The Grand Ellipse Part 24

"Short rest stops as required. Catch up on sleep later, aboard barge on the Arune."

"Excellent. Then we'll hit Eynisse around dawn." Provided his own strength held out, Girays reflected, but kept the misgiving to himself, for there was only so much humility he could swallow at one draft. "I doubt that many of the others will do as well. In fact, I suspect the railroad strike will have knocked more than a few clean out of the race."

"Perhaps, but many will persevere. Mesq'r Zavune, for example, may expect a.s.sistance from his own countrymen."

"Then there's Porb Jil Liskjil, with his bottomless pockets, who can buy his way out of any difficulty. And Bav Tchornoi could bully his way through stone walls."

"And Miss Devaire?" Stornzof inquired. "She is resourceful, but now perhaps she must admit defeat?"

"Never," Girays responded with absolute conviction. "She will not give up. Not while she breathes."

Stornzof cast a clear glance back over his shoulder. "I see," he said.

SHE HAD STOLEN HERSELF a lovely horse, Luzelle reflected. a lovely horse, Luzelle reflected.

Purchased.

Ballerina was fleet and sweet, well bred and well trained. She had carried her abductor-new owner-lightly through the night, her smooth stride devouring miles, until the flush of rose in the east had colored the white stucco walls of a roadside inn, and Luzelle had judged it safe to pause for a few hours of sleep. The city of Aeshno lay far behind her. Even had her escape route been noted, n.o.body would have pursued her over so great a distance; not for the sake of a stolen mare, not even for the sake of vandalized property. Or so she a.s.sured herself.

Relinquishing Ballerina to the charge of a sleepy ostler, Luzelle walked into the inn to confront a night clerk whose surprise showed on his face. She could scarcely blame him. A young foreign woman, traveling alone by night, without a single piece of luggage to her name-naturally he was taken aback. His surprise sharpened to open curiosity when she asked in Vonahrish to be wakened with a knock on her door in exactly six hours. She could see the questions struggling to emerge, but he managed to contain them. And when she produced a roll of good Vonahrish New-rekkoes, he retained sufficient presence of mind to a.s.sume the air of respect that every solvent guest merited. She paid in advance without demur, he handed her a key, and she felt his speculative gaze press her back as she walked away.

Luzelle climbed two flights of stairs, remembering with regret the wondrous lift in the Kingshead Hotel in Toltz. Locating her a.s.signed room, she let herself in and locked the door. She hardly noted the character of her surroundings, which were plain, old-fashioned, and decent enough. She saw only the bed. She was tired, very tired. She had managed to ignore, evade, or resist fatigue for hours, but it had caught up with her now. She felt she could not stand upright another minute.

The southern springtime air was sultry. She stripped off her clothes and let them drop to the floor. Why not? They were already sweat stained and grimy from hours of riding. She herself was similarly grimy, but had not bothered to ask for a bath. What point, when she had no clean clothes, no change of underwear, no means at present of preserving personal decency, and above all, no energy? She did not want to wash her clothes, or even herself. She wanted nothing but sleep.

The sheets were clean, she was not, and she did not care. She tumbled into bed, her head hit the pillow, and she was immediately unconscious, or rather her consciousness changed. The dreams came, full of fire, smoke, noise; and those were the mild ones. Far more frightening were the visions of herself back in the neat, modestly appointed little bedroom she had occupied as a child in her father's house. She was looking at herself in the small mirror that hung above the washstand, and the face that gazed back from the gla.s.s was the wondering unmarked face of a child. But as she watched, the face altered and aged, shifting through the phases of adolescence, early and full maturity, middle age, and thence to sallow old age. And throughout all successive transformations, the chamber in which her mirrored image stood immured never changed at all.

A knock on the door banished such visions. Luzelle opened her eyes. She was still tired, but less so. Her eyes traveled about a plain, unfamiliar chamber. She remembered where she was, and how she had come. She did not want to get up yet, but the race was very much on. Yawning, she arose, noticed her own condition, and blinked. Her garments, visibly the worse for wear, lay scattered about the floor. Oh yes, she had dropped them there.

She ran her tongue across teeth that seemed slicked with rancid lard. Stumbling to the washstand, she rinsed her mouth out, then made the best possible use of water, soap, and towel before resuming yesterday's grubby garments. No comb, no hairbrush. Readjusting half a dozen pins, she anch.o.r.ed the riotous ma.s.s of red-gold curls as best she could, then hurried on down to the old-fashioned common room, where she breakfasted, or lunched, on skewered lamb and lentils, indifferent to the scrutiny of her fellow guests, some of them obviously hostile.

