The Enchantress of World's End

The Scene: The Purple Plain on the Border between Northern Yania-YamaLand and Greater Zuavia; the Machine City.

New Characters: Slioma, Temple, Zilth, and other lomagoths; the City Itself; Fryx again.

22. SHANGHAIED, OR SOMETHING

Black, whirling darkness closed down upon the three adventurers and enveloped them. The greenlit archway, with its vista of the Dragon curled in his Deep, receded to a dim spark and vanished.

They stepped backwards in unison. The abysmal blackness was more like a total cessation of the powers of sight, rather than any absence of light itself. And with it came a giddy sensation, a feeling of vertigo, which they could not recall having experienced before. Perhaps it was due to the fact that they were retracing their steps, rather than going forward; at any rate, they took the sideways step as Dzimdazoul had counseled and, very suddenly, with no sense of transition or no idea of quite how they had gotten there, found themselves standing on a level plain, knee-deep in meadow grass.

Ganelon hefted his weapon and glanced about, blinking at the swiftness of this peculiar mode of transportation. In every direction a featureless plain of purple grass stretched, from horizon to horizon.

He turned to look behind him. A black vortex hung unsupported in the air, slowly fading. The bottom-most whorl of the whirlpool of inkiness was level with the plain itself. Above the upper curve of the vortex of darkness, the Omega Triskelion hung as if suspended in mid-air by an enchanter’s art.

The vortex faded and was gone. Now there was nothing behind them but empty leagues of long grass blowing in the wind.

The hour was early morning, he assumed, from the dewy freshness of the air and the cold, wet touch of the nodding plumes of grass that brushed against his bare knees. The sun was a dim, faint red-gold disk at the very edge of the world, in the direction he presumed to be the east.

Ganelon had not the faintest notion of where the hyperspatial tube had deposited them, and he said as much to Grrff when the Tigerman, looking puzzled, inquired.

“Well, wherever we are, it doesn’t look like Dwarfland, or the domain of the Red Bitch,” growled the Karjixian. “But where are we—and why did we come out here?”

“Nor does it look like Ning, or Holy Horx, or the country of the Chxians,” mused Silvermane. “And it certainly isn’t any part of the Hegemony, or the Voormish Desert, or even Karjixia! In fact, the only country I’ve ever heard of that’s supposed to look anything like this is the Purple Plain itself—”

“The Purple Plain?” grumbled the ‘Hgerman, wrinkling his snout distastefully. “Isn’t that where the Indigons are supposed to herd? Why would the Labyrinth let us out here? Why, it’s way up north, isn’t it? Grrffs heard tell of it before.”

Ganelon nodded, his face expressionless, black eyes moody.

“What did the Old Dragon say? Something about *your friends will be getting anxious about you,’ or words to that effect. I don’t know about your friends, but mine ought to be back in Chx, or flying around Dwarfland and the Land of Red Magic, hunting for me; at least, I presume the Dragon was talking about my master, Xarda and that prince fellow. But if this is the Purple Plain, it’s way up north as you said, beyond Yombok and all those countries. I can’t imagine why master would come here … we were on our way to the kingdom of Jemmerdy, really.”

“And Jemmerdy is down south, next to Parvania,” muttered the Tigerman. “Well … here we are, and here we’re going to stay, Grrfr” guesses! The question is—not why we got transported here—but what we’re supposed to do now that we are here?”

They looked around, without any ideas in particular. For as far as the eye could see in any direction, there was nothing else to be seen, except league on league of blowing grass rippling under the invisible caress of the wind. The sky which arched above them was as empty as the plain whereon they stood. Gold and crimson appeared in the direction they assumed to be the east; the sky was still dark purple directly overhead, but gradually the flush of rosy dawn illuminated the dome of heaven.

“All I can suggest is to go south,” Ganelon confessed after some moments of silent cogitation. “South of here, somewhere, is Jemmerdy. And if my master has given up trying to find me, that’s where he would go. We were taking Xarda home. Xarda is one of those lady knights they have in Jemmerdy … you know, that’s the country where the men are all artists, and intellectuals, and the women do the hard work and the fighting.”

Griff nodded; he had heard of Jemmerdy.

“So … if that’s east, which it must be, then back there must be south. And we might as well get started, as we have a lot of walking to do. It’ll be easier in early morning, before the heat of the day comes upon us …”

Phadia had contributed exactly nothing to this desultory conversation. The boy was too busy looking around at this newness, and anyway, he was accustomed to leaving all of the decisions in his life to grown-ups. Since leaving the hothouse atmosphere of the Pueratormm, in which everything always remained exactly the same and nothing was ever different or particularly exciting, the lad had gone through a remarkable series of strange, marvelously new experiences. He regarded the whole thing as a lark, a spree: it was, in fact, the first real holiday he had ever known, and he was enjoying it enormously.

Just standing here like this, up to your tummy in damp grass, was new and strange and therefore, exciting to him. Whatever was going to happen next was a matter of complete indifference to him. If his new friends wanted to march south all day, well, he would march along with them as best he could.

Blue clear sky … red-and-gold sunrise … empty expanses of cool, dewy grass … he was eagerly determined to enjoy everything. The decisions were made by the grown-ups; which was, he thought to himself in a satisfied way, the way things ought to be.

So they started walking south.

The city caught up to them before they had been walking for a half-hour. Phadia had been the first to glimpse it, moving swiftly and almost silently across the plains. His companions had regarded it with great amazement, for even on Old Earth’s last and mightiest continent, in these days of the Twilight of Time, a City that moved along overland all by itself was an object of considerable rarity.

At first, they simply continued along the way they had been heading before the weird, hovering metal metropolis appeared on the horizon. And at first the City moved in a straight line, evidently following a course which ran divergent to their own.

But before very long the City turned about and came towards them, and they realized they had been seen or sensed by whatever creatures might be the inhabitants of the futuristic mobile metropolis. They began to run, but in a little while they abandoned this attempt as futile. It became obvious that the Mobile City could traverse the Purple Plains many times faster than could they.

There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to take a stand, not even a tree to climb. So they just stood there waiting for the City to approach them. Ganelon and the Tigerman stood side by side, their weapons held at the ready; as for the boy, he cowered timidly behind the bronze giant, peeping out from time to time.

The City came cruising up on its whooshing air-cushion until its perimeter was about thirty feet away from them. Then it came to a dead halt They stood staring up at it, the slim, soaring spires and towers like truncated cones, and peculiarly-shaped domes which were rather like Christmas tree ornaments. A network of aerial bridges or walkways curved between the domes, spires and towers. But there seemed to be no traffic upon these, neither were there to be seen any guards or sentries stationed on the rooftops of the nearer structures. In fact, they could see no people at all. Not one figure was visible on the long straight streets which radiated from the central ziggurat-like edifice in all directions, like the spokes of a wheel. It was all very mysterious, and quite alarming.

A few moments later, elongated metal shafts extruded from beneath the nearest edge of the immense metal plate which formed the foundation of the City as a whole. These tubes telescoped smoothly towards them with a faint, creaking sound: the whiff of lubricating oil reached their nostrils.

The tubes extended themselves until they were directly above the three: then wriggling pseudopods of gleaming red metal came slithering out of the open tip of the rods. These extrusions were supple and boneless as are the tentacles of a Myriapod *, and they came wriggling down around the three motionless figures. Ganelon saw that they were about as thick as his thumb and seemed to be made of overlapping sequences of metal rings, which slid smoothly upon each other. They were perhaps held together by some cohesive force, such as magnetism,

*An example of lapse of internal time-sense, on the part of the author or authr (or authors) of the Epic. That is, Ganelon had yet to encounter a Myriapod at this point in the course of his career. He does not fight a Myriapod, in fact, until the eighth book of the Gondwane Epic.

