the raft with scum and swamp water. Jon-Tom and
Mudge retreated hastily to the other end. "That's
dose enough. I'll speak up if you can't hear me
clearly." Proximity to (hat gaping, bottomless maw
was disconcerting despite the Brulumpus's avowed
good intentions. Maybe one day soon, out of boredom,
instead of hugging and petting and loving them, it
might decide to taste them.
168 Alan Dean Foster
"Go ahead," it told Jon-Tom, "say something
interesting. Say something different."
"Actually, we're not all that interesting." He tried to
sound bored with himself. "We're really very ordinary,
even dull."
"No." The Brulumpus wasn't that stupid. "You are
very interesting. Everything you say and do is differ-
ent and interesting. I like different and interesting."
"Of course you do, but there's something that's a
lot more interesting than we are. Something that's
new and interesting and different all the time."
The Brulumpus leaned back. Water sloshed against
its flanks as it took a long time to consider this
simple statement. "Something more interesting than
you? Is it more lovable, too?"
Jon-Tom hadn't considered the last, but he was on
a roll now and could hardly hesitate. "Sure. More
lovable, more interesting, more different. More
everything. It won't argue with you or confuse you
or even make you think. It'll just always be there for
you, interesting and lovable and changing-'*
"Where is it?"
"I'll bring it here for you to have, but in return,
you have to promise to let us go,"
The Brulumpus mulled the offer over. "Okay, but
if you lie to me," it said darkly, "if it's not more
everything than you are, then you'll stay with me
forever, so I can hug you and pet you and..."
"I know, I know," said Jon-Tom as he swung the
duar around. He practiced a few chords. These
songs would be a cinch for him to spellsing. Not only
were they as deeply ingrained in his memory as any
lyrics he'd ever heard, they even had a compelling
power in his own world.
"Wot the 'ell can you conjure up for this mess that
fulfills all those requirements, mate?"
"Don't bother me, Mudge. I'm working."
THE MoJEBwr or THE MAGICIAN
169
The otter leaned back, glancing up at the thoughtful,
expectant Brulumpus. "All right, guv, but you'd bet-
ter satisfy this smothering pile o' crud real soon-like,
because I think it's gettin' to like us more by the
minute. Though if nothin' else, your singin' may
change that"
Jon-Tom ignored the barb as he began to sing.
Despite the threat posed by the Brulumpus, he was
in fine form that day. Even Mudge had to admit that
some of what the man sang actually bore some small
, resemblance to harmony.
The first item that appeared in a ball of soft light
| on the Brulumpus's back was a toy gyroscope. It held
I; the creature's attention only for a few minutes. Next
^Jon-Tom produced a grandfather clock. This was
;; more intriguing to their captor, but he noted that
, ton-Tom could produce the same noise as the clock's
7 chimes.
'• Jen-Torn tried to interest it in a game of Monopoly,
.but die Brulumpus wasn't interested in playing at
: real estate, being a considerable bit of real estate
Itself. With Mudge looking on warily, he produced in
wild succession a food processor, a Fugelbell tree,
,:and a performing flea circus. The Brulumpus had
/jw> use whatsoever for any of them. Mudge, however,
made the acquaintance of the flea circus immediately,
and dove into the water, digging and scratching
frantically at himself.
"You'll drown the act," Jon-Tom leaned over to tell
him.
"That ain't all I'm goin' to drown!" The Brulumpus
boosted him back onto the raft, where he glared at
the singer. "Let's endeavor to stay clear of performin*
parasites, shall we?"
Jon-Tom sighed. "It didn't engage his attention
wry long anyway. Don't worry. I'm just getting warmed
up."
Alan Dean Foster
170
"Huhl" Mudge sat down and began wringing out
his cap.
The flea circus gave Jon-Tom the idea of trying to
sing up something to infect the Brulumpus, but
everything he could think of was more likely to
afflict himself and Mudge than it was "a mass of
already corrupting ooze.
So he concentrated on continuing the cornucopia
of randomly interesting objects. He produced a model
ship that ran by remote control, a clamer-h lumieres
from an old Scriabin concert, a stack of Playboys, a
coal scoop, a rocking horse. None held the attention
of the Brulumpus for more than a moment or two,
and the space around the raft was beginning to
resemble the back room of a Salvation Army store.
Jon-Tom's confidence was starting to slip.
"Isn't there anything I can conjure up that will
interest you more than we do?" he asked plaintively.
"Of course not," rumbled the Brulumpus. "How
could there be, when I can have everything you can
bring forth and still keep you?"
That sent Jon-Tom staggering. He hadn't thought
of that. Slow the Brulumpus might be, but it also
had an instinctive grasp of the obvious.
"Oi, we didn't think o' that one, did we, spellsinger?"
