Juxtaposition Part 18

"Yes. Only an Adept could have managed this. I can't think which one would have done it." Stile sighed. "Sheen, I still have a night free, and I shall need my rest. Take me home."

She took him to the Proton Blue Demesnes, and fed him and washed him in the manner of serf for Citizen, not deigning to give the job to the hired staff. She put him in a comfortable bed over a gravity diffusion screen, so that his weight diminished. Weariness closed in on him, now that he had respite from the tensions of the moment. But be fore he allowed himself to sleep, he caught her hand and drew her to him. "You cried for me again today," he said.

"And you cried again for me."

"Some day, somehow-"

She leaned over and kissed him, and it was as sweet as any kiss could be. In that pleasure he fell asleep. He dreamed that he loved her in the off moments as well as at the stress points-but woke to know that was only a wish, not truth. He could not do more than marry her.

CHAPTER 9 - Source.

Stile crossed the curtain in the morning at the site of the last junction. There was nothing special in Phaze at this place; it was only the slope of a lightly forested hill. What ever had fed the message in was gone. There were not even any footprints, after two months.

He was the Blue Adept, with potent magic. How could he apply it to follow this long-cold trail? Wouldn't an Adept have counterspelled the trail to prevent such tracing?

One way to find out. Stile played his harmonica, summoning his power, while he worked out a spell. Then he sang: "Make an arrow, point the way, that the message came that day."

The arrow formed, an illuminated spot like that made by a light projection. But it rotated uncertainly, like a compa.s.s without its magnetism. Sure enough, a counter spell was interfering. There would be no simple, one-step answer.

However, his power at this spot, now, would be greater than that of a months-gone Adept. He should be able to trace the source-if he followed the trail in person, as he had in Proton. "Give a signal, hot or cold, to make current what is old," he sang, shaping the detail in his mind. Now Stile's left side felt warmer than his right. He turned, and the warmth was on his face. He strode for ward-and the effect faded.

He backed up until he felt the heat again. It had fallen away to his right. He got back on the trail, pursuing it more carefully-and it led him in a spaghetti-like wriggle that coiled about and recrossed itself frequently. Obviously the other party had antic.i.p.ated this approach also, and had left a tortuous path. It might take Stile a long time to unravel every wriggle, and the trail could lead into traps. He decided to let it go for now. He wanted to rejoin the unicorns and the Lady Blue in plenty of time for the quest for Clip and vengeance. This message had waited two months; it would wait another day.

He used a prepared spell to transport himself to the herd, and stood for a moment in discomfort as he arrived. He certainly did not enjoy performing this kind of magic on himself, but he really had no alternative at the moment. Neysa spied him first and trotted over. She would al ways be his steed and his friend in spirit. Yet now she did not prance, for the pall of her brother's fate hung over her.

She changed to girl-form and made one of her rare speeches: "The Stallion has news of Clip." "What kind?" Stile asked tightly.

"He is alive." She shifted back to mare-form. Stile vaulted to her back, and she trotted him over to the herd. He embraced the Lady Blue briefly.

The Herd Stallion awaited him in man-form. "Under the White Mountains, prisoner of the goblins. We must strike by night-tonight, ere they suspect."

"Yes," Stile agreed. "Thou and I alone, surgically."

"They will be alert for Adept magic, and will kill Clip the moment they detect it. Thou canst not employ thy power until he is safe."

"How am I to save him, then?" Stile asked, frustrated. "I will save him. Then thou canst get us all out of danger."

Stile was uncertain about this procedure, but had to agree. There was no use going on a rescue mission if his mere presence precipitated Clip's murder. "We start now," the Stallion said. "It will be night ere we reach the mountains. I know an entrance to the goblin demesnes-but once underground, I will know the way no better than thou."

Stile had an idea. "Suppose I make a spell to show the way? Will that continuing magic alert the goblins?" The Stallion considered. "I know not, but think not. It is new magic that makes alarm; there are many ancient spells in the background, ignored."

"I'd better risk it," Stile said. He considered a moment, then played his harmonica and sang: "A star inst.i.tute, to illumine our route."

A pinpoint glow appeared to their north, shedding faint light on the ground.

"But the goblins will see it too!" the Stallion protested.

"See what?" the Lady Blue asked.

The Stallion smiled. "Ah-others see it not!"