As the metal tendrils settled about them, Ganelon voiced his booming war cry and struck at them with his sword. The sword, which was made of ferrous metal, struck the tendrils and clung thereto, as if in the grip of some unbreakable force. Simultaneously, the Tigerman had employed his ygdraxel in a comparable maneuver, with precisely the same result. Or lack of result, I should say.

The metal tentacles slithered about them, coiling about hips, upper chest, arms and legs. They were gripped snugly, but not with crushing force. Held immobile and helpless, but not uncomfortably so, the three struggling figures were lifted smoothly up into the air, whereupon the telescoping rods began to close up with a jerky, machine-like motion.

They were borne in this manner up onto the edge of the Mobile City, which still hovered about fifteen feet above the surface of the plain on its air-cushion. When the tendril-system had reached the edge of the city, it passed them on into the grip of a metal net which two mechanical arms, branching out from the upper story of a cylindrical building of some kind, held open to receive them. They were suspended for a moment over the open net, then the tendrils released their multiple grips. They tumbled into the flexible container, whose mesh gave with a springy elasticity under their weight. The mechanical arms thereupon drew closed the mouth of the net, which it then passed on to the next waiting pair of arms. In this manner they were passed from “hand” to “hand” across the width of the Qty, until they reached the central ziggurat. An opening appeared in its curved flanks and they were dumped within.

As they tumbled into the circular opening, Ganelon was trying to figure out whether a mechanical flying city had kidnapped them, or captured them, or was it that they had been shanghaied?

The precise term, of course, was irrelevant.

They were prisoners.

23. THE WELCOMING COMMITTEE

Dumped into the circular orifice which opened in the gleaming metal flanks of the central ziggurat, Ganelon and his two comrades went tumbling headfirst down a slick, smooth slide. This incline carried them down into the bowels of the structure in a giddy, swooping ride that curved and twisted in the most bewildering manner. For the most part, the slide led them through regions of lightless gloom; but at intervals they shot forth into the blue-white glare of artificial lamps. During such periods they went dizzyingly past, or through, or around levels filled with incomprehensible machinery. There were giant engines, motors whose bulk dwarfed the largest mammals, and confluences of colossal pipes and tubes which resembled nothing so much as titanic pumping stations.

After some time then* trip ended most abruptly as the slide terminated in mid-air, hurtling them onto an immense inflated cushion or gas-bag obviously designed to minimize injury.

No sooner had they struggled to their feet than lassos fell around them, lightening with a jerk. Staring up, they were surprised to see a number of disreputable-looking, rather ruffianly figures suspended above them, clinging to an aerial network of bright-blue metal pipes and tubes. They were a rag-tag, roguish lot, clad in the filthy tatters of former finery, wild greasy locks flying around pinched faces. Quite obviously, these dilapidated vagabonds were stationed here to seize or subdue any chance visitors to the moving metropolis who might happen to drop in, as you might say. It was equally obvious that the scrawny rogues counted heavily on their prey being stunned and dazed by their swooping, veering journey down the steep inclines.

In the present case they had erred, at least as far as the burly Tigerman went. Like all of his feline ancestors, Grrff had the ability to land on his feet and his sense of balance was innate, as was his natural-born resistance to vertigo. Voicing a rumbling roar of outrage, the brawny Karjixian writhed out of his bonds in a trice. He had lost his ygdraxel to the magnetic tendrils, but being unarmed never phased the jungle warrior. Reaching up, he seized a hold of the lasso cords and gave them a vigorous pull, snatching two squeaking ragamuffins from their precarious perch in the piping. They fell squalling and bouncing onto the gas-cushion and Grrff sprang upon them, buffetting them senseless with his heavy paws.

Ganelon was dizzy and disoriented from his headlong trip down the greased shoot, but he was only a moment or two behind the Tigerman’s example. One powerful jerk of his arms and four of the raggedy starvelings were plucked from their places above. The others, shrilling curses, clambered away from the debacle with the ungainly agility of monstrous spiders, abandoning their hapless cronies to whatever fate lay in store for them.

Ganelon quickly subdued his four captives in much the same manner as had Grrff and, turning to see how Phadia fared, was pleased to discover that the resourceful lad had whipped out his knife and had cut himself free. Of them all, only Phadia had not been disarmed by the magnetic tendrils which had captured them.

Gripping his captives by the scruff of the neck, Ganelon floundered to the edge of the immense inflated cushion and slid down it to the floor of the huge, basement-like room in which the greased slides had deposited them. Grrff came at his heels, kicking his unconscious catch along ahead of him, and Phadia brought up the rear.

“A fine welcoming committee!” fumed Grrff, his usually amiable temper severely ruffled for once. “If these skinny varlets be an example of the local citizenry, then we have fallen into a lair of bandits!” He gave his unconscious captives a furious shake, then began searching them curiously.

“Not bandits,” Ganelon corrected him, lips pursed judiciously. “lomagoths, I should say. Notice the tribal tattoo above the left eye. But this is strange! The lomagoths are generally a kindly and hospitable lot, so long as you keep your eye on them and lock up the family silver.”

“What are lomagoths?” inquired the boy, bright-eyed with curiosity. He found their endless succession of adventures a source of continuous entertainment.

“Wandering bands of tinkers who travel the countryside in gaudy carts, drawn by nguamodom” replied the Construct. “Ages ago, they were a horde of barbarians who formerly inhabited the regions known as The Hegemony. As the other denizens of those lands gradually became civilized, the lomagothic clans retained their nomadic way of life. But they were weaned over many generations from their warlike ways, becoming a gaudy, thievish, lazy, illiterate race of wanderers. I have never known them to dwell in cities before; wonder how they came to be here?”

“Probably snatched up in passing by this mechanical kleptomaniac we are all traveling in,” growled Grrff disdainfully. “Harmless tinkers, is it? Maybe in your homeland, big man; in Grrff’s dear country, they are chicken-thieves, cattle-rustlers, and kaobonga-stealers!” * A few of the captives were beginning to come around. Groaning piteously and clutching throbbing brows, they crouched on bony, trembling haunches and stared fearfully at the somber, towering young giant and the burly-chested Tigerman.

* A species of very large, four-legged, air-breathing fish found in the jungle streams and rivers of Karjixia, and cultivated by the Tigermen as a staple food.

Licking thin lips with the point of his tongue, one of them hesitantly addressed them.

“Ssurely, your wor-worships intend no h-harm to a poor old lomagoth?” this individual piped shrilly, sharp little black eyes darting about as if seeking an avenue of escape. “No h-harm was meant to your noble persons, Zilth assures you! ‘Tis our practice to immobilize unexpected visitors, in order to ascertain if they be enemies or f-friends—”

” ‘Immobilize,* is it, you scrawny guttersnipe?” growled the Tigerman threateningly. “Grrff’ll ‘immobilize’ you, aye, with his claws out, next time you try to jump US!” And, thrusting his great paws under the little man’s nose, he bared his glittering and savagely sharp claws with a snicc sound, making the little rogue squeak and cower.

“No rough stuff, Grrff,” cautioned Ganelon, stepping forward. “We can’t get any information out of these creatures if you scare them half out of their wits! You, there, Zilth, is it? Who’s in charge of this city?”

The little man huddled at his feet, examining his second interlocutor with bright, fearful eyes.

“The noble gentleman asks a question with two answers, at least,” he whimpered. “The City runs itself, of course; it’s name is Kan Zar Kan. But we of The Folk who dwell herein like hunted rabbits, well, our chief rules us. King Yemple is his name …”

“No one lives here but you lomagoths, then?”