Too bad.

She looked up quickly from her plate to meet a pair of yellow eyes lancing out of a swarthy face, and felt her own color rise against the silent condemnation. She had seen it before, many times. She should be used to it by now, but somehow her nerves, blood, and stomach never inured themselves.

She chanced another look. Her silent critic flaunted saffron robes, black finger sheaths, looped linen streamers with black-edged cutwork. An orthodox Iyecktori, committed to the Gifted Iyecktor's vision of a stable, well-structured universe. Such a vision left no room for random peripatetic females, free to spread disorder throughout the world. The anger in the eyes of the watching Iyecktori confirmed her moral failing. She curbed the impulse to flash the Feyennese Four Fingers, for this was only the beginning. Heading east into the homeland of the Gifted Iyecktor, she was bound to encounter much more of the same, and she had better start learning to ignore insults.

Her eyes dropped to her plate. She ate quickly, without tasting, paid her bill, returned to the foyer, and asked the clerk on duty for her horse. Minutes later the ostler led Ballerina to the front. Luzelle tipped the ostler, mounted the stolen mare without a.s.sistance, and headed east.

For hours she rode hard under the strong Aennorvi sun, which was stooping westward by the time she came to a bone-white village, bleached and crumbling in the midst of the stony hills. She paused at the public trough in the middle of a plaza pale with ashen dust and black with intense southern shadow. She dismounted. While her horse drank, Luzelle studied the area. At first she thought the place dead, but presently discerned movement under the purple-diapered awning at the far end of the square, where the tradesmen were emerging from their midday coma. Pausing long enough to wrap Ballerina's reins around one of the public rails beside the trough, she hurried to the wakening shop, and entered a small-town general mart designed to meet modest needs.

The proprietor sported finger sheaths and linen streamers. His wife wore thumbless black gloves and a black cap with linen lappets. Orthodox Iyecktories beyond doubt, and the undisguised animosity hardening both bronzed faces momentarily gave her pause.

She rallied quickly. Advancing as if confident of her welcome, she asked in Vonahrish, "Do you sell women's clothing? Linen?"

The shopkeeper answered in curt Aennorvi.

"Clothing." Luzelle fingered the folds of her skirt ill.u.s.tratively. Luzelle fingered the folds of her skirt ill.u.s.tratively.

Her female listener chattered shrilly.

Several bolts of fabric lay on a table at the center of the room. Luzelle turned to investigate, and the chattering rose in volume. The shopkeeper lifted a hand, rigid outstretched finger pointing the way to the exit. Luzelle displayed a fistful of New-rekkoes, and the irritable Aennorvi voices fell silent.

The cloth awaited the scissors and needles of industrious local housewives. No ready-made garments were offered for sale, with the exception of big, geometrically patterned scarves that could double as shawls, and genderless hooded rainwear of olive-drab oilcloth. She chose a handsome scarf and an ugly poncho. She also picked up needles, thread, soap, nail file, toothbrush, comb, hairbrush, handkerchiefs, a basket of apples, raisins, crackers, a canteen, a carpetbag to hold it all, and a couple of buckled straps with which to fasten the carpetbag to Ballerina's saddle cantle.

No fresh clothing. No change of linen. Not today.

Selections complete, she returned to the counter to confront the proprietor, who thrust three upright fingers forward, almost into her face. For a moment she imagined a local variant of the Feyennese Four, then realized that he was specifying a price of three hundred New-rekkoes. A wholly outrageous price, of course. She supposed she was expected to bargain, but she hadn't the time, the inclination, or the knowledge of the language. Swallowing outrage, she laid the money out on the counter, swept her purchases into the carpetbag, and turned to go.

A high-pitched verbal fusillade halted her. She turned back to confront the shopkeeper's wife, who was yelling, gesticulating, pointing at the carpetbag with one hand, and shaking four stiffened fingers at the ceiling with the other. This time the line between financial negotiation and deliberate insult was unclear. Luzelle curled her lip and made for the door. A geyser of unintelligible abuse sprayed behind her. A volley of tiny missiles struck her back, and there was no pain, but the surprise momentarily froze her. Little pellets were hitting the plank floor all around her, and it took her a moment to realize that the shopkeeper or his consort had flung a handful of dried white beans.

Savages. Spinning on her heel, she flashed four fingers at her tormentors and flounced from the shop, leaving the door wide open to the flies.