Mudge taunted him. "We're so clever, ain't we,
spellsinger? We ought to 'ave thought o' that one
first, oughtn't we to, spellsinger? Now me, I finds
you duller than a dead rat, but this 'ere blob o' barf
ain't nearly so discriminatin' in 'is company. So it
appears as *ow we're stuck, wot?"
"There's still the first thing I thought of. Like I
told you, this is all warm-up. Though," he admitted,
"I never thought of that last argument. Now I'm not
so sure it'll work. See, this thing I have in mind is
designed to appeal only to a true moron, and now
I'm afraid the Brulumpus may be more than that.
THE MOMENT OF THE MAOICIAK 171
Anything too complex would go by him without
having an effect, but anything too simple won't inter-
est him as much as we do."
"Well. you'd better try it, mate, wotever it be."
"I'm going to," Jon-Tom assured him. His fingers
touctied on the strings of the duar.
Mudge had listened to some strange lyrics fall
from the lips of his friend the spellsinger, but none
as bizarre as those which now poured forth in a
Steady stream. They made no sense, no sense at all,
And yet he could feel the power attendant on them.
-Strong spellsinging for certain, just as Jon-Tom had
.l«aid. He waited anxiously to see what the music would
^bring forth.
^ ; Once more the drifting ball of lambent green light
'^sgippeared before
Jon-Tom. Yet again a strange new
^(nape appeared in its center and began to take on
flolktity and form. It was utterly different from every-
thing that had preceded it. It bore no resemblance to
;the grandfather clock, or the toy boat, or the rocking
horse, though it did somehow remind Mudge of the
thing Jon-Tom had called a food processor.
Only this thing wasn't dead. It was noisily, vibrantly
alive. Or was it? Mudge blinked once and saw through
die illusion. No, it wasn't alive. It merely cloaked
' itself with the appearance of life. It generated illu-
sions of life, but in reality it was full of zombies.
The fascinated Brulumpus leaned forward to stare
at it, kicking up small waves at its sides. Multiple
eyeballs slipped round to focus on the thing Jon-
Tom had called up. Jon-Tom had matched intelligence
to materialization perfectly. The Brulumpus ignored
them as though they were no longer there.
Mudge found himself gazing dazedly at the box
full of cavorting zombies. He could understand the
Bmlumpus's fascination. This was some magic! He
tried to make sense of what the zombies were saying
Alan Dean Poster
172
and could not. yet somehow their shouts and cries
held him as if paralyzed. He couldn't pull away,
couldn't turn his eyes. It was locking onto him tightly
now, taking him prisoner just as it had trapped the
Brulumpus, those strange, soothing, challenging, fre-
netic zombies who at the moment were assaulting
him verbally and visually....
"Double your pleasure, double your run, with
doublegood, doublegood, Doublemint gum!"
Another zombie appeared, and his tone was as
ponderous and lugubrious as that of the Brulumpus.
All the weight of the world was on the poor zombie's
shoulders as he stared straight out at Mudge and
said, "Do... you.., suffer... from,.. irregularity?"
Something was tugging urgently at Mudge's arm.
He blinked, to see Jon-Tom staring anxiously down
at him.
"A minute, mate," he said, not recognizing his own
vioce. "Just a minute. I 'ave to listen to this 'ere
message. Tis important, see, and I... 1..." He paused,
licked his lips.
"You what, Mudge?"
"I was just learnin' 'ow to save me kitchen "floor
from unsightly waxy yellow buildup. Blimey, and 1
don't even 'ave a kitchen floor!"
"Come on, Mudge. Fight it, don't let it get to you."
He dragged the otter toward the raft. Mudge
fought weakly.
"But, mate, wot about the ring around me collar?"
"Snap out of it, Mudge!" Jon-Tom slapped him a
couple of times, then shoved him toward the other
paddle pole. By pushing against the paddles, they
managed to slip off the side of the now rock-steady
Brulumpus and back into the water. They pushed
and pulled on the poles for dear life, and the otter
slowly regained consciousness.
"Bugger me for an alderman," Mudge finally
THE MOMENT OF TBK MAQICSAH
173
breathed, "wot were that 'orrible magic?" Behind
them the Brulumpus was fading under the horizon.
It lay utterly motionless in the water, staring at the
screaming, cheerful, demanding box which had
rendered it instantly comatose. From its back blared a
few last energetic words of farewell.
"Youuuu deserve a breakkkk todayyyyy!"
"Jon-Tom?"
"What?" He continued to dig at the water, wanting
,to put as much distance as possible between them
,and the part of the swamp that called itself the
^rulumpus in case, just in case, the magic failed.
^- "I'll never criticize your spellsingin' again."
**0h, yes you will," Jon-Tom said with a grin.
"Nope, never." Mudge raised his right paw. "I
, swears on the best parts o' Chenryl de Vole, Timswitty's
slickest courtesan." He eyed the trail the raft had left
in the water and shuddered. "It 'ad me, too, mate.