The little rogue darted his eyes about and licked his lips as he did, seemingly by reflex action, before every spurt of speech. Ganelon got the feeling that, for Zilth, every direct question gave him the choice between his normal mode of reply, a devious lie, and that rarity from his lips—truth. Under the present circumstances, it seemed, he was too frightened to speak anything but the truth.

“Mostly lomagoths,” he said in a reluctant whine. “A few rogues, of course—”

“Who eluded your clutches in much the same manner as we did?” offered Silvermane. The scrawny little man eyed him warily, then nodded.

His bony wrists tied behind his back, Zilth reluctantly led them towards the headquarters of the lomagoths. The others they had seized were disarmed of a staggering cumulative arsenal of daggers, dirks, stilettos, and a number of wicked little hook-knives. They were bound, gagged and left behind.

The room into which they had been precipitated was an enormous, meandering sort of sub-basement, dark and poorly ventilated, and thronged with an immensity of hydraulic pipes, tubes and conduits. The floor was of oil-stained concrete. Why the City had deposited them in such a place was unknown to the lomagoths, who had only been in residence for about two generations, having been captured by the Mobile City pretty much as Grrff had guessed. They had been crossing the Purple Plain in one of their gypsy caravans forty years ago when suddenly, the City had descended upon them and snatched them up into its metal maw, one by one. And here they had remained ever since, either too fearful to attempt to leave, or frustrated in doing so. The City tolerated their presence not so much because it liked them, but because it felt that a proper city should have inhabitants, and any inhabitants were better than no inhabitants.

All this was elicited from their little captive during the subterranean journey. Once his fears of lingering torture or sudden death were mollified, the scrawny little rogue became actually talkative. He was a remarkable little person, no more than four feet tall and thin as a broomstick, with a long-jawed, unshaven face and a sallow, unhealthy complexion. Since his beard was blue-black, this lent him the most peculiar appearance you can imagine. The upper part of his face was yellow, and the bottom half a stubbly blue.

He had a long sharp nose, bright inquisitive black eyes, and lank blue-black, remarkably greasy hair, bound about his brows by a scarlet kerchief. Gold rings wobbled in his earlobes and his breath exuded a mingled redolency of garlic, onions, cheese and sour wine.

He did not, of course, say so, but Ganelon guessed that when it had been observed by lookouts that the Mobile City was in the process of scooping up another shanghaied “citizen,” a troop of the gypsies went down to the gas-cushion room. They readied themselves to capture the new recruit, strip him of his possessions and then, as likely as not, conduct him before the princeling of the vagabonds as a potential slave. Possibly some of the Kan Zar Kanians enlisted into the local citizenry in this fashion were later ransomed, or perhaps joined the tinker band voluntarily. That remained to be seen.

In the meanwhile, Ganelon just clumped along gloomily, following where the capering, voluble little rogue led. He wondered what had become of the Illusionist, Xarda and Erigon. Were they captives here, or had the City slain them?

Or were they in Kan Zar Kan at all?

That remained to be seen.

24. WITHIN THE ROBOT CITY

Yemple was a fat, jolly old man with a pink-yellow scalp visible through his sparse strands of dirty white hair. His rubicund face was perpetually wreathed with sunny smiles, but despite his air of heartiness Ganelon sensed a clever, cunning brain that ticked away under the surface, constantly estimating the advantages and drawbacks in whatever situation presented itself.

Probably Ganelon was correct in guessing that it was the usual thing for the lomagoths to seize upon, plunder and enslave newcomers to Kan Zar Kan the moment the automatic mechanism deposited them in the basement of the central edifice. If so, the gypsy king accepted the complete reversal of roles with equanimity, beyond a few bawdy jests at the expense of poor Zilth who grinned and snickered shamefacedly, shuffling his long feet in embarrassment.

They were served a buffet lunch which consisted of prairie-birds roasted whole, feathers and all; ah* vegetables, a variety of succulent tuber which floated at various levels above the Plains suspended from inflated bladders filled with a hydrogenous gas; and shishke-babs, consisting of gamy meat cubes skewered and cooked over charcoal. Half-heartedly chewing on this last delicacy, Ganelon wisely decided not to inquire into its source. Since the lomagoths inhabited the sewers of the robot metropolis doubtless those sewers, like all others within Ganelon’s experience, were inhabited by rats.

The meal was washed down with a thin, sour red wine, to the tinkling thumps of tambourines and the hip-wriggjings of dancing-girls. Among these, the stellar role was filled by Yemple’s own daughter, the lissome Slioma. She was a slim but well-rounded lass with dusky skin, flashing black eyes, and warm red lips perpetually open in a lazy, inviting smile, baring teeth of startling perfection and whiteness. Phadia, a severe critic when it came to the fine art of terpsi-chorean endeavor, was captivated by the vivacious princess of the gypsies, who was not very much older than himself. The lad had hardly ever seen a girl before, much less one of his own age, and his fascination proved there was hope for him yet.

As the boy watched her undulate about the room, bare brown legs twinkling amidst the twirling of flounced, scarlet, innumerable petticoats, Ganelon and Grrff observed his entranced, open-mouthed admiration. They beamed fondly and exchanged a grin of paternal satisfaction.

As the wine bottles went back and forth, the hospitable gypsy king waxed talkative. The Mobile City, he understood, was one of the remarkable constructions abandoned by the Technarchs of Vandalex after the collapse of their empire. Originally, the gigantic robot had been designed as a self-mobile, completely automatic metals mine. Equipped with electronic sensors of extraordinary subtlety, the robot mining machine was supposed to navigate the Purple Plain seeking out subterranean ore deposits. Upon finding one, it squatted atop the ground, rather like a nesting hen, extruding from its underneath drill-probes and clutchers. Excavating the, ore, which it drew up into its innards, the giant robot smelted and refined the metals thus extracted from the bowels of the planet, stacking them in neatly aligned ingots.

Once programmed for these multiple functions, the machine could virtually run itself forever. When a portion of its machinery broke down through neglect or decay, the machine was permitted by its standard code of operating procedures to draw upon its stockpile of ingots, set into operation its machine-shops and thus to repair itself. In the long ages since the collapse of Vandalex and the fall of the Technarchs, the giant robot had received no further instructions from Grand Phesion, the capitol. It had been left to its own devices. Becoming over-burdened by the ingot stockpiles, the mining robot had added to its own structure, in lieu of instructions to the contrary. Observing from afar the cities of men, and lacking any other idea, the simple machine had transformed itself into the replica of a city. Since cities require inhabitants, the machine had captured a quantity of them. Its first inhabitants had been a lengthy caravan-train from Jashp, bearing a party of Zealots on pilgrimage to the shrine of the Floating Stones in far-off Klish.

The Zealots had inhabited the city for about one generation, but had died out due to a lack of females. Thereafter, the Mobile City of Kan Zar Kan (so christened by the unhappy Zealots, who named it after the most excruciating of the seventy-three hells in their dire mythology) had been careful to take aboard females as well as males, during her/his/its periodic efforts to add new citizens to the correction. The lomagoths had replaced a dwindling band of Quaylies, one or two of which were still around.

Ganelon found it impossible to get a word in, so talkative was the fat old vagabond prince when in his cups. By the time a tattered band of giggling, bright-eyed gypsy children led them off to the sleeping quarters reserved for guests, he still had not been able to find out if any of his missing friends were also aboard the Mobile Qty.

He reasoned that they must be, for surely Dzimdazoul had directed them into that part of the Purple Plain for the avowed purpose of reuniting him with his friends. He went to sleep still worrying about it.

The next day, Ganelon and his companions explored the City. The gypsies were engaged in hunting meat, and the travellers rather squeamishly preferred not to know how their ruffianly hosts procured food for the table. Declining the invitation to join in the hunt, they were left to their own devices.