"Others see it not," Stile agreed. "I am not quite as foolish as I look."

"Not quite," the Stallion agreed, and shifted back to his natural form, pawing the ground. Stile took the hint and leaped to his back. This was much more of a challenge than it had been with Neysa, for the Herd Stallion stood four hands higher than she and ma.s.sed twice as much. He was a lot of animal. Had they not had a clear understanding, Stile's touch on his back would have precipitated an instant death struggle. It was a sign of the pa.s.sions involved and the seriousness of the situation that the untamable Stallion submitted to this indignity. Immediately they were off. Stile, the most skilled rider in this frame, suddenly had to hang on, lest he be dumped like a novice. Evidently some spirit of rivalry remained; the Stallion wanted him to know that he kept his perch only by sufferance. Stile had never been on a steed like this before; the Stallion was the ma.s.s of a huge work horse, but had the velocity of a racer. Stile had originally tamed Neysa by riding her against her will; he knew he could never have done it with this steed.

The scenery raced by. Wind tore at Stile's clothing. The Stallion's hooves pounded on the doubled drumbeat of a full gallop, and sparks flew up where the hard hooves struck, but the ride was smooth. The Stallion was not wasting energy in extra up-and-down motion; he was sail ing straight ahead.

The pinpoint star remained fixed at about head-height, its spot of light brightening to a patch of ground. It slid to one side sometimes, guiding them around obstructions and bad footing, so that the Stallion never had to slow to scout the way. He was able to maintain cruising speed, faster than that of any horse, and he seemed tireless. As he warmed up, jets of flame blasted from his nostrils. This was the way that unicorns cooled themselves, since they did not sweat; the heat was dissipated from their breath and hooves.

After a time the ride became routine, then dull. Stile had nothing to do, since the Stallion knew the way even without the help of the little star. Stile could have slept, but was too keyed up; he wanted to rescue and restore Clip. He could do it, he was sure; his magic could cement the severed horn and heal the scars of its cutting. The only problem was getting to the unicorn without triggering the murder. And getting them all out, thereafter. Meanwhile, he just had to wait.

"I've been thinking," he remarked. "Art thou amenable to conversation?"

The Stallion blew an affirmative accordion note. He, too, was bored by this stretch.

"Thou art a powerful creature," Stile said. "Surely the goblins will recognize thee as readily as me. I can be taken for an elf, but thou canst only be a unicorn, even in man form. The snub-hom gives thee away."

The Stallion blew another note of agreement. Unicorns could change form but retained vestigial horns in all forms. This was because the horn was the seat of the unicorn's magic; without it the creature was no more than a horse, unable to play music or change form. If an alternate form lacked the horn, the unicorn would not be able to change back to equine form. This was plainly unacceptable; the human form was not one any self-respecting unicorn would care to be stuck in for long.

"Thy dragon-form is no better than thy man-form for concealment," Stile continued. "True, it could penetrate the goblin demesnes-but would create great alarm, for no one ignores a dragon! When thou didst approach Clip, the little monsters would surely realize thy nature and intent."

"Um," the unicorn noted with a thoughtful chord. "The thing is, thou art in all thy forms a mighty creature. Now this is no bad thing and ordinarily is altogether proper." The phrasing of a suggestion was sometimes more important than the suggestion itself, particularly when addressed to a creature of pride. "But this time I wish thou didst possess an insignificant form, like Neysa's firefly, that I could carry in un.o.bserved."

The unicorn ran on, considering. After a time he blew a new note. "Could." The notes were not really words, but pitch and inflection conveyed definite meaning, and Stile could usually interpret them when he put his mind to it.

"Thou hast a fourth form?" he asked, surprised. "I thought three was the limit, and only one or two for some."

Now came a proud blast. This was no ordinary unicorn; the Stallion could master a fourth form, if he chose. "That's great!" Stile exclaimed. "Couldst thou work it up in time for tonight? I know it takes a considerable act of discipline to implement a new form, and there is so little time-" The Stallion was not foolishly optimistic. Any form was a challenge the first time, and a fourth one was special. But he thought he could manage it.

