Jon-Tom grinned, took care to conceal it from the
apoplectic otter. “Look, mate. I’m tired, too, and I’m
damned if I’m going to carry you.”
The otter staggered after his companions. “I suppose you
think it’s funny, don’t you, you ‘ypocritical, angular bastard?”
Jon-Tom fought not to laugh. For one thing, he couldn’t
spare the wind. “Come off it, Mudge. You know we
wouldn’t have left you.”
“Oh, wouldn’t you, now? Suppose I ‘adn’t gotten up to
follow you, eh? Wot then? ‘Ow do I knows you would’ve
come back for me?”
“It’s a moot point, Mudge. You were just trying to hitch
a ride.”
“I admit nothin’.” The otter pushed past him, taking the
lead, his short, stubby legs moving like pistons.
“A strange one, yoah fuzzy little friend,” Roseroar
whispered to Jon-Tom. She matched her pace to his.
“Oh, Mudge is okay. He’s a lazy, lying little cheat, but
other than that he’s a prince.”
Roseroar considered this. “Ah believes the standards o’
yoah world must be somewhat different from mine.”
214
Alan Dean Foster
“Depends on what part of my culture you come from.
Mudge, for example, would be right at home in a place
called Hollywood. Or Washington, D.C. His talents would
be much in demand.”
Roseroar shook her head. “Those names have no meanuT
fo me.”
“That’s okay. They don’t for a lot of my contemporaries,
either.”
The sand continued to rise behind them, mounting
toward the darkening sky. At any moment the wave might
crest, to send tons of sand tumbling over them, swallowing
them up. He tried not to think of that, tried to think of