff, homely Ergon had already been known to me, but I was slightly puzzled as to the identity of the tall, dark-haired girl with warm golden skin, sad dark eyes, and a vivid, full-lipped mouth. This .turned out to be Ylana of the Jungle Country, the daughter of Jugrid the chieftain, of whom I had read much in Jandar’s latest manuscript. I would probably have guessed who she was in time, but it would have taken a bit of thought before I might have identified her, for she looked very different from the descriptions I had read. That is, Jandar described her as a wild jungle maid with an abbreviated garment of catskin, long bare legs, and a rude, primitive necklace of ivory fangs about her throat.

From this, I guess I must have mentally pictured a sort of younger version of “Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.” But the shy, demure young lady in the voluminous green kaf tanlike robes, her long dark hair neatly brushed, in no wise resembled the wild, scornful young hoyden of Jandar’s text! She greeted me quietly with downcast eyes.

At this time I was also introduced to Dr. Abziz, the famous geographer from the great Academy of Soraba, and to Zantor, formerly one of the Sky Pirates of Zanadar, now a loyal and trusted friend of Jandar and Darloona, and a captain in the new Sky Navy.

I could have guessed either of their identities at a glance, for Dr. Abziz was exactly as Jandar has described him―fat, fussy, self-important and peevish, with a round, plump face, scarlet as tomato puree and bald as an egg, save, of course, for his waxed and ridiculous little billy-goat’s beard, a heritage of his mixed Soraban and Ganatolian ancestry. He greeted me with cool reserve, which was only to be expected from a savant so self-important.

Zantor was a mighty man of glum, solemn mien and few words. His handshake―which he must have learned from Jandar, for it is not a Thanatorian custom at all―was gentle but firm, and I have no doubt he could have crushed my hand if he had wished to. His eyes were friendly, for all his solemnity, and his tone of voice warm and welcoming.

And thus we observed the social amenities, while passing the wine around and getting to know each other a little. The. slight champagnelike effervescence of the honey wine tickled Taran’s nose and before long one of Zastro’s servants led the boy off to watch the changing of the palace guard, as the conversation would doubtless prove, a bore to him.

Bozo was treated with enormous respect; in fact, no one dared come near him, much less touch the great brute, who insisted on crouching by my chair, pressed up against me for whatever comfort my presence afforded him among all these strangers. But he behaved himself like a gentleman, I am glad to say:

Barin sat stiffly, seeming rather awkward and self conscious. I suppose the Legionnaire was unused to mingling with the famous and the celebrated of the court. His forehead glistened with perspiration and he sipped only a little of his wine, replying in monosyllables to the questions which were addressed to him. I could tell that he wished for nothing more than to be permitted to return to the rough, comfortable life of his camp, and would be glad to get out of here. Well, Zastro did not keep him long, as the gentlemanly old philosopher could read his nervousness as well as I could and philosopher the poor fellow was extremely uncomfortable.

“Now, Lord Lankar,” Zarstro began, once we had all relaxed, “perhaps you will be good enough to tell us how you came here to Thanator and what your arrival on our world portends―”

“Aye! And do inquire about that great beastie, and how in the name of the Red Moon the noble lord comes by such a fearsome creature, as poor Glypto had always heared were wild and savage!”

The man who had chirped out this remark had slunk furtively into the room at our heels, much to Zastro’s discomfiture, although the old philosopher was far too polite to evince any disapproval. He was a stooped, spindlyshanked little fellow, spry and nimble, wrapped in a rusty old black cloak, tattered and disreputable, which lent him a villainous appearance. This unwholesome aspect was augmented when you looked into his astonishingly homely, face, with its hollow, famished cheeks, bestubbled and ill-shaven, his bright, inquisitive eye and his great ungainly beak of a nose. The sort of a face that made you feel nervously to make sure you still had your wallet.

In answer to Zastro’s question I said haltingly that my presence on this world was entirely due to accident―the same identical sort of accident which had brought Jandar here himself.

“I understand,” Zastro nodded. “But, now, you speak of Jandar. How is it that you are acquainted with our Prince? True, you hail from the same far world, but always I have been given to understand that on his native planet the Prince was a personage of little or no importance. I am puzzled, therefore, that you know him at all. Are you a relative, or, perchance, a friend?”

