shrouded depths. It might have dropped less than a thousand
feet, or for all he could tell it might have plunged straight to
the heart of the earth. Or to hell, if its legend-name was
accurate.
Instead, the depths seemed to hold a fiery, red-orange glow.
It arose from a distant whirlpool point.
As me boat continued to cruise smoothly across emptiness,
he finally saw the source of much of the thunder. There was
not just one waterfall, but four. Others crashed downward to
port and starboard, and the fourth lay dead ahead. These
sibling torrents were each as broad and fulsome as the one the
boat had just crossed. Four immense cascades converged
above the Pit and tumbled to a hidden infinity called Helldrink.
They were vast enough to drain all the oceans of all the
worlds.
The boat lurched, and everyone grabbed for something
solid. They'd reached the middle of the Drink and had
encountered the vortex of spray and upwelling air that dwelt
there. The little vessel spun around twice, a third time, in that
confluence of moist meterologics, and then was spun free by
the vortex's centrifugal power. It continued sailing steadily
across the chasm.
Ahead the far waterfall loomed closer. The bow made
contact with the water, the keel slipped in. They were sailing
steadily now upstream, against the current. Wind rising from
the Drink now blew at them from astern instead of in their
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faces. The sail billowed and filled for the first time since
they'd entered the Earth's Throat.
Clothahump suddenly leaned back against the railing. Hi'
hands dropped and his voice faltered. The boat slowed. For
an awful moment Jon-Tom thought the wind wouldn't be
enough to cancel the insistent force of the swift current. Only
Bribbens' skill enabled them finally to resume their forwara
progress.
Gradually they picked up speed, until the awesome pounding
of the falls had fallen to a gentle rumbling echo. They were
traveling upstream now, the wind steady behind them. The
same luminescent growths lined portions of cavern wall and
ceiling. They were in a subterranean chamber no different
from the one they had fled.
Emotionally wrung, Jon-Tom leaned over the side of the
boat and gazed astern. By now the last mists had been
swallowed by distance. No Massawrath clone waited here to
challenge them.
It did not have to. Never again could it send its pale white
children to haunt the sleep of at least one traveler. Having
been exposed, Jon-Tom was now immune. The encounter had
innoculated him against nightmare. One who has looked upon
the Mother of Nightmares cannot be frightened by her mere
minions of ill sleep.
Clothahump had slumped to the deck. He sat there rubbing
his right wrist. "I am out of shape," he muttered to no one in
particular. His attention rose to the mast. Pog was twisted
around the upper spreaders like a black coil.
The bat was slowly unwrapping himself. His malaria-like
shivers faded, and he spoke in a querulous whisper. "Oint-
ments, Master? Unguents and balms for ya arm, maybe a blue
pill for ya head?"
"You okay?" Jon-Tom gazed admiringly down at the
exhausted wizard.
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THE HOUR OF THE GATE
"I will be, boy." He spoke hoarsely to his famulus.
"Some ointment, yes. No pill for my head, but I will have
one of the green ones for my throat. Five minutes of nonstop
chanting." He sighed heavily, glanced back to Jon-Tom.
"Keep in mind, my boy, that a wizard's greatest danger is
not lack of knowledge nor the onset of senility nor such
forgetfulness as I am now prone to. It's laryngitis."
Then everyone was swarming happily around him. Except
me unperturbable, steady Bribbens. The boatman remained at
his post, eyes directed calculatingly upstream. They had left
the boat in his hands, and he left the congratulating in theirs.
It was later that Mudge found Jon-Tom seated near the bow
and staring morosely ahead. Strong wind from behind lifted
his upraised knees. The duar lay in his lap. He plucked
disconsolately at it as multihued formations passed in glowing
revue.
" 'Ere now, lad," said the otter concernedly, leaning over
and squeak-sniffing, "wot's the matter, then? That Massawatch-
oriswhatever's behind us now, not comin' down at us."
Jon-Tom drew another chord from the instrument, smiled
faintly up at the otter. "I blew it, Mudge." When the otter
continued to look puzzled, he added, "I could've done the
same thing as Clothahump, but I couldn't come up with the
right music." He looked down at the duar.
"I couldn't think of a single appropriate tune, not even a
chord. If it had all been up to me," he said with a shrug,
"we'd all be dead by now."
"But we ain't," Mudge pointed out cheerfully, "and that
be the important thing."