Idiots. Ranting fanatics. Yes, and how many more of the same between herself and the border? And after the border, farther east, deep in the stronghold of the Gifted Iyecktor, how much the worse?

For a moment she was almost glad that she spoke no Aennorvi; otherwise she would have wanted to stay and argue.

Hurrying across the square to her horse, she filled the new canteen with water from the pump beside the trough, and slung the strap over her shoulder. She fastened the carpetbag to the cantle, then loosed the reins from the rail, mounted, and turned Ballerina east. She departed the village without regret, but not without incident. As she pa.s.sed the ripe garbage heap wreathed in creeping daggers that marked the end of what pa.s.sed for a main street, a gang of local yellow-eyed urchins leapt forth yelling and flinging clods. The soft dirt b.a.l.l.s broke against her skirts. Her horse snorted and shied. A nauseous stench arose, a buzzing fog darkened the air, and Luzelle felt the sting of countless fiery darts. Her face and neck p.r.i.c.kled and burned. A cry escaped her, and she beat at the seething air with her hands. Dimly she noted the taunting yelps of the victorious youngsters. A brittle dirt ball shattered against her hair, the buzzing intensified, and the small darts stabbed her ears and the sensitive skin around her mouth. Even as her hands flew protectively to her eyes, the thought registered, clay nesters. clay nesters. The village children must have stockpiled scores of the delicate spheres, home to countless stinging winged arachnids, and now the intrusion of a lone female, odd and foreign, offered a welcome opportunity to launch the entire a.r.s.enal. The village children must have stockpiled scores of the delicate spheres, home to countless stinging winged arachnids, and now the intrusion of a lone female, odd and foreign, offered a welcome opportunity to launch the entire a.r.s.enal.

Ballerina plunged, and Luzelle barely kept her seat. The spectacle pleased the audience. A fairy chorus of excited juvenile laughter arose, and somebody threw a clay nest at the horse, then somebody else hurled a rock.

Little monsters. Their orthodox parents would probably be proud. She curbed the impulse to turn and yell at them; they would only take it as encouragement. Clapping her heels hard to the red mare's sides, she galloped east, and the laughing taunts and swarming clay nesters fell away behind her.

Once safely clear of the village, she let Ballerina slow to a walk. She was breathing hard and her heart was pounding. Her eyes burned and watered. Emotion? She thought not. Lifting a hand to her face, she found that the skin stung, as if with a sunburn. The hand itself was covered with a rash of tiny red pinp.r.i.c.ks.

The clay-nester venom was not strong enough to cause serious illness. Except in unusual cases. The rash on her face and hands would vanish within hours. Probably.

The southern sun beat down on her. Her skin stung and itched. Opening the canteen, she swallowed a little water, then splashed coolness on her face. It helped. She took the big new scarf, wrapped it around her head Aennorvi style, and that helped too, but not enough. Too bad. Too bad. Nothing more to be done about it at present. Nothing more to be done about it at present.

Luzelle scowled, and pushed east. She rode at a moderate pace, but her imagination raced, flashing along the curve of the Grand Ellipse to overtake and surpa.s.s every rival. The Festinette twins. The Grewzians. Anyone else who might have pulled ahead while she had been delayed in Aeshno.

Glumly she wondered if a single one of them was a fraction as uncomfortable as she.

"THE ANGLE OF THE LIGHT annoys me. Change it," Torvid Stornzof commanded. Settling himself back among fat cushions, he added irritably, "A well-trained attendant requires no reminder. Your masters are remiss. Well, they are Zuleeki." annoys me. Change it," Torvid Stornzof commanded. Settling himself back among fat cushions, he added irritably, "A well-trained attendant requires no reminder. Your masters are remiss. Well, they are Zuleeki."

His listener, evincing neither guilt nor resentment-in fact, communicating nothing at all through the big ocher cloak and hood that contained his or her ident.i.ty-bowed deeply and tweaked the strings that angled the wooden slats admitting sunlight to the hired chasmistrio. A gloved hand was visible for a moment.

The light altered nicely. The objectionable heat and glare abated, and a cool shadow kissed the grandlandsman's brow. At least these idiots could do something right, when properly instructed.

He caught a glimpse of a hairy, broad-snouted, yellow-tusked countenance and then it was gone, swallowed in the shadow of the hood, and none too soon. He did not wish to trouble his vision with excessive ugliness. There were better things to do with his eyes.