They discussed it as the miles and leagues rushed by. It developed that some forms were easier than others. Difficulty varied according to the necessary specialization and the change of size. Thus a unicorn could convert to a ma.s.sive bear fairly readily, because the size was about the same. A man-form was harder, because the ma.s.s was less and because of the necessary specialization of the hands and voice. A man-form that could not tie a knot in string would not be very good, and one who could not talk would be worse. These things had to be done properly, or were not worth doing at all. Neysa's firefly-form was a greater achievement than Clip's hawk-form, because the fly was only a fraction of the ma.s.s. Neysa weighed about 850 pounds in her natural form, about 85 in her girl-form, and less than 85-hundredths of an ounce in firefly-form. It would be more than twice as hard for the Herd Stallion to get down to that size.

"But such size would be beyond suspicion," Stile re marked. "No one would believe that a beast as n.o.ble as thou couldst hide in a form so small." That accented the magnitude of the challenge, rather than the insignificance of the form.

Then there was the problem of flying, the unicorn explained in concerned notes. Flying was a specialization that had to be mastered by tedious practice, after the physical form had been achieved. The Stallion had learned it for his dragon-form, but would have to start all over for an insect-form, since insects employed a different mode of flight. That could lake days.

"Oh, I did not mean thou must fly," Stile said. "It is the insignificance I am after, that none may suspect thee. Thou couldst go from dragon to roach, for that." Roach! the Stallion blasted, affronted. Never! But Stile was struck by something else. Dragon-roach. His poem: the one he had used to win the Tourney in Proton. Had this provided him with a prophetic key? Now he thought back, discovering parallels. He had referred to Gabriel's horn-but there was also the unicorn's horn. Clip's horn had precipitated this venture. He had also referred to trying to cheat fate; but he had won his biggest bet because of cheating by another Citizen. How far did this go?

How far, indeed! The first four lines of that poem had matched his recent experience, deliberately. Then the key word: silence. And he had been struck by the silence-spell. Then love; and he had become betrothed to Sheen. That was not love, precisely, but related; she certainly wanted and deserved love.

In fact, those key words aligned beautifully with his experience-almost like a prediction of the Oracle. Yet the words had become the random product of the Game Computer. No magic there! So it must be coincidence. It was possible to make seeming sense of almost anything, as those two poems had shown. Still- Why not? Stile decided to go for it. "That is one form no goblin would suspect. The nether pa.s.sages must be overrun with roaches. What Herd Stallion would go to the enormous effort to achieve so lowly a form? It is beneath consideration-therefore the safest of all forms for the accomplishment of such a hazardous mission."

"Um," the Stallion blew, heeding the logic but not the aesthetics.

"Actually, some roaches are quite elegant," Stile commented innocently. "When I was a serf in Proton, I had to deliver a horse to the dome of a Citizen who specialized in exotic creatures. He had a roach farm with some quite beautiful specimens. I remember some deep red ones, huge and sleek-surely the royalty of roaches. And others were frilly, like b.u.t.terflies, only without wings-"

"Enough!" the unicorn snorted. He veered to a tight copse of trees and slowed. When he stopped inside. Stile was glad to dismount; they had been traveling for hours, and he was cramped and hungry and suffered the urgent calls of nature.

There was a convenient nut tree in the copse-unicorns generally had good taste about such things-so Stile could eat without using magic. There was also a small spring. This was really an oasis, probably known to every wild creature. There was a real advantage of traveling with such an animal-not only protection, but also the convenience of familiarity with the terrain. Stile had now traveled with three unicorns-Neysa, dip, and the Herd Stallion-and this aspect was the same with each one. Stile had always liked horses; he knew he would always like unicorns better.

He had dreamed for more than fifteen years of becoming a Citizen of Proton, perhaps setting up his own racing stable. Now he was a Citizen-and all he really wanted was to stay here in Phaze, on any basis. He liked magic-not merely his ability to perform it, but more importantly, the very framework in which magic existed. He liked the verdant hills, the little streams, the various features of this irregular landscape. He liked the whole sweet outdoors, with its fresh air and unpredictable weather and feeling of freedom. Oh, there were horrors here-but even so, it was a better world than Proton. Three centuries of unrestricted development and narrow exploitation had destroyed the environment of Proton, so that comfort now existed only within the force-field domes. Stile liked civilization, but, after encountering Phaze, he feared it was at too great a price.