"Our cheeky companion is correct, you know." Caz had
come up behind them both. Now he stood opposite Mudge,
looking at the seated human. His paws were behind his back
and folded just above the putfball of a tail. "I doesn't matter
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who does the saving. Just as friend Mudge says, the fact that
we are saved is the important thing. Remember, it was you
who tamed the great Falameezar that fiery night in Polastrindu.
Not Clothahump. You want to hold all the glory for yourself?"
When he saw that the irony was lost on Jon-Tom he added,
"We all work for the same end. It matters nothing who does
what so long as that end is achieved. It shall be, unless some
of us put our personal feelings and desires above it."
Mudge looked a little uncomfortable at the rabbit's bluntness.
" 'E's right, mate. We can't be thinkin' o' ourselves in this
business." The last was said with a straight face. "You'll
'ave plenty o' opportunity t' demonstrate your wonderfulnes'
t' the ladies when this all be done with." He winked anG
whistled knowingly before leaving for the stem.
Caz considered giving the self-pitying human a comforting
pat, decided Jon-Tom might regard it as patronizing, and left
to join Mudge.
Jon-Tom, sitting by himself, muttered aloud, "The ladie
have nothing to do with it." He watched the cavern wall'
glide past. Gentle spray licked his face, kicked up from the
bow as the boat made its way upstream.
They didn't, he insisted to himself, resting his chin o.
folded hands. He'd only been worried about the general
welfare.
Then he grinned, though there was no one to see him. The
trouble with studying law is that you develop a tendency u
bullshit yourself as well as your counterparts. What about thi
theory that all great events, all the turning points of histor
had in some measure or another been motivated by matters (
passion? Catherine the Great, Napoleon, Hitler, Washingtc
... the sexual theory of history explained a hell of a lot c
things economics and social migration and such did not.
It was quite a different kind of history that balanced on thi^
outcome of their little expedition. Jon-Tom had never accorded
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THE HOUR Or THE GATE
the theory much credit anyway. Yet though meant at least
partly in jest, Mudge's words forced home to him how often
emotional yearnings coupled with the basic desires of the
body could overwhelm those usually thought of as rational
creatures.
So he was sitting there moping about nothing except
himself. That was selfish and stupid. Maybe it had affected
the thinking of Napoleon and Tiberius and others, but it
wouldn't affect him. It was a damn good thing Clothahump
had found the words that had escaped his human companion.
His moroseness fading, he strummed softly on the duar. A
flicker of dancing motes haunted his left elbow. When he
turned to inspect them, they'd gone. Gneechees.
What still did worry him was the thought that the next time
he might be called upon to sing some magic, he might be as
mentally paralyzed as he'd been when nearing Helldrink. He
would have to fight that.
It wasn't the thought of death or the failure of their mission
that troubled him as he sat there and played. It was a fear of
personal failure, a fear that had haunted him since he'd been a
child. It was the fear which had driven him to pursue two
different careers without being able to choose between them.
And though he didn't realize it, it was the fear which had
driven more men and women to greatness than far more
rational motivations....
125
VIII
Several days later the cathedral hove into view. It was not a
cathedral, of course. But it might have been. No one could
say. That turned out not to be as confusing as it seemed.
To Jon-Tom it looked like a cathedral. The ceiling of the
great underground chamber in which it rose was several
hundred feet high. Towers and turrets nearly touched that far
stone roof. At that distance massive stalactites, each weighing
many tons, resembled pins hanging from a carpet.
The bioluminescents were especially dense here and the ;
chamber and its far reaches so brightly lit that it took me '
travelers several minutes to adjust to that unexpectedly vi- |
brant organic glow.
It was more like a hundred cathedrals, Jon-Tom thought,
all executed in miniature and piled one atop the other. Care
and fine craftsmanship were apparent in every line and curve
of the labyrinthine structure. Thousands of tiny colored win-
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Alan Dean Foster
dows gleamed on dozens of levels. The edifice filled much of
the huge chamber.
It was a measure of the distances his mind had crossed that
it was only incidental to him that the building shone a rich,
metallic gold. Of course, that might only be a result of
extensive use of gilt paint. Still, he vowed privately to keep a
close watch on their avaricious otter.
The term miniature was applicable to more than just the
building. When it became clear to them that the inhabitants of
the strange boat were not hostile, the builders began to show
themselves.
No more than four inches tall, the little people were
covered with a rich umber fur that suggested sable. This fur
was quite short, and long, fine hair of the same shade grew
on the heads of male and female alike. Hordes of them started
emerging from tiny doors and cubbyholes. Most resumed
working on the building. Acres of scaffolding bristled on
battlements and turrets and towers. One group of several
dozen were installing a massive window all of a yard high.