Sucked me right in without me ever knowin' wot was
'Stppenin'. Bloody insidious." He looked back at his
companion as they both ducked some dangling moss.
**Wot does you call the mind-suckin' little 'orror?"
"Commercial television," Jon-Tom told him. "I think
dial's all that it's going to play. Twenty-four hours
nonstop 'round-the-clock."
"It'll be too soon if I never see anything like it
again."
"I only hope it doesn't burn out the Brulumpus's
brain." Jon-Tom murmured. "For a pile of ooze, he
wasn't such a bad sort."
"Ah. mate, that soft 'cart will be the end o' you one
o* these days. You'd smile on your own assassin."
"I can't help it, Mudge. I tike folks, no matter what
they happen to look like."
"Just keep in mind that most of *em probably don't
like you.**
Alan Dean Porter
174
Jon-Tom looked thoughtful. "Maybe 1 should sing
another few jingles, just to reinforce the spell."
"Maybe you should just paddle, mate."
"See?" Jon-Tom smiled at the otter. "I told you
you'd start criticizing my spellsinging again."
"It ain't your spellsingin' 1 'ave a 'ard time with,
guv. *Tis your voice."
The argument continued all the rest of that day
and on into the next, by which time they were
confident they'd passed beyond the Brulumpus's
sphere of influence. Several days later they received
a pleasant surprise. The landscape was changing
As far as Mudge was concerned, the lessening of
humidity was long overdue, as was the appearance of
some real dry land. The Wrounipai began to assume
the aspect of tropical lake country instead of near-
impenetrable swamp. Islands rose high and solid
above the water, from which accumulated scum and
suspended solids were beginning to disappear. In-
stead of pooling aimlessly around trees and islets.
the water began to flow steadily southward. Currents
could become rivers, and rivers gave rise to commerce.
Civilization.
They could not be too far from their destination.
And then, as had happened on more than one
occasion, growing confidence was dispelled by an
unexpected disaster.
On calm water beneath a windless sky, the world
turned upside down.
Jon-Tom was thrown into the air, legs kicking,
arms thrashing. He hit the water hard and righted
himself. But as he started to swim for the surface,
something grabbed him around the ankles. He felt
himself being dragged downward, away from the
fading light of the sky, away from the oxygen his
burning lungs were already starting to demand.
TOE 9SOMEMT OF THE MAOJCUW
173
He couldn't see what had ahold of him and wasn't
sure he wanted to. The harder he kicked and pulled
with his arms, the faster he seemed to
be going
backward. Down, straight down toward the bottom
of the Wrounipai. His lungs no longer burned; they
threatened to explode alongside his pounding heart.
The last thing he remembered before he started to
drown was the sight of Mudge off to his left. A far
stronger swimmer than himself, the otter was also
^feeing pulled bottomward by something powerful,
"Streamlined, and indistinct.
|| The nightmare of drowning was still with him
^•When he rolled over and started puking.
^ As soon as he'd cleared his lungs and stomach of
,*^what felt like half the Wrounipai, he sat up and
^^lakily took stock of his surroundings. He was sitting
^on a mat of dry grass and reeds that had been placed
-; atop a floor of tightly compacted earth. Diffuse light
poured through the curved, transparent dome
overhead. It looked like glass but wasn't.
Off to his left, Mudge stood examining one wall of
die dome. In front of the mat was a pool of water
Which lapped gently at the packed earth. The water
was very dark.
Sensing movement, the otter glanced in his direction.
**I was beginnin' to wonder if you'd ever come around,
mate."
**So was I." He climbed unsteadily to his feet. "I
think for a minute there, there was more water
inside me than out." He coughed again. His mouth
tasted of swamp and his guts were throbbing.
"Where are we?"
"V^e are in somebody's 'ometown, mate," the otter
informed him glumly, "and I don't think you're goin'
to Kke the somebodies."
"What do you mean?" Mudge's words implied
familiarity with their captors, but Jon-Tom had nev-
Alan Dean Poster
176
er been in a place like this in his life. At least, not
that he could recall.
The otter beckoned him over. " 'Ave a look at this
stuff."
Jon-Tom moved to join him in inspecting the wall
of their transparent prison. As he ran his ^fingers
over it, he saw it wasn't glass, as he'd initially suspected.
Nor was it plastic. Actually, it was slightly sticky, like a
clear glue. He had to yank his fingers clear of the
wall. A portion of it stuck to his nails and he had to
rub the stuff off on his pants.
Something else: his pants were dry. That meant
he'd been unconscious for several hours, at least.
The wall did not run or drip. As for the source of
the dim, rippling light, that was instantly apparent-
The dome rested on the bottom of the lake. The