Torvid gazed down through the wooden slats and gla.s.s walls upon a vista of sheer cliffs edging ax-stroke gorges, rising above a wrathful river and its tributaries. Typical scenery of half-tamed Zuleekistan, very stirring, very picturesque, and he could appreciate its charm while holding himself aloof from its dangers.

The paG.o.da-roofed gla.s.s-and-steel chasmistrio hung suspended like some piece of jewelry upon the great aerial cable bridging the clouds a thousand feet above the Wzykii Cleft, and connecting the formerly great trading center of Feezie with the string of villages littering the cliff top on the far side of the white-fanged Wzyk River.

Feezie. A deplorable backwater midden. The grandlandsman's lip curled at the recollection. No comforts, no amenities, no entertainment. A dreary, tannery-stinking blight upon the face of the world, a testimony to the inferiority of its inhabitants. If only the tale he had told his shining star of a Promontory nephew had been true-if only he had traveled straight to civilized, amusing Jumo Towne, then life would have been far more pleasant. But duty called, his obligation to the imperior commanded, and thus he found himself reluctantly rusticated.

At least he had skipped over the dusty grime of Aennorve and the primitive rigors of Bizaqh. That was one consolation. And his sojourn in goat-and-bandit-infested Zuleekistan was likely to prove brief. That was another.

Torvid exhaled an impatient cloud of cigarette smoke, and saw his attendant turn away. No refuge, no pure mountain air to be found within the gla.s.s walls of the chasmistrio, and the other knew it but presumably wished to register his-her-its objection to the atmospheric pollution. Insolent freak of nature. A crease deepened between the grandlandsman's brows.

"You-here," he commanded. He tapped the low inlaid table before him sharply. "My gla.s.s." He was prepared to punish the slightest hesitation with a blow, but his companion bent at once to refill the depleted flute with Vonahrish champagne, and no disciplinary opportunity presented itself. The silent other's hirsute face was level with his own for a moment. He caught the feral gleam of red eyes under the shadow of the hood, and the itch in his palm vanished magically.

For a time there was silence broken only by the rush of the mountain winds and the grumble of metal on metal as the chasmistrio ascended, its swaying weight dragged along the cable by the power of unseen hands upon the great winch anch.o.r.ed to the cliff above the Wzyk.

Torvid Stornzof sipped champagne, studied the scenery, and smoked. Presently the chasmistrio attained a region of low-lying cloud, and ghost-grey mists obscured the world below. Grey smoke correspondingly hazed the car's interior, visibility dwindled to nothing, and the ocher-robed menial began to gurgle. A low, hoa.r.s.e, bubbling vocalization issued from under the hood. Urghurrhurgahrurrgh... Urghurrhurgahrurrgh... The creature was simulating pulmonary distress, presumably to score some reproachful little point, but Torvid Stornzof did not number susceptibility among his failings. Calmly exhaling a warm grey fog, he commanded, "Silence." The creature was simulating pulmonary distress, presumably to score some reproachful little point, but Torvid Stornzof did not number susceptibility among his failings. Calmly exhaling a warm grey fog, he commanded, "Silence."

Uuurghhhurgurhurgh-iiYUHHK, iiYUHHK, iiYUHHK- Ridiculous hiccups underscored the gurgles. Purple mucus dripped from the broad nostrils. The impertinence was beneath notice, and ordinarily Torvid would have ignored it. But the close confines of the chasmistrio precluded indulgence, and he found himself obliged to address the other's failing.

"Silence," he repeated.

Uuurghhhurgurhur-iiYUHHK, iiYARGHKKK- This was as deliberately defiant as it was irritating, and corporal chastis.e.m.e.nt was more than warranted. Rising from the divan, Torvid took a step forward, lifted his hand, and struck the hairy face beneath the hood. The other's head snapped aside and then thrust forward, eyes redly ablaze, yellow tusks bared an inch from his throat. Torvid drew back a step, pulled the pistol from his breast pocket, and fired without hesitation. The shot blasted, a third red eye appeared in the middle of the other's forehead, and the creature fell dead.

Awkward. He had acted in self-defense, yet his reception at the far side of the Wzykii Cleft now waxed problematical. Torvid scowled and poured himself another gla.s.s of champagne.

A stench arose to fill the gla.s.s compartment. The dead body was venting a.s.sorted vapors. Torvid set his gla.s.s aside.

