“It says it’s all right,” shouted Limbeck happily.
“What says?” demanded Jarre when the dog, jumping lightly out of the bubble, landed on the floor at Limbeck’s feet.
The Gegs instantly scrambled for cover, dodging behind those parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that seemed likely to be proof against sharp fangs. Only Jarre held her ground, determined not to desert the man she loved, no matter what the danger. The dog wasn’t the least bit interested in the quivering Gegs, however. Its attention was centered completely on its master.
“Here!” panted Limbeck, tugging at the god’s feet. “You get this end, Jarre. I’ll take his head. There, carefully. Carefully. That’s got him, I think.”
Having braved the dog, Jarre felt equal to anything, even hauling gods around by their feet. Casting a withering glance at her cowardly compatriots, she grasped hold of the god’s leather boots and tugged. Limbeck guided the limp body out of the bubble, catching hold of the shoulders when they appeared. Together the Gegs eased the god onto the floor.
“Oh, my,” said Jarre softly, her fear forgotten in pity. She touched the gash on his head with a gentle hand. Her fingers came away covered with blood. “He’s hurt awfully bad!”
“I know,” said Limbeck anxiously. “And I had to handle him kind of roughly, dragging him out of his ship before the dig-claw smashed him to bits.”
“His skin’s icy cold. His lips are blue. If he were a Geg, I’d say he was dying. But maybe gods are supposed to look like that.”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t look like that when I first saw him, just after his ship crashed. Oh, Jarre, he just can’t die!”
The dog, hearing the compassion in Jarre’s voice and seeing her touch his master soothingly, gave her hand a swipe with his tongue and looked up at her with pleading brown eyes.
Jarre was startled at first at feeling the wet slurp, then relaxed. “Why, there, don’t worry. It’s going to be all right,” she said softly, reaching out and timidly giving the animal a pat on the head. He suffered her to do so, flattening his ears and wagging his bushy tail ever so slightly.
“Do you think it will be?” asked Limbeck in deep concern.
“Of course! Look, his eyelids are moving.” Briskly Jarre swung around and began giving orders. “The first thing to do is get him someplace warm and quiet where we can take care of him. It’s almost time for scrift change. We don’t want anyone to see him-”
“We don’t?” interrupted Limbeck.
“No! Not until he’s well and we’re ready to answer questions. This will be a great moment in the history of our people. We don’t want to spoil it by rushing into anything. You and Lof go get a litter-”
“A litter? The god won’t fit on a litter,” Lof pointed out sulkily. “His legs’ll hang over the edge and his feet’ll drag the floor!”
“That’s true.” Jarre wasn’t accustomed to dealing with a person whose body was so long and narrow. She paused, frowning, when suddenly a clanging gong sounding very loudly caused her to glance around in alarm. “What’s that?”
“They’re going to be opening the floor!” Lof gasped.
“What floor?” inquired Limbeck curiously.
“This floor!” Lof pointed at the metal plates beneath their feet.
“Why? Oh, I see.” Limbeck looked upward at the dig-claws that had dumped their load and were being readied to descend into the gap to fetch up another.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Lof said urgently. Sidling up to Jarre, he whispered, “Let the god stay. When the floor opens, he’ll drop back into the air where he came from. His dog too.”
But Jarre wasn’t paying attention. She was watching the carts trundle along overhead.
“Lof!” she said excitedly, grabbing hold of him by his beard and yanking-a habit she had acquired when dealing with Limbeck and one she found difficult to break. “Those carts! The god will fit inside one of those! Hurry! Hurry!”
The floor was beginning to vibrate ominously, and anything was better than having his beard pulled out by the roots. Lof nodded and ran off with the other Gegs to acquire an empty cart.