Spellsinger 03 – The Day of the Dissonance by Foster, Alan Dean

patrol, just as in Lynchbany, where their particular anatomi-

cal capabilities made them the logical candidates for the

police service. It was simple for them to control an angry

mob or recalcitrant prisoner through nonviolent means.

Jon-Tom would much rather be beaten up.

The cops turned as he approached, taking particular note

of the heavily armed Roseroar.

“Trouble, strangers?” one of the police inquired.

“No trouble.” Both striped tails relaxed, for which

Jon-Tom was grateful. “We’re looking for someone. A

companion, human female of about mid-to-late adoles-

cence. Attractive, blonde fur. She was shopping in this

area last night.”

The cops looked at each other. Then the one on the left

raised a hand over his head, palm facing the ground.

“About so tall?”

“Yes!” Jon-Tom said excitedly.

“Wearing funny sort of clothes, dark blue pants?”

“That’s her!” Suddenly he remembered who he was

talking to. “What happened to her?”

“Not much, as far as I know. We were just coming on

duty.” He turned to gesture up a steep street. “Was about

four blocks up that way, two to the left. She was out cold

when we stumbled over her. Friend of yours, you say?”

Jon-Tom nodded.

“Well, we tried to bring her around and didn’t have

much luck. It was pretty plain what had happened to her.

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

149

The pockets of her pants and blouse had been ripped open

and she had a lump here,” he touched his head near his

left ear, “about the size of a lemon.”

“Somebody rolled ‘er,” said Mudge knowledgeably.

“My fault,” said Jon-Tom. “I thought she’d be okay.”