“You! What is this place? Why am ah locked up? Y’all
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Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
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answer me fast or ah’ll make a necklace out of yo
backbone!”
“G-g-g-guards,” the porcupine stammered. It came out
as a whisper. Aware his cry wasn’t reaching very far, he
raised his voice. “Guards!”
“Quit stabling and talk to me.” Feminine, Jon-Tom
decided. Thunderous, but undeniably feminine. The conju-
ration was a she. She turned to eye Mudge. “Yo theah.
Why won’t he talk to me?”
“You talkin’ to me, m’dear?” Mudge inquired reluctantly.
She reached down and lifted him easily off the floor with
one paw, setting her second sword aside but within easy
reach. Fully extended, her claws were nearly as long as
Mudge’s fingers.
“Now, who else would ah be talking to, you little
sponge?”
“Blimey, m’dear, I ain’t considered the possibility.”
“Guards!” Suddenly it occurred to the porcupine that
since he wasn’t having much luck obtaining help with his
voice, it might be efficacious to employ his feet. He raced
up the stairs with unexpected speed. “Guards, help me!”
“Hey, yo!” The tigress dropped Mudge, who promptly
retreated to the back of the cell. “Come back heah! Yo
heah me?”
“He thinks you’re a threat to him.”
“What’s that?” For the first time she focused her
attention on Jon-Tom.
“I said, he thinks you’re a threat to him. Because
you’re in here with us.”
“Y’all are awfully big fo a human.”
“And you’re awfully big period.” He continued strug-
gling with the cuffs that bound him to the bars of the cell.
“What is this place?” She turned slowly to make a