Slioma volunteered to be their guide on the tour. The bright-eyed gypsy girl was intrigued by the strangers, who represented ways of life entirely foreign to her experience. Like many girls her age, the thought of far-off lands and strange kingdoms was irresistibly exotic to her, and she had taken to tagging about after them. She proved a lively, amusing guide, with her piquant chatter and provocative, sideward glances.

She led them to the street-level of the City, which was completely deserted, save for machines. Here were built rows on rows of metal houses, or what closely resembled houses. It puzzled Silvennane that the lomagoths ignored these relatively palatial dwellings for the dark, noisome sewers below the streets. Inquiring of Slioma on this point, the girl seemed baffled; Ganelon at length-came to the conclusion that the vagabonds were more accustomed to a furtive life in hiding, than an open, lawful existence in respectable surroundings. It seemed never to have occurred to them to switch their homes to live in the upper air.

Peering inside one of the metal houses, he realized there was more good sense to their preference for the submunicipal warrens than he had at first supposed. For the houses, though neat, light, airy and scrupulously clean, were totally devoid of any furnishings, nor were there interior rooms. They were merely empty containers^Jwhose facades alone—suggested their purpose was to accomodate human families.

“Why, it must be the City’s fault!” exclaimed Phadia eagerly. “Of course! The City could only see houses in other cities from a distance, and had no idea what was supposed to be inside of them!”

” ‘S’ true,” the girl chimed in. “OF City ‘nt know how real folks live. ‘N’ always cleanin’ up after folks, so.” She shuddered fastidiously. Personal cleanliness was a trait observed principally by strict avoidance, among her raffish tribe.

As they explored the perfectly empty buildings, strolled along the spotless but untraveled streets and ventured on some of the nearest aerial walkways, the City observed them benignly from its thousands of “eyes”—binocular vision lenses stationed at odd points about the metal metropolis. These twinkled down at them with a sentient watchfulness that made Griffs nape-fur tingle and his hackles rise. But the continuous observation was somehow kindly and gratified. The City desired to be inhabited, and it pleased the gigantic robot intelligence to see its populace strolling about its usually unpopulated ways.

When they wearied after a time and sought to rest, a bubble car came smoothly to a halt before them and opened its transparent canopy invitingly. Phadia would have clambered in for the pleasures of an aerial ride but Grrff held him back by the scruff of the neck and Slioma indignantly waved the vehicle on its way.

“Go long with you,” the girl scolded shrilly. “Git, now!” The vehicle regarded them calmly but with a trace of sadness in its lenses, then scooted off and floated into the air to join its empty, purposelessly circling comrades. The girl flirted her skirts after it, then came swaggering back to where they stood.

“Ol’ cars, they take us where they want us to go! Nemine where you wanna go!” Ganelon studied the circling swarm of weightless vehicles and observed the traffic pattern, which was utterly regular. He repressed a sudden qualm: had they accepted a ride from the car, they might have remained trapped in it for days or even weeks, helplessly held captive aloft until the balance of the pattern decreed their vehicle should come to rest.

During their tour of the Mobile City, Ganelon and Grrff observed with avuncular fondness the frequent and meaningful glances the girl exchanged with the boy. During one pause for rest, Phadia showed Slioma some of his cosmetics. The girl delightedly submitted to the deft application of eye-liner, lip-rouge, and instant hair-setting spray which turned her lank, greasy locks into a glossy cloud of shimmering ebon curls. Sniffing with delight the perfume he had dabbed on her wrists, the girl swore with pleasure.

A while later, looking back to see why they were lingering behind, Ganelon was amused to see them holding hands as they strolled dreamily along after the grown-ups/

The central citadel of the City interested him. Inquiring thereof, he noticed the gypsy girl evaded direct answers with slurred half-statements. As the shades of afternoon began lengthening towards nightfall, and they started to return to the submunicipal warrens for the evening meal, Ganelon directed his companions to return without him. Once they had vanished into the sewers, he headed directly towards the immense structure which bulked at the hub of the city’s disk. It was there, he reasoned, that the sensory and cognitional faculties of Kan Zar Kan must be located. As the City seemed benevolent towards its denizens, he hoped to persuade the monster mechanism to assist him in locating the Illusionist.

There did not seem to be any entrance at street-level, so he clambered up the gleaming flanks to the second story and gained entry through a port which opened into a completely darkened chamber.

He had only advanced five steps into the darkness when a stern voice bade him halt. He whirled about lithely, prepared to give battle to whatever sentry was stationed here.

Light appeared amidst the darkness and by its glare Ganelon could see the being who had accosted him. He gaped in amazement at what he saw.

25. KAN ZAR KAN IS ATTACKED

Griff only nibbled at his dinner and drank only a flagon or two of the sour yellow wine the lomagoths distilled from the juices of the air vegetables. The burly Tigennan was distracted by worry over the fact that Ganelon Silvermane had yet to return to the gypsy camp.

As to exactly why this should worry him, Grrff himself could not articulate. Surely, the bronze giant was able to take care of himself should he be set upon by beasts or human foes, for he was twice the weight of an ordinary man and had almost the strength of a god. The City itself, though capricious and at times inscrutable, was charitably disposed towards its inhabitants to the extent of extracting water from the atmosphere to serve their needs here in the sewers. The gypsy king assured him that Kan Zar Kan would not attempt to harm the giant man.

Still, Grrff could not allay his suspicions that something had happened to the big man he regarded as his friend, comrade and fellow-warrior. At the evening feast, peering around at the scrawny ruffians, Grrff found himself wondering if the vagabonds were really as friendly as they seemed. Perhaps they had waylaid Silvermane once he was alone, and had imprisoned or slain him. King Yemple swilled down wine, gurgling with laughter over the grotesque capers of his clowns and conjurers; sly, thievish Zilth gorged on fresh meat, jested and snickered with his cronies; Phadia and Slioma hardly touched their meat and had eyes only for each other. Before the feast was actually concluded, the Tigerman noticed, the lad and the girl stole off together to find an unused cubicle. Grrff only hoped it was for the purpose of mutual amatory pleasure, and not a cunning plot on the part of Yemple’s bravos to separate them one by one and then capture them. But about an hour and half later his tentative suspicions were relieved when the two young people returned to the feast, flushed, bright-eyed and tousled, with their clothing considerably in disarray.

By bedtime the giant man still had not returned to the tunnel system. Grrff, tossing and turning restlessly on his pallet, entertained visions of Ganelon trapped in a bubble car and condemned to endless circlings of the City; of Ganelon lost in the sewers, having forgotten the code markings which clearly blazoned the way into portions of the system currently inhabited by the lomagoths; of Ganelon seized by the cold, dispassionate sentience of the City Brain, and now stretched naked under blazing antiseptic lamps while the robot intelligence scrutinized his innards, laid bare by dissection. The multiplicity of dire eventualities his fevered imagination conjured up forbade Grrff from slumbering.

At length he rose, took up his gear, and found his way past snoring vagabonds to the upper levels again. He had no real idea of where Ganelon Silvermane could have gotten to, nor even why the big man had remained behind. But remembering his queries regarding the central edifice, Grrff decided to begin his search there.

The City by night was weird and more than a little spooky, the faithful Tigerman discovered. The empty buildings stared at him with blank windows, like the eye-sockets of so many giant skulls. His footsteps clanged hollowly on the metal streets as he strode their length. He constantly had a feeling of being watched from a secret place of concealment by hidden eyes, which caused his hackles to lift in a stiff ruff of fur. Clenching his weapon in his huge paws he prowled the City, eyes roaming nervously from side to side.