Bribbens eased the boat in toward shore. At closer range
they could make out thousands of golden sculptures adorning
the building, gargoyles and worm-sized snakes and things
only half realized because they originated in other dimen-
sions, from a different biological geometry. Unlike the gneechees,
these wonderful creations could be viewed, if not wholly
perceived.
As the boat drifted still closer the thousands of tiny
workers began milling uncomfortably, clustering close by
doorways and other openings. Ion-Tom hailed them from his
position at the bow, trying to assuage their worries.
"We mean you no harm," he called gently. "We're only
passing through your lands and admire your incredible build-
ing. What's it for?"
From the crest of a water-caressed rock a fur-covered
128
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
nymph all of three and a half inches tall shouted back at him.
He had to strain to understand the tiny lady.
"It is the Building," she told him matter-of-factly, as
though that should be explanation enough to satisfy anyone.
"Yes," and he lowered his voice still further when he saw
that his normal tone was painfully loud to her, "but what is
the building for?"
"It is the Building," the sprite reiterated. "We call it
'Heart-of-the-World.' Does it not shine brightly?"
"Very brightly," Talea said appreciatively. "It's very beau-
tiful. But what is it for?"
The down-clad waif laughed delicately. "We are not sure.
We have always worked on the Building. We always will
work on the Building. What else is there to -life but the
Building?"
"You say you call it 'Heart-of-the-World.'" Jon-Tom stud-
ied the radiant walls and glistening spires. At first he thought
it had been made of real gold, then stone covered with gilt
paint. Now he wasn't sure. It might be metal of another kind,
or plastic, or ceramic, or some unimaginable material he
knew nothing of.
"Perhaps it is the very heart of the world itself," the little
lady offered in suggestion. She smiled joyfully, showing
perfect minuscule teeth. "We do not know. It beats with light
as a heart does. If our work were to be stopped, perhaps the
light would go out of the world."
Jon-Tom considered saying more but found reason and
reality at odds with one another, mixed up like a dog and a
cat chasing each other around a pole, getting nowhere. He
looked helplessly to Clothahump for an explanation. So did
his companions.
"Who can say?" The wizard shrugged. "If it is truly the
architecture of the heart of the world, then at least we can tell
others that the world is well and truly fashioned."
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Alan Dean Foster
"Thank you, sir." The sprite leaped nimbly to another rock
further upstream to keep pace with them. "We do our best.
We have become very adept at adding to and maintaining the
Building."
"Make sure," Jon-Tom called to her, "that its gl
ow never
goes out!" They were passing into a, narrower section of the
river cavern, leaving the unnamed little folk and their enig-
matic, immense construct behind.
"Who knows," he said quietly to Flor, "if it is the heart of
the world, then they'd better not be disturbed in their work.
That's a hell of a responsibility. And if it's not, if it's only a
building, an obsession, it's too beautiful to let die anyway."
"I never thought the heart of the world would be a
building," she said.
"Aren't we all structures?" With the Massawrath and
Helldrink safely far behind he was feeling alive and expan-
sive. He'd always been that way: high ups and abyssal
downs. Right now he was up.
"Each of us develops piece by piece. We're full of careful-
ly built rooms and halls, audience chambers and windows,
and we're populated with changing individualistic thoughts. I
never imagined the heart of the world would be a building,
though." He stared back down the tunnel. It was growing
dark, the radiant growths vanishing as they were prone to at
unexpected intervals.
"In fact, I never thought of the world as having a heart."
The last rich light from the distant chamber was lost to
sight as they rounded a slight bend in the river. Bribbens was
lighting the first lamp.
"That's a nice thought, Jon-Tom. If only having a heart
meant you would be happy."
"I suppose it often means the opposite." But when the
import of her last comment finally penetrated, she had left
him to chat with their stolid steersman.
130
THE HOUR OF THE GATE
Jon-Tom hesitated, thought about pursuing it further by
rejoining her to say, "Flor, are you trying to tell me some-
thing?" But he was as afraid of showing ignorance if he was
interpreting her wrongly as he was of failure.
So he sat himself down in the nickering light and began to
clean and tune his duar. As he tightened or loosened the
strings, a gneechee or two would appear behind him, peering
over his shoulder. He knew they were there and did his best
to ignore them.
They were compelled to run on lamplight. Gradually the
immense cave formations, the helictites and flowstone and
such, began to grow smaller. In the narrowing confines of the
river channel the rush and roar reverberated louder from the
walls. The continuing absence of the familiar fluorescent
fungi and their cousins was becoming unsettling.