The landscape remained as black as ever but the sky continued to brighten. There was no sunrise as such. Instead the constellations and the vaguer bands of light in the sky became both brighter and more numerous.
It was as if Q'oorna were a world at the veritable edge of creation. As Q'oorna revolved in its daily course, a strange sort of dawn and dusk, daytime and night, would occur. When they faced the rest of the universe, the cumulative light of a billion suns would impinge on them. So distant was Q'oorna from these stars that their combined illumination was never greater than that of a grey and miserable late afternoon in England. And when Q'oorna's rotation brought the observers to face away from the rest of the universe, there was only the enigmatic spiral of stars, those few but almost painfully brilliant points of light, in the planet's sky.
Trying to imagine where such a place might be, where such conditions might obtain, Clive shivered.
Ahead of them a chasm yawned.
Even as they spotted it from afar, a distant roaring could be heard. Perhaps the stream they were following plunged over the edge of the chasm, and the sound was that of the waterfall.
No words were exchanged among the four. None were needed, and none could contribute. All of them knew that they would continue until they had reached the edge.
When they were a mile from the chasm a chance glint of light hinted to them that there was a way across. They could not see the far side of the chasm: its width was too great for that. But a great, graceful arch spanned the abyss, disappearing beyond in a faintly luminous mist that rose from below.
The roaring grew louder.
Clive halted and took Horace Hamilton Smythe's arm. "Do you hear it, Sergeant?"
"Hear what, sah?"
"That roaring—howling—whatever it is."
"Yes, sah. Of course, sah."
"It's no waterfall. It's—it's some kind of voice."
"Yes, sah, I detect as much, sah."
"And—and—Sergeant Smythe—it's—it's singing. It's a crude, a monstrously crude voice, like a lion's roar crossed with the howling of a gigantic wolf. But I swear by all that's holy, Sergeant, whatever that is that's making the sound is doing its level best to sing 'God Save the Queen'!"
CHAPTER 15
Enter the Dwarf
Thus: Finnbogg.
He was like a man, but he was not a man.
Barely four feet tall, and so wide that from a distance Clive could have taken him for Tweedle-dee or Tweedle-dum, one of the rotund twins in Mr. Dodgson's fantasy. Here was a short, fat, jolly individual who would have been more at home on a music hall stage in Whitechapel than guarding a bridge across a forbidding chasm on this remote black hell called Q'oorna.
Closer to the bridge, he looked both more and less human than he did from afar.
He had two arms and two legs. His torso and hands and feet were shaped like those of a man, although Clive could not tell how many fingers or toes Finnbogg possessed.
His face had the look of a bulldog. His brow beetled, and his nose was puglike, broad and flat and with nostrils that flared against the flatness of his face. His jaw was underslung, and teeth like tusks protruded from his lower jaw, extending over his upper lip. He snapped them as he pranced about, and when he clashed his teeth, sparks literally flew in the black Q'oornan night.
And he howled and roared in a voice like a mighty beast, but as Clive and Sidi Bombay and Horace Hamilton Smythe and User Annie drew close, the tune and even the words of "God Save the Queen" grew clear.
When they were a hundred yards from the bridge and its amazing guardian, the creature gave them another surprise. He dropped to all fours, his almost apelike arms and his short legs working in perfect coordination. He sped across the black landscape at astonishing speed.
Before Clive and the others could react, before Annie could reach inside her bodice and activate her Baalbec A-9 electrofield, he was upon them. Almost more rapidly than the eye could follow he circled them, then threw himself on the black earth, rolling against their legs, rubbing his fangs terrifyingly against their legs.
Annie screamed.
Folliot winced and recoiled.
Horace Hamilton Smythe uttered an unprintable oath.
And Sidi Bombay knelt and embraced the monstrosity, running his scrawny black hands through its weird, bushy hair, rubbing its shoulders and back, finally pressing his cheek against its bristly face and its razor-sharp fangs.
"You see, Englishman? We have found a friend."
"You're right," Clive managed. He knelt beside the Indian, reached toward the massive being. It— he—was amazingly massive. Bones like iron stanchions, limbs like tree trunks, a face that, like a genial bulldog's, was strangely appealing in its very ugliness and its almost pathetic eagerness to please despite its ferocity.