“Well, I certainly consider myself his friend, although to be truthful we have never actually met,” I replied. “You see, back on Earth I am a writer of books―”

“Aha!” Glypto yelped, his sharp black eye glinting with satisfaction. “Your words do prove me right, sir! Aye, poor old Glypto guessed as much, from one glance at his lordship’s face! That broad, noble brow, now―those thoughtful, sensitive eyes! `A poet!’ quoth I, will the gentlemen be calling me a liar? `An artist! =”

“If you please, Master Glypto,” admonished Zastro with a patient groan. “If you must interrupt every other word out of our mouths, we shall all of us spend the night here without learning anything. Now if you insist on being present, you may listen and observe all, but kindly keep your comments to yourself. Is that understood?” .

Glypto capered in an obsequious bow, tugging at his forelock―or where a forelock would be, if he had had one, which he didn’t, being mostly bald in front, and whined in his hoarse, beggar’s voice: “Pray pardon old Glypto, sir, for intruding upon the councils of the high and the mighty! ‘Tis only that I be nigh consumed with curiosity, as you will understand, I’m sure!” And with that, the odd little scarecrow of a man, whose clowning caperings concealed a first-rate intelligence, and who was a shrewd and astute diplomat in the service of Soraba (for all that he delighted in playing the rascally guttersnipe), flopped into a chair and lapsed into cowed but attentive silence.

“Neither a poet, an artist, nor much of an intellectual, Master Glypto,” I laughed. “Merely a teller of tales, ‘ a spinner of sagas, if you will. But the manuscript journals of his adventures here which your Prince has been sending back to Earth by means of the Gate Between The Worlds―these have come into my hands and I have assumed the task of editing them for …for..:’

(There is no such word, apparently, in Thanatorian for “publication,” as the Thanatorians have yet to invent the printing, much less the wholesale marketing, of books.)

“I believe I understand … then you will have read of the loss of our Prince, and of the mysterious foundering or destruction of the First Armada―if the journals describing our first, ill-fated expedition against the Mind Wizards* have survived the transition?” asked Zastro. I nodded eagerly.

“The manuscript arrived safely at the Earth-terminus of the Gate, and I have read it with considerable interest and suspense. And I am awfully anxious to learn what has been happening here since the Xaxar returned to Shondakor.”

“Alas, my dear sir,” Dr. Abziz puffed. “Very little has transpired―the shipyards of Tharkol have labored mightily to complete the new vessels from which the Second Armada will, it is to be hoped, ere long be assembled. But the story has been one of frequent breakdown, continuous frustration, and thorough wastage of time―the one, indispensable commodity! First the supply caravan dispatched to the Black Mountains to procure a sufficiency of the lifting-gas fell afoul of an ambush by Yathoon nomads and was wiped out; the needed stores of levitant vapor were eventually procured by a second caravan, under heavy guard by a full regiment. But then the caulking compound proved inadequate to the task of cementing the seams of the new ships, permitting the vapors to dissipate uselessly into the empty air―which required the dispatching of yet a third caravan―and so it has been going, day after day, week after week! Delays! Delays, and more delays! Lords of Gordrimator, the poor Prince and the others, Zamara of Tharkol, Prince Valkar, and that ruffian, Lukor, may well be stark dead by this time, and still the idle fools stumble and fumble and jumble …”

“Dr. Abziz, if you please!” sighed Zastro patiently. “If we all talk at once, we shall never learn the answers to the many questions …”

“Oh, very well, get on with it, then,” Abziz grumbled, pouring himself another goblet of wine.

I could not resist a sly dig at this point.

“From the fact that the distinguished and learned Dr. Abziz was still present in Shondakor, I had already guessed that the new sky-ships had not yet sailed, for a scholar of such dedication and repute could not have been restrained from joining the second expedition, if only for the advancement of scientific knowledge,” I said.

Abziz’s frosty manner thawed before this application of ego-salve. He cast a beaming eye upon me with unaccustomed warmth, while wriggling in his chair as if barely able to contain his delight.

“Oh, come now! My dear sir―really! Such praise, for one of my poor accomplishments―too much!” he virtually giggled.