Stile became aware of a warm sensation on the left side of his face. Oh, yes-his spell to trace the sender of the message that had brought him Sheen was still in operation. Old spells never died, and faded away only slowly-which inertia was fortunate, since any given spell was effective only once. The warmth was faint, indicating that he was far from the source, but at least he could still trace it down. He would do so the moment Clip was safe. He heard a musical groan, as of someone stepping on an accordion. The Stallion writhed, shimmered-and shrank to a gross, many-legged lump of flesh.

A spell leaped to Stile's lips. But he choked it back, realizing that this was not a magic attack. It was the Stallion's effort to master a new form. Stile ambled over, peering down at the grotesque caricature of a roach, "Now that is the ugliest insect I've ever seen," he remarked. "But certainly the biggest." Indeed, it was almost the size of a man.

The monstrous bug waved its feelers, thrashed its legs about, and blew a furious peep from the miniature horn on its snout. Then it swelled rapidly into Stallion-form again, snorting fire from the effort.

"Oh, it's thou!" Stile exclaimed innocently. "I was about to step on it."

The Stallion glared and gave a snort that singed the hairs of Stile's arms. Then he tried again. This time he got the size right, but not the shape. He became a miniature unicorn. "I'm afraid that won't do," Stile said around a mouthful of nuts. "The goblins know that's not a normal 'corn size."

The Stallion reformed, pawing the ground. Obviously he was putting forth terrific effort; his hooves were beginning to glow red, and wisps of smoke rose from his ears. A third time he tried. This time he got it right-normal sized roach, with a silvery body and golden head. The bug took one step-and exploded back into the Stallion. He just had not been able to hold it for more than two seconds.

"Maybe you'd better let it rest a while," Stile suggested. "Give your system time to acclimatize to the notion. We're not at the goblin demesnes yet."

The Stallion played an affirmative chord. Stile conjured ten pounds of fine oats for the equine repast, then stood abashed. He should not have used his magic here. But it seemed no one had been paying attention; maybe that was not the kind of spell the enemy was looking for. In due course he remounted, and they were off again. The strength of this unicorn was amazing; having run for hours and struggled to master a difficult new form, he was, after this brief respite, galloping at unreduced speed. Neysa and Clip were good unicorns, but neither could have maintained this velocity so long.

By nightfall the grim White Mountains were near. The Stallion had been moving toward them at a slant, north west, circling the demesnes of the ogres. No need for any ogre trouble, this trip! Actually, Stile had settled with the ogres, establishing that he was not their enemy, but ogres were not too bright and there could still be trouble. Now the sun was dropping below the horizon. The Stallion galloped along west, parallel to the mountain range, then stopped. Stile saw the guiding star to their north, showing them to the entrance to the goblins' somber nether world.

But the region was guarded. Goblins patrolled the cliff like fringe of the mountain range. How could they get in?

Stile had the answer to that. He was larger than a goblin, but close enough so that some stooping in the dark should enable him to pa.s.s. He sc.r.a.ped up handfuls of dirt and rubbed it over his face and arms, then removed his clothing and coated his bare body too. Goblins wore little clothing; Stile's Proton underpants sufficed for a costume. Goblin feet and hands, however, were far larger than his own, while their limbs were shorter. Stile experimented and finally fashioned a framework for each foot from small branches and dirt, making his extremities seem goblin-sized. He did the same for his head. Magic would have been much easier for disguising himself, either physically or by means of illusion, but he did not dare use that here. He was facile with his hands and knew how to improvise; his head was actually expanded by a gross turban fashioned from his former clothing.

"Grotesque," the Herd Stallion said, eyeing Stile in man form. "The human shape is ugly enough to begin with, but thou hast improved on it."

"Just do thine own shape-change," Stile said. "And keep it stable."

"I can but try," the Stallion said grimly. He shifted back to 'corn-form, gathered himself, and phased down to bug form. This roach was not handsome, but it did seem to be stable. Stile watched it take a step, moving all its legs on one side, followed by those on the other side. The thing trembled and started to expand, then got hold of itself and squeezed back into bug shape. It seemed it would hold. Stile put down his open hand. The roach hesitated, then crawled on, moving clumsily. It evidently took special co ordination to handle six legs, and it was hard for the Stallion to do this while hanging on to this awkward little size. Perhaps it was like juggling six b.a.l.l.s in the air while walking a tightrope. As it happened. Stile had done such tricks in the past-but it had taken him time to master them. "Just don't lose control and convert to equine form on my head," Stile murmured as he set the roach on the framework he had wound there. "Don't drop anything, either."