At last the monster backed off a few paces. It raised itself to a standing posture and began a low humming, a humming of a song popular among the cadets at Sandhurst. Clive Folliot recognized the tune. It was one that his brother Neville had sung when deep in his cups, one with lyrics to make a Whitechapel trollop crimson.
"What are you?" Clive demanded of the creature. "Who are you? Where does this bridge lead?" He indicated the soaring span that disappeared into mist.
From here it could be seen that the bridge was cast of living basalt, black and polished and glittering beneath the Q'oornan constellations.
"Finnbogg," the creature answered. It howled and capered and gibbered like a mad thing—but it was not mad. "Happy," Finnbogg roared. "Happy, happy Finnbogg. Come to play, come to stay, come today. Good, good, nice, nice!"
He hopped forward and placed one heavily padded, pawlike hand against Clive's cheek, one against Annie's. "Nice tempoids play Finnbogg, happy Finnbogg, come and play. Tell Finnbogg a story."
Clive shook his head. "A story?"
The beast capered. "Story! Finnbogg love stories. Like 'Merry Thornbug and Merchant Lamprey.' Or 'Snowsnakes Three.' Know 'Snowsnakes Three,' being? Finnbogg's favorite story. 'One fine day Snowsnake One woke up. 'Yik, yak,' Snowsnake say, 'where to find redscratchers in blue ice? Try greenice witchfaery burrow.' But Sharp Treeclimber say, 'Witchfaery go hot lava, witchfaery swim in volcano, witchfaery out for birding soup.' So Snowsnake one—' "
Finnbogg stopped. He sat back on his massive haunches and peered from one face to another. "No being know story? Nobody know 'Snowsnakes Three' story? Know another story? Tell Finnbogg story. Finnbogg love story, save story, never forget good story."
Clive ignored the creature's pleas. "Are you a Q'oornan?" he demanded.
Finnbogg somersaulted, hopped straight into the air—at least twelve feet into the air!—landed on his hands, and did a spring back onto his feet. "Not Q'oornan!" he roared. "Finnbogg Finnbogg from Finnbogg!" he shouted. He peered deeply into Clive's face. "Finnbogg know you. Finnbogg friend, man friend, else Finnbogg kill!"
The last word seemed to give the creature an idea. He threw himself at an imaginary foe, fangs bared, clashing his great teeth fearsomely. He roared in mock rage—Clive hoped that it was merely mock rage—and tossed his great head to left and to right. If he had held an enemy in his jaws at that instant, its neck would have been snapped as easily as that of a rabbit in the grip of a terrier.
"Englishmen," Sidi Bombay said softly, "do you not know the totem of your own land? Even the Prophet, blessings be upon His name, was not perfect. This humble servant of God cannot comprehend the Prophet's dislike of the noble dog."
Clive stared at the strange creature. Sim Bombay had merely confirmed Clive's impression of Finnbogg. The massive, muscular being was indeed a bulldog, or something that Charles Darwin might have predicted would emerge from a million generations of bulldogs striving to achieve humanity. He was as energetic, as enthusiastic, as affectionate and eager for approval as a bulldog. And he was a terrifying visage, and in combat would doubtless prove as deadly and as unyielding as a bulldog.
"You know me?" Clive asked the doggish being.
"Folliot," came the reply in a growl. "Folliot, Folliot, good major, yes, Finnbogg friend Folliot."
"P'raps the major's brother passed this way, sah," Sergeant Smythe offered.
"Perhaps he did," Clive replied softly. "If so, he seems to have made a favorable impression for once. Well, let us not look a gift horse—or dog!—in the mouth, eh, Smythe? It looks as if we've found a faithful friend and strong ally!"
The young woman took Finnbogg's pawlike hand from her face and held it between her own graceful hands. "Eyedee protocol Finnbogg," she said. "User Annie log-on, modem connect. Designate task assignment."
"Bad Q'oornans tell Finnbogg guard bridge. Tell Finnbogg not let tempoids cross bridge. Not let extroids cross bridge. Not let cybroids cross bridge. Only Q'oornans cross bridge. Where Finnbogg's littermates? Boypups, girlpups, Finnboggs, gone.