The City was in motion, skimming along over the Purple Plain in a north-easterly direction insofar as he could judge, and traveling along at a pretty fair clip—about thirty miles per hour, he estimated roughly. The omnipresent hum and purr of the internal mechanisms of Kan Zar Kan were lost in the rush of wind that blew, with an eerie moaning sound, through the tall spires of the robot metropolis. The air cushion which lifted the dish-like foundation of the City a dozen feet above the violet sward was almost completely soundless: the City glided across the prairie in ghostly flight. It was all just a bit unnerving, he found.

And so was the metal metropolis itself. For its un-ligjited and long rows of dark, empty houses, unil-luminated towers and gloom-filled domes lent it something of the aspect of a dead, long-deserted city of the past. In his quests and peregrinations across the mighty face of Gondwane, the Tigerman had once visited the Cylinder Cities of the north and the Dead Cities of Caostro in the remote southlands: the same weird uncanniness gripped him now that he had experienced in those far kingdoms, whose builders had belonged to races long since extinct.

Grrff wondered to himself why Kan Zar Kan did not light itself by night. Surely, the several techniques of artificial illummation were not beyond the skills of its automatic workshops. He brooded over the possibilities of their being some arcane and mysterious reason for the lack of night lights. The City, cloaked in gloom, glided across the meadowlands in an almost furtive fashion. As if bound on a sinister mission, it concealed itself in darkness the better to avoid chance discovery as it crept stealthily upon its prey.

The whole scene was getting on his nerves! With a deep-chested growl, the busly Karjixian shook himself and cast off his spooky speculations. Probably, the answer to the question was simplicity itself: perhaps Kan Zar Kan had only observed real human cities by daylight, and had no way of knowing the lengths to which men go to illuminate their centers of population after nightfall.

The citadel was nearer now: he eyed it thoughtfully. If he managed to gain entry unobserved and unmolested, was able to search the towering ziggurat in satisfactorily thorough manner and did not find Ganelon Silvermane, then he had no idea where else to seek his missing friend.

But—first things first. The central structure was the most obvious place to look for the bronze man. He would worry about what to do after that when the time came.

Grrff was completely practical and methodical, and took things as they came.

Suddenly, the whistling silence was broken by the shrill and clamor of alarms. Grrff started, jumped four inches into the air and cursed himself for his jumpi-ness. Had he accidentally tripped some warning device, unwittingly announcing his presence? Hefting the ygdraxel he had retrieved from the municipal stores, he peered about for some type of robotic guards, monitors or police. He found none.

Then a deep, calm voice spoke out of thin air, echoing through the length of the City.

“Attention all Citizens! This is your City speaking. I am about to suffer attack by unknown enemies who will strike simultaneously from the Earth’s surface and the upper atmosphere! All attempts to enter into electronic communication with this unknown foe have proved futile. But fear not, people of Kan Zar Kan! Your City will defend its inhabitants against exterior molestation with the utmost vigor and ingenuity its mentation tanks are capable of! Remain in your homes and be of good cheer: The City has never yet been conquered or even invaded. If all Citizens do their part in our Civil Defense program, we shall elude or destroy our enemies without serious harm. Evasive maneuvers will begin in approximately nine seconds. Secure a comfortable position in a prone posture, if you please, to avoid being flung about and thereby bruising yourselves against my edges. Evasive action begins—now!”

And the City took an abrupt curve at right angles to its former course. Grrff was flung off-balance and he cracked his head against the curbing. His skull rang and he saw stars. Shaking his head furiously, he got to his feet and peered around intently to discern the nature of the attack.

From the upper works of the forward traveling edge of the City, lamps cast a piercing actinic glare on the prairie directly ahead. Peering down the length of the street whereon he stood, Grrff saw nothing but an endless plain of waving grasses, formerly cloaked in darkness but not brilliantly illuminated by the stabbing rays.

The night was young and the Falling Moon had not yet entered the sky. By the searchlights, Grrff now saw a turmoil of sudden activity far out on the grassy plains. Thousands of small, scuttling bowlegged figures, vaguely humanoid in appearance, came into view. They seemed to have diverted their course to intercept the Mobile City. They were too small or too distant, or perhaps both, for him to mark them clearly. The City was now moving at such velocity that their small, waddled figures were mere blurs against the brightly-lit field.

Then something fairly large swooped down low over the City and burst like deadly fireworks, becoming a drifting cloud of small red lights. Grrff looked up, shading his eyes against the ruddy glare. The slowly falling red balls of flame exploded with deafening concussions when they came into contact with the upper tiers, tower-tops or aerial walkways. One red fireball struck an empty bubble car and the resultant explosion tore the plastic vehicle asunder. Shards of red hot plastic showered the street and rooftops directly beneath.

The City was indeed under attack. But—by whom?

Staring up into the black sky, Grrff strove to discern the nature of the air assault. Then more searchlights snapped on, spearing the sky, snaring a flying vehicle in their shafts of brilliance.

Now Grrff could see the air enemy clearly—and he roared with astonishment at what he saw.

26. IN THE RED ZIGGURAT

Ganelon stared, grunted with surprise, then relaxed grinning happily. For the person who had addressed him from the darkness of the room proved to be a remarkably handsome young woman in a state of nudity, brandishing a longsword in one small, capable fist. A young woman with tousled red hair, sharp green eyes and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her small snub hose.

It was Xarda, the girl knight of Jemmerdy!

She was almost as surprised to see him as he was to see her. Her green eyes widened and she started to ask him some mane question like “What are you doing here?”, when she was suddenly reminded of her state of undress. Dropping her sword (which thumped to the carpet), she snatched a sheet from the bed in which she had been sleeping and hastily held it before her.

“It’s not that I am sorry to see you,” she grexed, “but, gadzooks, must you come popping through the window of a lady’s bedchamber?”

Ganelon solemnly apologized, explaining the situation. Then he released a torrent of questions which the Sirix of Jemmerdy stilled with a lifted palm.

“Save all that for later, can’t you? The magister will want to be apprised of your arrival. I’ll get dressed now—if you don’t mind!”

Ganelon loitered in the hallway until she rejoined a few moments later, now bedecked with odds and ends of steel armor which she thought were decent and proper garb for a young woman. She led him through a maze of rooms into a huge chamber mostly filled with towering banks of machinery where the Illusionist toiled, his silken robes besmirched with daubs of graphite lubricant. He was delighted to see Ganelon, but it was obvious his attentions were elsewhere.

“Thought you’d be turning up before long,” he murmured abstractedly. “Wherever have you been all this while? Getting into trouble as usual, I’ll hazard! Never mind: tell me later. Must get these switches connected to the power source …”

Above them, a huge lens swung about to observe the grouping amiably. A toneless mechanical voice spoke from a grill situated beneath the lens.

“I perceive you have been joined by one of my more recent Citizens,” the voice stated calmly.

“Yes,” grunted the old magician briefly. “Ganelon, meet the City. City, this is my associate Ganelon, called Silvermane.”

Never having been formally introduced to a city before, Ganelon groped for something to say. The City, on the other hand, felt no such restraints.

“How do you do, Ganelon-Called-Silvermane? Welcome to myself. Enjoy your stay here. Should you desire to reside within me permanently, the Immigration Bureau opens tomorrow morning at nine. All applications considered promptly. While you are within me, do not neglect to see the several major tourist attractions. The Red Ziggurat, which is the largest metal building presently extant in Greater Zuavia. The Fire Fountain, newly restored and renovated. An aerial tour via bubble car can be arranged.”

“Oh, do be quiet, City!” the magician said, testily. “These connections are tricky.” The voice lapsed into silence on the half-syllable.