“Aye, too much, indeed, your lordship,” Glypto cackled from his corner. “Too much, that is, for one as couldn’t even find the haunt of the dastardly Mind Wizards with a man stuck to the end of his nose!”

The pudgy Soraban fixed the grinning thief of Tharkol with a piercing glare of indignation.

“If this―ah, this―person―is going to be permitted to give utterance to such slanderous and slighting remarks against the scholarly attainments of a distinguished guest in your excellent city, sage Zastro, well, words fail me! They fail me, sir!” he huffed.

Zastro smothered a groan and turned a mildly accusing glance on the impudent little man from Tharkol.

“Now, Master Glypto, I have asked you and I have warned you, and if I have to disturb the Princess to come and admonish you to keep your tongue, well…” .

“Oh, aye, aye!” Glypto whined in a servile fashion (while tipping me a roguish wink in the process). “I beg your honors’ pardon, I am sure!”

“Oh, get on with it, can’t I you?” grumbled Ergon. “If, yonder sniveling rascal speaks up again I’ll squelch him with this,” he said, holding up one immense red fist. Glypto yelped and shrank back in his place: he had felt the weight of Ergon’s hand before, on a previous adventure, and held the burly, homely exgladiator in a degree of respect which bordered upon awe.

“You were saying, Lord Lankar?” Zastro inquired by way of prompting me.

“Oh, just that since so many of you were still here at court, I had already guessed. that the new armada had not sailed―or whatever the word should be, with flying ships. In a way, I’m glad to learn this. Because when the armada does depart for the other side of the world, on an attempt to find the country of the Mind Wizards and to set Jandar free, if he is indeed being held captive in Kuur … well, I’d like a place aboard it!”

Approval flashed in huge Zantor’s somber eyes.

“Well said, man!” he boomed. “I like your spirit, and there’s a berth for you aboard the Xaxar, by the Moons―or any other ship I shall command!”

Ergon grinned cheerily, and you’d be surprised to see how his glum, homely, bullet-headed face lit up when he smiled. He said nothing, but the gleam in his eyes said more than words could say. Even the sad-faced jungle maid brightened at my inadvertent volunteering. I suddenly realized why the jungle girl was so subdued and downcast, so unlike the bright, sharptongued, vivacious girl Jandar had described in his manuscript. It was because the young officer, Tomar, was among those members lost from the First Armada. Something had come into being between the vivid jungle girl and the awkward, shy young fellowsomething which Jandar had noticed with amusement, putting it down to a spasm of puppy love.

But, of the entire company, it was Glypto who evinced the greatest enthusiasm towards my words. The cunning little master spy from Soraba, who had lived the part of a scrawny thief from the gutters of Tharkol so long that he seemed to feel more comfortable in the part of that imaginary character than in being himself, sprang to his feet with a croak of glee.

He made a lunge towards me as if to clap me on the shoulder with approval―which brought Bozo’s head up with a goggling glare and a warning growl that made him blench and snatch his fingers back as if from the mouth of a furnace.

“Er … ah … your beast, me lord! … mind the great brute … there’s a sweet creature, the lovely fellow! … he wouldn’t be wantin’ to snatch a gulp out of scrawny old Glypto, now, would he!”

I sternly bade Bozo to be silent and lie down again. And to my surprise the great othode obeyed me.

“Ah! That’s better, now,” the little rogue crooned. “And it’s like wine. to me gullet to learn that your lordship will be flying with us to the other side o’ the world!”

“With us?” repeated Dr. Abziz, huffily. “Do you mean to tell me, sir,” he demanded of Zantor fiercely, “that this―this person―will be permitted to join the expedition?”

The Zanadarian sky-captain shrugged good-humoredly. “We shall need every man with sky-ship experience we can find,” he said. “And Master Glypto is not only the official representative of our good friend and ally, the Seraan of Soraba, but a former member of Queen Zamara’s crew aboard the Conqueress, I be lieve. We can hardly afford to deny him a place amongst us, sir.”

“Aye, thanks to yourself, Captain!” the little thief chortled gaily. “And soon enough, if the Lords of Gordrimator are willing, we shall all be setting forth in the great ships, bound for the world’s far edge itself, and the unknown lands beyond … .”

And thus it was that I talked myself into volunteering for yet another adventure.