Down? All gone away down? Gone away? Where pups?"
The creature threw himself to the ground, whining and—Clive was certain of it—actually weeping.
Finnbogg dragged himself, belly to the ground, to the edge of the chasm. He leaned far over, almost tumbling from the black rocky ledge, but held himself back with fingers of immense strength. Mists rose from the depths. The stream that Clive's party had followed flowed over the edge of the chasm and crashed into the depths, spume rising to obscure the bottom of the abyss.
"Where does the bridge lead?" Clive asked. He was studying the span. It was narrow, barely adequate to permit their party to walk side by side. Certainly it could not carry a coach of passengers or a wagon of goods. It rose into the Q'oornan sky, silhouetted against the sparkling distant nebulae until it disappeared into the mist and the distance.
"Bad Q'oornans never tell Finnbogg. Beat Finnbogg, scold Finnbogg, never love Finnbogg, never never never. Take boypups, girlpups, where litter? Never tell story. Being know story of Farmer Fivefeet and Walking Wildhooper? No? Q'oornans never tell story! Bad bad bad." He made a sound that was a simple growl but that was the growl of a thousand creatures in one. He dropped to all fours once again.
The young woman knelt and put her arms around Finnbogg's neck. "Open data link, User Finnbogg. Sysop Annie buses love protocol." She pressed the bristly face to her bosom, the creature's great fangs held tight against the thin cloth that covered her soft, generous breasts.
"Wot's the young lady saying, sah?" Sergeant Smythe asked.
"I think she told Finnbogg that she loves him," Clive answered. "And somehow, Smythe, I believe she's telling the truth."
Finnbogg jumped to his feet, capered in a mad circle around the others, and seized Annie's hand in his own.
"Come ahead, come ahead, tempoids. Come ahead. Finnbogg your Finnbogg now. Not Q'oornans' Finnbogg, no, no, no more Q'oornans'. Come, come, tempoids. Cross Finnbogg bridge. Cross, cross, come along."
Like an eager dog straining at its lead, he dragged Annie onto the bridge. The others followed.
They had gone hardly thirty yards when Clive realized with a shudder that the bridge was a bare span of cold, black basalt soaring above the chasm. There were no walls to it, no guardrails. The surface was smooth, and where it was wet with mist it was slick. A single misstep, a fall, would cast one into the black chasm and to certain doom.
Happy now to be with his new friends, Finnbogg was singing a song that Clive had heard on the streets of London, where it had arrived from Boston in America. "Champagne Charlie was his name," the creature roared, "Champagne Charlie was his name."
Clive was troubled by something that he could not identify and that would not leave him in peace until he had tracked it through his own mental labyrinth.
He had it! "Champagne Charlie" had arrived in England only the year before, he was sure of it. Sheet music had been imported from Boston, and overnight half of London was singing the same silly song. If Finnbogg knew the song, then it had arrived in Q'oorna within the past year. In all likelihood, it had to be Clive's brother Neville who had brought it.
Distractions and disasters notwithstanding, Clive was still on the trail! He had seen Neville's cadaver, or what had appeared to be Neville's cadaver. But there had been new entries in the journal, and now there was Finnbogg's evidence, however indirect, to suggest that Neville was alive.
They climbed slowly toward the peak of the bridge. It became increasingly difficult to keep steady footing and to move ahead. The upward slope was not steep—that alone made it possible to make the climb without equipment that the travelers no longer possessed—but as they ascended, the temperature plummeted. The droplets of mist that condensed on the bridge froze, and the already slick surface of polished obsidian bore a thin coating of ice.
Finnbogg alone had no difficulty in keeping his footing. His feet were bare, their bottoms divided into pads like those of a dog. The pads had been hardened by the long years of exposure to the hard ground and rough duty that Finnbogg had encountered at the bridge. His nails, like those of a dog, were strong and curved, and—perhaps as an amusing pastime—he had sharpened them to needle points, just as he had those on his fingers.
He strode happily along, singing "Champagne Charlie,"
"When You and I Were Young, Maggie,"
"Work for the Night Is Coming," and "Tenting on the Old Camp Ground." Occasionally he would burst into an especially gleeful chorus of his favorite, "God Save the Queen."