“How did you get here, anyway?” asked Ganelon of Xarda in low tones. She told him briefly of their escape from Chx and how they had discovered the Bazonga rendered temporarily inoperable, having run into the Vanishing Mountains headfirst; how they had searched Chx and Dwarfland for him and would have extended the quest to include the Land of Red Magic, had not the witless Bird flown them into the northern plains country.

“Well, that’s where I was, all right,” said Silvermane. While the Illusionist listened with half an ear, swearing under his breath at the wiring problems, the young giant explained how the Death Dwarves had captured him and turned him over to Red Magic legionnaires. He told of his captivity by the Enchantress, his escape with Grrff and Phadia, their weird interdimensional trip through the hyperspatial tube, their stay with the Old Dragon, and so on.

By the time Ganelon had concluded an account of his most recent adventures, the magician had finished rewiring the City’s bypass unit, as he explained it to be.

“The City desires nothing more than to become a real city, which implies a stationary locale; but the prime directives implanted in its mentation tanks force it to continually wander about hunting for ore deposits which it no longer has any reason to mine,” he explained, wiping his hands on a bit of waste.* “These emergency bypass circuits, which I have just installed, should enable the poor thing to get around those of the directives which it no longer wishes to obey. So you fell into the toils of Zelmarine, heh? Remember how I spirited you out of Zermish to keep you from her clutches? Well, you seem to, ah, have escaped her dominions unscathed: tell me, dear boy, did you find out what it was she wanted you for?”

* Ganelon had never before seen the Illusionist’s bare hands, or for that matter, any portion of his anatomy unclothed, due to his habitually wearing a mask, robes and gloves. The Epic at this point explains that his hands, while completely human in appearance and structure, were the color of silver. Originally, this meant nothing to me, so I eliminated it from my redaction of the text at this point But in the light of something mentioned in the Third Book, it does indeed seem significant, hence I have restored it to the text at this point.

Ganelon, with a shamefaced glance at Xarda, blushed darkly crimson.

“Well, uh …”

“I see, just as I thought! For breeding purposes. And did you succumb to her wiles in that direction?”

“Well, I, uh …”

“Good! The last thing this part of Gondwane needs is a race of immortal supermen fired with ambitions of an imperial destiny. Providing she did not abstract a sample of your sperm for artificial insemination while you slept or were drugged or enchanted, she may still be after you. Red Magic, her specialty you know, works through the human aura. Her abilities to detect individual auric spectra from over a great distance may lead to a further confrontation between us. Let us hope this does not occur.”

Ganelon, happy to change the subject, inquired after Erigon and the Bazonga. The Illusionist smiled.

“Prince Erigon doubtless sleeps in his apartments here in the Red Ziggurat. The City was more than happy to employ its transmutation factories for the production of room furnishings, carpets, bedding and the like, once I explained to it that humans require such luxuries for their comforts. Hence, several apartments here in the Brain Complex have been reserved and furnished for our usage. As for the dear Bird, she is probably cruising about in the central air duct, which is as large as a wind tunnel. It amuses her to improve her flyingjskills in this manner. Now, m’ boy, I am interested in what you say about the lomagoths. The City is aware of them, of course, and wishes they would come out of the sewers and settle down in any of the houses or cottages already standing. The City will, of course, furnish these according to their wishes. It has promised to equip them with sanitation facilities and running water, now that the poor mechanism understands these human requirements. You must introduce me to the chieftain of the gypsies, so that I may attempt to coax him and his tribe to accept the accomodations the City offers … Great Galendil, what’s that?”

‘That’ was a muffled clangor and shriek—the municipal alarm system, as heard from within the central edifice.

A moment later, the loudspeakers in the Ziggurat came on and made the identical announcement which had so surprised Grrff the Tigerman on the street.

The Illusionist asked the City who or what was attacking it. In response, a large ground-glass screen lit with swirling colors which resolved themselves, by split-screen process, into a three-dimensional view of the forces striking simultaneously from the ground and from the air.

A vista of artificially-lit meadowland swam into focus, filled with stunted, scurrying green imps. Behind them, mounted on prancing white OrnithaWppi, came troops of human soldiery in red armor of curious design.

“Death Dwarves, and a back-up regiment of Red Magic soldiers,” mused the Illusionist worriedly. “That means … my prediction was correct. The Enchantress has traced you here and is making an all-out effort to recapture you!”

The split-screen showed, on its upper half, a fantastic vista of blowing clouds pierced by searchlights. A flying chariot came into view: standing therein, holding the reins in one hand, the Red Queen towered. Her glossy, darkly crimson locks flowing behind her like a tattered banner, the expression on her face was that of a vengeful Fury. The sky chariot was drawn by a matched team of green-scaled, bat-winged, two-legged wyverns.

In her right hand she bore a long iron staff with a flared tip. A spluttering red light blazed in this flared cup. When she gestured, a shower of red fireballs was sprinkled forth on the winds, drifting down to detonate with resounding bangs against the streets and buildings of the Mobile City. “I am adopting evasive tactics,” advised the City, swerving from its path to avoid the onslaught of the ground forces. But the Red Magic legion was too quick for it, and diverted their own advance to intercept Kan Zar Kan on its new course.

“Stand by for collision,” announced the City calmly.

A moment later, the forward edge of the City encountered the vanguard of the Death Dwarves and the Red Magic soldiers. The vision screen tilted its angle of vision to show what occurred at the moment of impact.

And Xarda screamed—!

27. BATTLE ON THE ENDLESS PLAIN

As the forward edge of the City came into contact with the vanguard of the Death Dwarves and the Red Magic legion, something wonderful and terrible occurred.

The dwarvish little green monsters were suddenly snatched up by an invisible force which bowled them over. Squalling and kicking furiously, they were drawn out of sight under the lip of the vast metal dish on which the City was built.

A moment later, the same irresistible force struck the Red Magic warriors. They were torn out of their saddles, some of them, and flew through the air to vanish beneath the City’s edge. Others were drawn beneath the City, Ornith and all. It was mysterious and appalling.

The City itself, no longer floating a few yards above the Purple Plain on its air cushion, now settled towards the meadow’s surface. Its undercarriage mechanisms prevented it from sinking down into the grass. Still, the lip of Kan Zar Kan stood ten feet or so above the planetary surface.

The inexplicable force continued to suck in the attacking force, underneath the Mobile City. Now, as the enormous edge of the Moon began to rise up over the horizon, and to augment by its silvery glare the illumination afforded by the City’s searchlights, the effects of the mystery force could be more clearly observed. The purple grass itself was literally being pulled out of the soil, tugging and straining at its roots in a frenzied effort to fly into the undercarriage mechanism. It was quite inexplicable.

Inexplicable, that is, to all save the Illusionist. The old magician caught on almost at once. He yowled with glee, hopping from one foot to another in a capering dance. Xarda, Erigon and Silvermane stared at him without comprehension.

“Don’t you understand, you simpletons?” the Illusionist crowed. “The air cushion upon which the City rides is reversible! Under normal circumstances, the air is drawn in the side vents by the suction of powerful fans and is thrust out beneath the City, but Kan Zar Kan has simply reversed the circulation of air. Now, it is being sucked in by the powerful fans which normally expel it. That powerful suction is the force which has irresistibly pulled the little green horrors and Zelmarine’s soldiers into the mechanism. At any moment, we may expect the City to reverse the system and we shall see the results—-ah, hah!

The faint whirring of the air system changed to a full-throated drone. Suddenly the City opened its side vents, spewing forth a gory rain which sprinkled the surrounding meadows with something remarkably like a thin, stocky chowder. The fluid was mixed with lumps, shreds of green dwarf flesh and soldier meat, as well as scraps of white fluff from the unfortunate Orniths.

