reached the boat with an arrow or two, but saw no point in
meaningless killing or antagonizing strangers. As far as he
was concerned, the best battle was the one that never took
place.
Meantime Jon-Tom was bending solicitously over the
exhausted subject of their rescue. He put an arm beneath
the slim furry neck and helped it sit up. It was a ferret, and
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
83
an old one, distant kin to Mudge’s line but thinner still.
Much of the normally brown fur was tipped with silver. So
was the black mask that ran across the face.
The stranger was clad in beige shorts and vest and wore
sandals instead of boots. A plain, floppy hat lay trampled
in the sand nearby, next to a small leather sack. Several
other similar sacks lay scattered along the beach. All
looked empty.
Gradually the elderly ferret’s breathing slowed. He opened
his eyes, saw Jon-Tom, then looked around wildly.
“Easy, easy, friend. They’re gone. We saw to that.”
The ferret gave him a disbelieving look, then turned his
gaze toward the beach. His eyes settled on the scattered
leather sacks.
“My stock, my goods!” He broke away from Jon-Tom,
who watched while the oldster went through each sack,
one at a time. Finally he sat down on the sand, one sack
draped across his lap. He sighed listlessly, threw it aside.
“Gone.” He shook his head sadly. “AH gone.”
“Wot’s all gone, senior?” Mudge prodded one of the
sacks with a boot.
The ferret didn’t look up at him. “My stock, my poor
stock. I am… I was, a humble trader of trinkets, plying
my trade along the shores east of here. I was set upon by