The roach, catching the reference to droppings, began to shake with laughter. It expanded to triple roach size, emitted several little sparks, wrestled with itself, and recovered control. Stile decided not to make any more jokes. The darkness was almost complete now. Stile nerved himself and walked forward, following the flash of light projected on the ground by his little guiding star. He hunched down as well as he could, making himself hump backed and shorter. Stile was an experienced mimic, and this was another Game talent that served him in good stead now. He walked like a goblin, swung his arms like a goblin, and glared about like a goblin. Almost, he began to hate the world the way a goblin would.

The dark hole of the cave entrance loomed close. Stile shuffled boldly toward it. But a goblin guard challenged him. "Where the h.e.l.l art thou going, dirtface?" For an instant Stile's heart paused. But he had to a.s.sume that goblins normally insulted each other, and that the guard did not realize that Stile's face really was concealed by dirt.

"What the h.e.l.l business is it of thine, stink rump?" he demanded in the grating tone of a goblin, and pushed on. He felt the Stallion-roach quaking with suppressed mirth again, enjoying the exchange. Apparently it had been the right answer. The guard did not stop him. Stile followed his little star into the cave. Goblins were coming and going, but none of these challenged him. Stile walked downward, through narrow apertures, along the faces of subterranean cliffs, and across dark chasm cracks. The star made it easy, unerringly guiding him through the labyrinth. What might have taken him hours to figure out only took minutes. He wondered pa.s.singly how this worked; more than mere energy was involved when magic provided him with specialized information. Amazingly soon he came to a deep nether pa.s.sage barred by solid stalact.i.tic columns.

The star moved on to illumine what was beyond. It was a horse.

No-not a horse. A dehorned unicorn, so grimed that his natural color hardly showed, standing with head hanging, bedraggled, evidently lacking the will to live but un able to die. Clip!

Stile heard a tiny accordion-note snort near his ear. The roach was seething. No unicorn should be treated like this!

Half a dozen armed goblins guarded the unicorn. Four were leaning against the wall; one was drinking a swig of something foul, and the sixth was entertaining himself by p.r.i.c.king Clip with the point of his spear. The forlorn unicorn hardly even winced; he seemed beyond the point of resistance and did not make a good subject for teasing. Blood streaked his once-glossy blue coat from prior cuts, and his mane was limp and tangled. Flies swarmed, yet his tail hardly twitched to flick them off. Stile heard the roach on his head breathing hard, with accordion-chord wheezes. The Herd Stallion suffered no one to treat a member of his herd this way, and was in danger of exploding again. "Nay, Stallion," Stile whispered. "Thou must hold form until thou dost get inside. Neither I nor any of thine other forms can pa.s.s these bars mechanically; they are too strong and tight. Go inside, warn Clip, then take action against the guards before they strike."

The Stallion blew a low note of agreement. Stile put his hand to his head, and the roach climbed on it. Stile set the roach on the floor in the corner near the bars.

"Hey-who art thou, rockhead?" a goblin guard cried. Uh-oh. He had to distract attention from the roach, lest a goblin spot it and idly step on it. The Herd Stallion was vulnerable in that form, and could not shift quickly enough to counter an abruptly descending foot. "I just wanta see the creep," Stile said. "I heard you got a horsehead in here without a horn."

"That's none of thy business," the goblin snapped. "No unauthorized idiots allowed. That specifically means thee." The roach was now crawling uncertainly along the wall. Obviously it wasn't used to clinging to vertical surfaces, but didn't want to get stepped on. Progress was slow, so Stile had to stall longer.

"Oh, I do have business here, mucksnoot," Stile said, and of course that was the truth. "I have come to take the 'corn away."

"Thou art crazy, manface! We have orders to kill this brute as soon as our armies finish ma.s.sing and the enemy Adept be trapped. He's not going anywhere." So they weren't going to let Clip live, regardless of Stile's response. And they expected to trap Stile himself. This was a straight kidnap-hostage-murder plot. No honor among goblins!

The roach, overhearing the dastardly scheme, lost its footing and fell to the floor with a loud-seeming d.i.c.k and whoosh of accordion-breath. Stile was afraid it would attract attention. It lay on its back, six legs waving, trying to recover its footing. Oh, no!