The flesh of the Death Dwarves was tough, and so was the armor of the Red Magic legionnaires. But, quite obviously, not tough enough to avoid being sliced to tiny gobbets when it was drawn through the whirling blades of the fans.

Now the City slid forward some seventy feet, again reversed its air suction, and made further disastrous inroads upon the remainder of Zelmarine’s force which broke its lines and attempted to flee in all directions. A full score of Red Magic attackers were sucked into the fans, steed, saddle, soldier and all: a few escaped, spurring their swift-footed bh”4-horses into flight. As for the remaining Death Dwarves, the bandy-legged little monsters could not run very fast and therefore sought to elude the dreadful suction by burrowing under the meadow. The City remorselessly sucked them squealing and kicking out of their hasty holes, and a few moments later exhaled a ghastly greenish soup in all directions. The Battle of the Purple Plain had been won—on land, at least.

The angle of the vision screen tilted sharply, as the lenses traversed aloft. Evidently, the City was capable of doing two things at once, for now they saw the Enchantress safely imprisoned in a dull glassy sphere against whose durable curvature she raged impotently, hurling small red thunderbolts which only splattered in miniature explosions of sparks against the glassy stuff which encircled her.

“However did you do that?” marveled the old magician delightedly.

“An indestructible plastic of my own manufacture,” said the City complacently. “I generally employ it for lining the sewers. It required very little adjustment to extrude it skywards from the spouts, spinning it into a globe.”

Some chemical formulae appeared on the screen. The Illusionist studied them briefly, then nodded with satisfaction.

“Splendid stuff! Even the power of Red Magic cannot reduce that form of matter to dust. Well then, congratulations, City! You have won your first battle without the loss of a single life.”

Xarda eyed the raging Queen dubiously.

“That’s all very well, I’m sure,” the girl knight observed coldly. “But it does not really solve the problem, you know.”

“Problem? What problem?” sniffed the magician.

The Sirix of Jemmerdy shrugged. “Now that you’ve got her, what do you intend doing with her?” she inquired practically. “Sending her back to Shai will do no good, you know. By my troth, she’s wild with fury: once she gets out of there, she’ll be hot on our trail again. Defeat is a mortal insult to her. The poor City will never be safe, so long as she lives.”

Prince Erigon swallowed, grimacing fastidiously. The amiable young man found Xarda attractive and interesting, but at times a trifle too blood-thirsty for comfort. “I say, you don’t mean to kill a helpless captive, do you?” he inquired anxiously.

“What else?” demanded Xarda, callously. “As we say back home, ‘the only good foe is him who’s gone to Galendil’.”

“I’m afraid I agree with Xarda,” said the Illusionist. “The Enchantress must be disposed of. However, that presents us with quite a problem. Being partly a supernatural entity, she would be quite difficult to destroy. Mere physical force would hardly do the trick, I fear. And, being far from my magical laboratory, I lack at present the magical, ah, ‘clout’, to work the thing.”

They stared at one another thoughtfully. How do you permanently dispose of a dangerous and vindictive enemy who is a bit too powerful to be easily destroyed?

To the surprise of them all, it was Ganelon Silvermane who came up with the best idea. Because the giant youth was rather stolid and slow-speaking, they were all accustomed to thinking of him as being just a bit slower mentally than they were themselves. This, as the Illujsionist could have told them, was a fundamental error. Silvermane was possessed of a first-rate brain, but he tended to rely on others to come up with ideas, either out of habitual diffidence or modesty.

“The hyperspatial tube,” he said suddenly.

They stared at him uncomprehending.

“Eh, my boy, what was that?” asked the Illusionist absently. Silvermane repeated the phrase. They ogled him blankly, so he elaborated on his suggestion.

“The hyperspatial tube. You know, the interdimensional Labyrinth by which Grrff, Phadia and I (of course you haven’t met them yet because they’re still down in the sewers with all those lomagoths) escaped from Shai. Once you’re inside it, it’s awfully hard to figure out where you want to go and just how to get there. Couldn’t the City render the plastic sphere opaque, go back to that place on the Plains where we came out, and pop her inside the tiling at such a speed that by the time she slowed down and managed to get out of the globe, she’d be thoroughly lost. It might take her years to find her way back to Gondwane again?”

They mulled that over in silence for a time. Then the Illusionist cleared his throat.

“Ahem! While your syntax may leave something to be desired in terms of clarity, m’boy, your idea is perfectly feasible. In fact, I can’t think of a better solution to our problem myself! I say, City, can you locate the nearest terminus of the Cavern of a Thousand Perils?”

The City, in its pleasantly neutral voice, said that it certainly could. Extruding plastic nets wherein to snare the durable bubble which enclosed the raging but helpless Enchantress, it chased away her wyvern-chariot, which flew off in the general direction taken by the few surviving Red Magic legionnaires. Then, returning to normal traveling circuits, it lifted itself up onto its air cushion and went whiffling off over the blood-bedewed meadow grass in the direction of the terminus, which happened to be due southwest.

Well before morning paled in the east, the Enchantress had been hurled through the interdimensional gate at such extreme velocity that by the time she slowed and came to rest, she should be hopelessly lost somewhere between the worlds, planes, lands and ages connected by the hyperspatial network.

Doubtless, she would never be able to bother any of them again. Or so they hoped, anyway. Privately, the Illusionist was not so sure. But time would tell, as always.

28. THE CITY MOVES NORTH

Ganelon came out of the Red Ziggurat about the same time as Grrff succeeded in entering it. The burly Karjixian was delighted and relieved to see his friend safe and whole, but was mighty mystified by all the recent goings-on.

“Ho, big man! Still in one piece, eh? Grrff is happy to find you at last,” rumbled the Tigerman. “But whatever has been happening in this cursed walking city, anyway? First Drng’s little green devils attack, then— whoosh!—they go splattering all over the plain in bite-size chunks; then the Red Bitch is somehow globed up and the crazy city goes zipping back south again—”

Ganelon explained as best he could what was behind the recent events, then introduced the affable Grrff to his friends, Erigon, Xarda and the Illusionist. About that same time the Bazonga, considerably ruffled and bjesplattered, emerged from the ducts to indignantly inquire about who had turned on the garbage. While she was being mollified and cleaned up a bit, Yemple and his cohorts emerged timidly from the nearer sewer-grille, quite shaken up by the recent inexplicable happenings. Introductions were made all around and the entire population of Kan Zar Kan gathered timidly in a nearby square for an impromptu picnic breakfast while the Illusionist harangued the cowed, bewildered lomagoths and formally introduced them to their host.*

* That is, to the City itself.

“Kan Zar Kan is a changed City,” he told them. “It wishes for nothing more than to become your friendly and cooperative home on a permanent basis. It now understands about ‘too much cleaning-up’ and furnishings and such-like. Already, the robot factories are turning out cushions, carpets, window-curtains and kitchenware. If you will promise to settle here without attempting to escape, the City will consider all pleas, petitions and other requests from your elective spokesmen. Quite frankly, it is anxious to please. The City yearns to settle down in one place permanently and enter into trade with nearby civilizations. It remains armed and alert to defend its inhabitants against all foes. Well, what do you lomagoths say?”

King Yemple hemmed and hawed, raised quibbles and questions; but the womenfolk were ogling the array of new home furnishings temptingly displayed in the shop-windows, which had a direct conduit to the robot factories. The last vestige of lomagothic reluctance vanished when Yemple learned that the most imposing edifice of the City—the Red Ziggurat itself—would of course be reserved as the residence of the royal family. Articles of Mutual Agreement were drawn up on the instant, with Ganelon and the Illusionist as chief witnesses to the signing.