The chasmistrio inched along the cable. Eventually the mists thinned and the surrounding crags distinguished themselves. A b.u.mp, sc.r.a.pe, and conclusive thud announced the end of the journey. Forced to attend to himself, Torvid unlatched and opened the steel-barred door with his own hand, stepping forth from his conveyance to confront a quartet of cloaked and hooded ocher figures stationed about the winch. With them stood a flint-eyed overseer clad in the Zuleeki peasant garb of full-sleeved blouse, loose vest, and short homespun kilt.

Ignoring the ocher menials, Torvid addressed himself to the overseer.

"The Mongrel awaits me?"

"You will find him at the lightning-blasted pine below the village of Faddogalbro," the native replied in tolerable Grewzian.

"You will guide me there." Money changed hands.

Pungent gases wafted from the open chasmistrio. The ocher quartet snorted, whined, clicked their teeth, and shifted uneasily beneath their robes. Observing this, the overseer frowned.

"There has been a mishap." Torvid pulled a few bills from his wallet. "To cover your loss."

The other took the cash, counted it, shrugged, and nodded. "Come, then. This way."

Together they set off along the narrow cliff-top path. Behind them four inhuman voices rose in mournful howls.

The hike was silent and uneventful. The Mongrel waited at the fallen pine, as promised. With their chief stood three mustachioed and hawk-nosed subordinates, their heads wrapped in the traditional streaming kerchiefs, their carbines slung across their backs. Not far away grazed four smallish, s.h.a.ggy horses of the hardy local breed.

Torvid gestured imperatively, and his companion fell back. The grandlandsman went on alone, and the Mongrel advanced to meet him. Presently they halted face-to-face, and something in the famous brigand's fearless, almost haughty demeanor prompted the grandlandsman to draw forth the platinum case, snap it open, and proffer the contents with unwonted civility.

"Smoke?" he invited simply.

Accepting a black cigarette, the Mongrel inclined his head without servility. The two men lit up and puffed in silence.

"You will accept the commission?" Torvid asked at last, in Vonahrish.

The Mongrel's eagle eyes narrowed, and he exhaled a thoughtful grey cloud.

"I will accept it," he replied at last.

Torvid handed over a wad of New-rekkoes, which the other pocketed without counting. Terse conversation ensued, peppered with many references to "the Travornish twin brothers," to "the Navoyza Pa.s.s," and to "Een Dja.s.seen."

The interview concluded, and the two men shook hands, almost as equals. The Mongrel and his followers remounted and rode away. Torvid Stornzof rejoined the overseer, and they made their way back along the trail to the chasmistrio, where the four uncla.s.sifiable ocher attendants awaited.

Torvid felt the hot red glare of their eyes upon him as he drew near, and caught the muted rumble of low growls, but ignored such impertinences. He entered the gla.s.s-and-steel car, whose dead tenant had been removed during his absence. The enclosed atmosphere stank of lavender cologne, presumably intended to mask less palatable odors. A fresh bottle of champagne stood in the silver cooler on the low table, but there was no attendant there to pour it out for him. Evidently he was to make the return journey alone, a state that suited him well enough, for he far preferred self-sufficiency to the vexation of sullen or clumsy service.

The Zuleeki overseer set off his signal flare, which must have been glimpsed on the far side of the Wzykii Cleft, for scant minutes later the slack in the endless lines was taken up and the car began to move along the cable, commencing its slow return to Feezie.

Torvid sipped champagne and considered. His impressions of the Mongrel had been favorable, and he believed the brigand capable of fulfilling his commission. This being so, Nephew Karsler's path to victory lay clear before him, the Stornzof triumph was a.s.sured, and the day's work rewarding, even though-the grandlandsman's black brows drew together-even though his own personal intervention should have been unnecessary. Karsler should and could have concluded the affair una.s.sisted, but for the handicap of an absurdly antiquated honorable code-product, no doubt, of a curious education-that often seemed self-defeating, even self-indulgent. For at times it was only too clear that the younger Stornzof placed certain foolish concerns above and beyond his duty to his imperior and to his own House. And if he did so, then he was unworthy of the family name he bore.

A weakling, an irresolute dreamer-and a Stornzof?

But no. The famous overcommander's martial triumphs proved otherwise. His blood was of the best, and the crippling effect of his education an inconvenience, merely.

The champagne was execrable, Torvid decided. And he could not abide the stench of lavender. Travel by chasmistrio was fit for dogs and Zuleekis.