"Thou art not up on the latest, foulfoot," Stile said sneeringly. "You guards will be executed before the hostage is." This, too, he intended literally. His certainty daunted the goblin. Apparently such betrayals did happen in the nether realms.

"Aw, whatcha know about it, gnarltoes?" the goblin bl.u.s.tered. The roach had finally straggled to right-side-up position, with tiny musical grunts. Any goblin who paid attention would immediately catch on that this was no ordinary vermin! Stile had to keep talking.

"I know a lot about it, mandrakenose. That 'corn's the steed of an Adept, isn't it?"

"Sure, smarty, and that's why he ain't dead yet. To keep that Adept off our backs till he's out of the picture. We got Adepts of our own, but they don't like to tangle with each other, so we're keeping this one dear this way. The fool likes animals. We're just doing our job here; no reason to wipe us out." He looked at Stile uncertainly. "Is there?"

The roach had finally reached Clip. Stile relaxed. Just a few more seconds, and it would be all right. "How about what that other Adept thinks? Once he knows thy part, he'll come for thee-and what other Adept would breathe a spell to help thee?"

But as he spoke. Stile saw Clip lift a forefoot, eying the roach. He was about to crush it, not realizing its ident.i.ty.

"Clip!" Stile called. "No!"

Then things happened one on top of another. All six goblin guards whirled, scrambled, and looked up, depending on their starting positions, to orient on the hornless unicorn. The magic roach let out a chord and scuttled away from Clip's poised hoof. Clip's head jerked about, his ears rotating to cover Stile.

"It's a trick!" the goblin nearest Stile cried. 'This creep's been bugging me about the hostage. Kill him!" It wasn't clear whether he referred to Clip or to Stile. It hardly mattered. The alarm had been sounded. Two goblins thrust their spears at dip. One stomped at the roach. The one nearest Stile poked his spear through the bars to skewer Stile. The remaining two set up a scream for help.

Clip suddenly animated, swinging his horn about to skewer a goblin. But he had no horn, only the truncated stump. The goblin was merely brushed aside by Clip's nose and struck out with a h.o.r.n.y fist.

The roach skittered out of the way and began to expand like a demon amulet that had been invoked. Stile dodged the spear.

In moments the Herd Stallion stood within the prison chamber, stomping his hooves, snorting fire. His horn was not truncated. It blurred as it lunged at one goblin, then at a second and a third, before any could flee. Three goblins were lifted into the air, skewered simultaneously on that terrible spike.

Clip charged the goblin who was poking at Stile, crushing the creature's head with a blow of a forehoof. But the two others were running down the far pa.s.sage, too narrow for the unicorns to follow, crying the alarm. Stile readied a spell, but paused. So far he had not used magic and, now that he knew there was an enemy Adept involved here, he did not want to give himself away one second sooner than necessary. The goblins did not know it was the Blue Adept who was in their midst, so the other Adept might not know, either-until Stile gave himself away by using magic.

But now there were two unicorns in the prison, and the main goblin ma.s.s was stirring in the bowels of the mountain. The Stallion could use his roach-form to escape-but Clip could not change form without his horn. Stile could change Clip's form for him-but that meant magic of Adept signature. Stile could also melt the bars away with magic, if they were not of the magic-resistive type. That must have been how Clip was brought here; the enemy Adept had spelled him through.

If he had to use magic, he might as well tackle the most important thing first. How he wished discovery had been delayed a little longer! "Clip-here to me!" he called, bringing out the thing he carried like a spear. It was Clip's severed horn.

The unicorn stared, almost unbelieving. No doubt he had thought the horn destroyed.

"My power can restore it!" Stile said, holding the horn out, base first.

Clip came and put his head near the bars. Stile reached through, setting the horn against the stump. "Restore the horn of this unicorn!" he sang, willing the tissue to merge, the thing to take life again.

It was hard, for he had not intensified his power by playing the harmonica, and the horn was magic. It resisted Stile's magic, and he knew the two parts were not mending properly. He was grafting on a dead horn. Meanwhile, a phalanx of goblins appeared in the pa.s.sage behind Stile, bristling with spears. Stile saw them from the corner of his eye but could not release his hands from the horn, lest the slow healing be interrupted. Clip could not move, either, for he was on the other side of the bars waiting for the healing.