The climb settled into a routine. It wasn't especially difficult, save for the need to place each step carefully, avoiding the peril of a disastrous slip.
Even the jovial Finnbogg settled into a calmer mood, humming a medley of Negro spirituals. He loved each song and repeated each more times than Clive Folliot could count, before moving on to the next. And Finnbogg's humming had the general volume and tonal quality of the steam engines aboard the Empress Philippa.
Clive found himself reminiscing about Captain Wingate and Purser Fennely and the other persons he had encountered aboard that ship—the trio of card- sharpers, Lorena Ransome in particular. She had been a charmer, and she had seemed more than willing to share her charms with Clive.
A warm fantasy relieved him of the chill tedium of the basalt bridge. He was taken by a strangely pleasant melancholy. He could summon up the feeling, the very odor of—
A scream shattered his reverie.
User Annie leaped back, colliding with Folliot. He fell to one knee, clutching to keep from being swept off the bridge. A huge shadow rose before the party, blocking out a patch of sky where stars and fuzzy nebulae cast their ghostly illumination.
The shadow hovered briefly, then began to grow with alarming speed as it dropped back toward the travelers.
Features became visible on the thing, for it was a solid object, a living creature that blocked the stars and nebulae, not a mere shadow at all. It had huge wings that buzzed and sizzled in the mist-filled air. Its eyes glowed with a malevolent light of their own, and when they were cast upon Clive he felt a queerness pass through his flesh, as if the eyes had actually projected an invisible, harmful ray like those speculated upon in the papers of William Crookes.
It had rows of claws, and along the center of its body a pattern of openings through which a ruddy glow was visible.
Bringing itself parallel with the path of the bridge, it whirred and buzzed toward the travelers. Small black objects dropped from it, falling from the orifices in its torso. As each of them struck the bridge it exploded like a grenade.
The creature swept past, screaming its malice.
It swung in a broad curve, disappeared into the mist, then reappeared ahead of the travelers and far off to one side. Again it swept toward them, but this time as it completed its approach it did not pass overhead. Instead it reared in the air like an angry stallion. Clive could see the fires of hell burning inside the thing.
Finnbogg launched himself into the air.
The bulldog of a man and the monstrous flying thing collided with a single deafening crash, then fell back to the icy bridge with a second and louder impact that shook th
e very basalt.
Grappling like wrestlers, they struggled, sliding forward and back, left and right, approaching within a fraction of an inch of their mutual doom, then struggling together, back toward the relative safety of the center of the pathway.
With a final grinding, wrenching, crunching paroxysm. Finnbogg tore the attacker in half. Finnbogg held the two pieces of the thing in the air. From within the halves ugly liquids poured, purple and lavender and magenta, that sizzled and then sublimed away into pungent gas when they hit the ice on the bridge.
Finnbogg plucked a segment of the thing and sampled it with his fangs. He growled and spit it out. "Bad meat, bad, bad, not taste nice, poor Finnbogg, bad thing, bad, bad, bad."
"Is it—was it alive, Finnbogg?" Folliot peered at the broken remnants, trying to understand what it was that he beheld. "Is it a natural beast or a mechanical contrivance? I thought it was a beast, but—" He frowned, picked at some of the smaller fragments that had fallen to the icy roadway. They seemed of artificial composition, bits of metal or pottery or glass, certainly not the product of organic nature but of applied intelligence.
"Bad alive," Finnbogg growled. "Bad alive, make-uh—uh—more parts. More parts for bad alive. Not good to eat, not good to play, never tell Finnbogg story, not nice."
Quartermaster Sergeant Horace Hamilton Smythe joined Folliot in examining the fragments. "P'raps the major might wish to arsk, ah, Mr. Finnbogg if that was a servant of the Q'oornans. Seems to me they're a very odd lot, those Q'oornans. Hardly had time to talk wiv 'em back in their city, but I don't quite gavver as how they had the likes of this thing to send out to do their bidding. Doesn't the major agree, sah, if I might make so bold, sah!'
Clive half-expected the man to brace to attention and snap off a brisk salute, but he merely waited expectantly.
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