No matter. Another couple of hours and he would be back in Feezie, whose best inn was almost tolerable. He had already booked pa.s.sage aboard the eastbound steamer Diamond Solitaire. Diamond Solitaire. Before tomorrow's sun cleared the horizon, he would be at sea, heading for Jumo Towne and the blessings of civilization. Before tomorrow's sun cleared the horizon, he would be at sea, heading for Jumo Towne and the blessings of civilization.

THE HILLS ROSE STEEP and jagged above the Navoyza Pa.s.s. The vegetation at such alt.i.tudes was low and hardy, the springtime wildflowers dotting the defile with fuchsia and intense purple, the broad fields of sinquerriva spreading water-color washes of pale gold along the slopes. The air was clear, pure, and cool to the verge of discomfort. The sky was ridiculously blue-an artist reproducing the shade on canvas would have been mocked by the critics-and streaked with trailing, traveling clouds. High overhead a hawk glided on stationary wing, and down closer to the ground a flying weasel launched itself at a rock sweeper foraging on the far side of the pa.s.s. and jagged above the Navoyza Pa.s.s. The vegetation at such alt.i.tudes was low and hardy, the springtime wildflowers dotting the defile with fuchsia and intense purple, the broad fields of sinquerriva spreading water-color washes of pale gold along the slopes. The air was clear, pure, and cool to the verge of discomfort. The sky was ridiculously blue-an artist reproducing the shade on canvas would have been mocked by the critics-and streaked with trailing, traveling clouds. High overhead a hawk glided on stationary wing, and down closer to the ground a flying weasel launched itself at a rock sweeper foraging on the far side of the pa.s.s.

A caravan of six camels followed the ancient trail flanked by lofty cliffs. Three of the camels were cream-colored, longhaired, double-humped jehdavis jehdavis, a breed prized for its strength and endurance. The first of these valuable creatures, striding at the head of the party, belonged to a grizzled Zuleeki clad in battered leathers-evidently the leader and guide. The other two were ridden by a pair of youthful foreign patrons, prettily identical in face and form, identical in every detail of dandified Vonahrish-cut costume. The remaining three camels were noticeably inferior in quality. Two of them were ridden by flat-faced local laborers taken on as temporary servants, and the third, serving as a pack animal, carried a mountain of expensive matched leather luggage.

The clean winds sang through the Navoyza Pa.s.s, the picture-perfect clouds sailed across the improbable sky, and one of the young travelers turned to inform the other, "I think I'm going to throw up again."

"Fight it, Tref," Stesian Festinette advised. "Set your mind on something else."

"I can't. It's the way this infernal creature sways sways when it moves. It's worse than a sailboat in a hurricane." when it moves. It's worse than a sailboat in a hurricane."

"Well, it doesn't seem all that bad to me me."

"Well, you you didn't eat any of those grilled rock sweepers. Those miserable little mouse things aren't fit for human consumption. They did not agree with me." didn't eat any of those grilled rock sweepers. Those miserable little mouse things aren't fit for human consumption. They did not agree with me."

"Then why did you go and pop a whole bowlful of 'em?"

"They tasted all right. How was I to know they were poisonous poisonous? Now I'm extremely ill, ready to fall right off this disgusting camel, and a fat lot of sympathy I get from you you."

"I'm sympathetic, Tref. I'm so sympathetic that I'm starting to get queasy just listening to you. You know what happens to me when you get sick-"

"Well, that works both ways!"

"So would you please stop dwelling dwelling on it? Just try to concentrate on something else, something on it? Just try to concentrate on something else, something cheerful. cheerful. Think of-oh, think of the time we spiked the punch bowl at the headmaster's retirement party with that Strellian emetic-" Think of-oh, think of the time we spiked the punch bowl at the headmaster's retirement party with that Strellian emetic-"

"You're not helping, Stes!"

"Sorry. All right, then think about-well, think about fame. Think about prestige. Think about blazing, radiant, unspeakable glory. Think about winning the Grand Ellipse. I tell you, Tref, it'll be our best stunt yet-the three-legged cow was nothing compared to this! And we are are going to win, don't you know. We've drawn so far ahead of the pack, there's no one can catch us now!" going to win, don't you know. We've drawn so far ahead of the pack, there's no one can catch us now!"

"Don't forget the offal chompers."

"I haven't forgotten. But where are they now? There's been no news. If they're ahead of us and we're following in their footsteps, don't you think we'd run into someone who's seen 'em? But n.o.body's sighted the wandering Grewzians-not in Aennorve, or Bizaqh, or Zuleekistan. You know what I'm starting to suspect? Something's happened. Something's held them up, they've fallen behind, and this race is ours ours."