“It’s him! It’s Limbeck!” exclaimed Jarre, who could see a blurry blob through the glass of the bubble that was streaming with rain.
“I’m not sure,” said Lof dubiously, still clinging to a fragment of hope. “Does Limbeck have a tail?”
But Jarre didn’t hear. She rushed across the floor before the gap had quite closed all the way, the other Gegs hastening after her. Reaching the door, she began to yank on it impatiently.
“It won’t open!” she cried, panicked.
Lof, sighing, reached up and turned the handle.
“Limbeck!” shrieked Jarre, and jumped inside the bubble, only to tumble out again with undue haste.
There came from inside a loud and unfriendly-sounding wuff.
The Gegs, noting Jarre’s pale face, backed away from the bubble.
“What is it?” questioned one.
“A d-dog, I think,” stammered Jarre.
“Then it’s not Limbeck?” said Lof eagerly.
A weak voice came from inside.
“Yes, it’s me! The dog’s all right. You startled it, that’s all. It’s worried about its master. Here, give me a hand. This bubble’s a tight fit with all of us in here.”
Tips of fingers could be seen waggling from the door. The Gegs glanced at each other apprehensively and, with one accord, took another step back.
Jarre paused expectantly, looking for help from each Geg in turn. Each Geg, in turn, looked at the winder-upper or the munching-chopper or the rumble-floor-anywhere but at the bubble that had wuffed.
“Hey, help me get out of this thing!” shouted Limbeck.
Her lips pursed together in a straight line that boded no good for anyone, Jarre marched up to the bubble and inspected the hand. It looked like Limbeck’s hand-ink stains and all. Somewhat gingerly she grasped hold of it and tugged. Lof’s hopes were dashed, once and for all, when Limbeck-face flushed and sweating-appeared in the doorway.
“Hullo, my dear,” said Limbeck, shaking hands with Jarre, completely ignoring, in his distraction, that she had held her face up to be kissed. Stepping out of the bubble, he immediately turned back around and appeared to be entering it again.
“Here, now help me get him out,” he called from inside, his voice echoing weirdly.
“Who’s him?” asked Jarre. “The dog? Can’t it get out by itself?”
Limbeck turned around to beam at them. “A god!” he said triumphantly. “I’ve brought back a god!”
The Gegs stared at him in amazed and suspicious silence.
Jarre was the first to recover her power of speech. “Limbeck,” she said sternly, “was that really necessary?”
“Why, uh . . . yes! Yes, of course!” he answered, somewhat taken aback. “You didn’t believe me. Here, help me get him out. He’s hurt.”
“Hurt?” demanded Lof, seeing, once more, hope glimmer. “How can a god be hurt?”
“Aha!” shouted Limbeck, and it was such a mighty and powerful “Aha” that poor Lof was blown off the track and was completely, finally, and forever out of the race. “That’s my point!” Limbeck vanished back into the bubble.
There was some difficulty with the dog, which was standing in front of its master and growling. Limbeck was more than a little concerned at this. He and the dog had developed an understanding on the ride up in the bubble. But this understanding- that Limbeck would remain unmoving in his corner and the dog wouldn’t rip out his throat-didn’t seem likely to be useful in placating the animal and persuading him to move. “Nice doggy’s” and “There’s a good boy’s” didn’t get him anywhere. Desperate, fearful his god would die, Limbeck attempted to reason with the beast.
“Look,” he said, “we don’t want to hurt him. We want to help him! And the only way we can help him is to get him out of this contraption and to a place where he’ll be safe. We’ll take very good care of him, I promise.” The dog’s growling lessened; the animal was watching the Geg with what appeared to be wary interest. “You can come along. And if anything happens that you don’t like, then you can rip out my throat!”
The dog cocked his head to one side, ears erect, listening intently. When the Geg concluded, the dog regarded him gravely.
I’ll give you a chance, but remember that I still have my teeth.