“Smells mighty good,” commented a strange voice.
Roseroar rose to a sitting position. Mudge peered around
THE DAY or THE DISSONANCE
223
the cookfire while Jon-Tom put aside the duar he’d been
strumming.
Standing at the edge of their little clearing in the trees
was a five-foot-tall cuscus, a bland expression on his pale
face. He was dressed in overlapping leather strips and
braids, snakeskin boots of azure hue, and short brown
pants. A single throwing knife was slung on each hip, and
he was scratching himself under the chin with his furless,
prehensile tail. As he scratched he leaned on the short staff
he carried. Jon-Tom wondered if, like his own, the visi-
tor’s also concealed a short, deadly length of steel in the
unknobbed end. The visitor’s fur was pale beige mottled
with brown.
He was also extraordinarily ugly, a characteristic of the
species, though perhaps a female cuscus might have thought
otherwise of the newcomer. He made no threatening ges-
tures and waited patiently.
“Come on in and have a seat.” Jon-Tom extended the
invitation only after Roseroar had climbed to her feet and
Mudge had moved close to his bow.
“That is right kind of you, sir. I am Hathcar.” Jon-Tom
performed introductions all around.
Roseroar was sniffing the air, glanced accusingly down
at the visitor. “You are not alone.”
“No, large she, I am not. Did I forget to mention it? I
am sorry and will now remedy my absentmindedness.” He
put his lips together and emitted a sharp, high-pitched
whistle.
With much rustling of bushes a substantial number of