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

anyone who ever gets there never comes back. ‘Tis the

entrance to ‘ell itself, mate. Surely you don’t mean to go

there.”

“Not only do I mean to go there, I intend to make a

small purchase and return safely with it. And you’re

coming with me. You promised.”

“‘Ere now, mate, when I made this ‘ere bargain,

weren’t nothin’ said about Cranculam. I’m out.” He stepped

off the chair and discovered he was straddling the far end

of Jon-Tom’s ramwood staff, which had been slipped

under the table earlier.

“Sit down,” Jon-Tom ordered him. Gingerly, the otter

resumed his seat. “You made a promise, Mudge. You

agreed to accompany me. In a sense, you accepted the

proffered fee. Where I come from an oral contract is

enforceable when the details are known to both parties,

and in this case the details are now known.”

“But Crancularn, mate. Can’t this medicine be got

anywheres else?”

Jon-Tom shook his head. “I pressed Clothahump on that

THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE

33

point repeatedly, and he never wavered. The only place it

can be bought is Crancularn.” He leaned over the table,

spoke almost angrily. “Look, do you think I want to go

gallivanting halfway across a strange world in search of

some old fart’s pills? I like Clothahump, sure, but I have

my own life to live. What’s left of it. If he dies leaving me

stuck here, I might as well be dead. It’s interesting

enough, your world, but I want to go home, damn it! I

miss Westwood on the opening night of a Steven Spielberg

movie, and I miss the bookstores on Hollywood Boule-

vard, and the beach, and bagels at the deli, and take-out