After breakfast, the lomagoths went on a guided tour of their beautiful new kingdom by bubble cars, which were now subservient to the wishes of their riders, while our friends considered their next course of action. Now that Zelmarine was more or less permanently out of the picture, the Illusionist was eager to reconnoiter the third of the major menaces he foresaw as threatening the peace and security of Northern YamaYamaLand.* Prince Erigon was more than pleased at this news, for the third menace was none other than the restive and warlike Ximchak Horde, currently threatening his own country of Valardus. The mild-mannered, rather soft-spoken young Prince was putting his head together with the Illusionist over plans when an unexpected visitation shattered the peaceful calm of the square.

* The first threat, already disposed of, was that of the Airmasters of Sky Island, and the second was the Red Enchantress herself.

As a scarlet, lobster-like ghoul-monster with many pincers and twice as many eyes suddenly materialized out of thin air amongst the picnic things, the Prince turned white as salt, jumped three feet into the air and uttered an anguished yelp. When he came down, he was off and running for the nearest sewer: only the Bazonga was fast enough to intercept him in his flight. She snared him by closing her bronze beak on the skirt of his tunic, giving him a playful nip in the process.

“Tuth! Idth on’y Fridth,” she chided, mummingly.

“What did you say?”

Releasing him, she cleared her throat. “Hard to talk with your mouth full, you know, Princey-dear! I said, Tush! It’s only Fryx’.”

“Did you say only?” shrilled the Prince incredulously. “It’s a Gyraphont, that’s what it is! I know a Gyraphont when I see one, I do! My nurse used to frighten me half to death with them when I had been, well, unruly. “ 'The Gyraphonts come to get bad little boys in the night,’ she would say, the old horror! Only a Gyraphont, indeed!”

“Oh, come on Prince, stop acting the milksop,” sneered Xarda, swaggering over to where the Valardan stood, bony knees clattering together like wooden castanets. “Fryx is the magister’s pet Gyraphont, quite tame and perfectly harmless.” Somewhat reluctantly, Erigon allowed himself to be coaxed back to where the scarlet lobster-devil stood conversing telepathically with the old magician.

You come back home now, holay? the weird monstrosity urged. No more zip-zoop around all over? Flion, he moultin’ and won’t eat, vat-critters all off they feed, an’ Vloob Atz allatime pickin ‘fights with tin man. Lotsa mail pilirt up, too.

Frowning worriedly behind his vapory vizor, the Illusionist turned to Erigon as he cautiously approached.

“I fear we shall have to postpone our plans to reconnoiter the situation in Valardus, my dear Prince,” he said. “My faithful Fryx informs me I am urgently needed at home. The creatures in my private menagerie of fabulous monsters are missing me to the point of malnutrition, and my pet apparition is indulging his vile temper in spats with Azgelazgus, one of my favorite Automatons.”

“That’s too bad,” murmured Erigon faintly, eyeing the scarlet, many-armed lobster-ghoul dubiously.

“It’s my own fault. I have been away from Nerelon far too long. Fryx has coped admirably thus far, but I fear I can no longer postpone a brief visit to put things right at my residence. Enchanted palaces are tricksey places under the best of conditions, you know. At times they need a firm hand on the reins, so to speak.”

“Quite all right, I’m sure,” said Erigon. “Does that mean the expedition to the north country is canceled?” inquired Silvermane. The old magician shook his head.

“Merely postponed, my boy, for a brief while.”

“Well, what about our plans for taking Xarda home? Back to Jemmerdy, I mean.”

“By my troth, Jemmerdy can wait,” the girl knight said spiritedly. “Our new-found comrade hath a cause, the which appeals to mine sense of Chivalry! Let us free the noble folk of sieged Valardus from the savage rabble first, ere any think of going home.”

They eyed her a bit askance. The Sirix flushed, biting her lip vexedly. She had more-or-less fallen out of her native mode of speech in their rough-and-ready company. From time to time, however, the antique mode came over her, as now.

She cleared her throat, leveling a defiant glare at any who might think to venture upon a chuckle. With none forthcoming, the girl knight relaxed and grinned a bit sheepishly.

“No, all kidding aside, really! I mean, look, why don’t you go on back home, magister. The rest of us can continue on to Valardus and await you there,” suggested Xarda, practical-minded as ever.

“I shall be taking the Bazonga bird,” said the Illusionist, “which would be leaving you with no method of transportation except for shank’s-mare. It would hardly be fair, asking you to cross the Purple Plains on foot—”

“What about the kayak?” piped up Phadia, who had been listening to this exchange with a crestfallen look on his pretty face, sorry that their adventures were at an end.

“You’re right, of course,” said the magician, surprised. “Istrobian’s flying kayak! Why, I had forgotten all about it!”

“I tied it to a stanchion back in the air duct,” said the Bazonga carelessly. “It interfered with my flying-practice, having that great lumbering thing tied to my tail-feathers.”

“Hmm, the kayak only seats four, you know. Ganelon, Xarda, Erigon, Grrff, Phadia. One of you will have to return to Nerelon with me, or walk. I suspect it should be you, my lad,” he said, with a fond glance at the young boy.

“But, sir, I want to have some more adventures!” protested Phadia, tears starting in his eyes.

“You’ve had quite enough adventures as it is,” said the magister with mock-severity. “Time you had a good hot bath and some real home cooking, and a few lessons in reading, writing, arithmetic, and razzledoxy!”

“But—!” Phadia screwed up his face and was about to burst into a storm of girlish sobs when Grrff enfolded him in a comforting, furry arm.

“Posh and pother, cub! Go along with the nice old human, now—you can join us, later on!” Xarda chimed in with some heartening words, and Ganelon solemnly began describing the many marvels of the Illusionist’s mountaintop abode, not neglecting to list the scrumptious, succulent meals Fryx was always shoving before them. Before long the lad was eagerly contemplating his chance to visit the enchanted palace of a world-famous magician, an opportunity few boys his age could hope to enjoy.

And then the City itself spoke up, offering to take the four northwards to Valardus using its mobility as means of transport. One last jaunt, before it settled down to becoming a regular City that stayed in one place all the tune, seemed only fitting and proper.

“A delightful notion, my dear City,” nodded the magician. “And should you find Valardus occupied by the Ximchak barbarians, simply remember to reverse your suction as you did with the Death Dwarves! Capital, capital! Why, I may rejoin you to find half the Horde already chopped into minced meat!”

The farewells were brief, though heart-felt. Ganelon had never been separated from his master for any length of time since he had left home nearly a year ago, but he was consoled by the fact that the separation was to be only a temporary thing. The Illusionist bundled the eager-faced Phadia into the Bazonga. Before the noontide sun had quite ascended to its zenith, the ungainly flying contraption rose, circled the plaza clacking her excited goodbyes, and flew off to the southwest, dwindling to a tiny mote in the distance. Fryx, of course, had taken his usual interdimensional shortcut and would be home before them, doubtless in time to have a fire lit in the great pillared hall, hot baths drawn, and huge mugs of steaming chocolate ready with heaping platters of sandwiches and cookies.

Ganelon stood gazing after the Bazonga, feeling empty, forlorn and somehow deserted. But before long the City started upward and began flying across the interminable meadows north, towards Valardus and an exciting host of new adventures among strange foreign lands and curious peoples.

It is hard to remain melancholy when faced with such an entertaining prospect. Shrugging off his solemn mood, Ganelon Silvermane turned on his heel and went over to where his friends were already getting set to have lunch with the happy, chattering band of lomagoths.

Gliding steadily on, north and ever north, Kan Zar Kan itself gradually dwindled and shrank until at last it vanished, lost in the distance. What perils and adventures lay ahead for the little band of heroes, only time would tell.

THE END.