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bother them.
    With a creak he saw the wagon turn and follow.
    He had resigned himself to a long period of jouncing and bumping, but it hardly seemed he’d been picked up when he was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Flor was dropped next to him. One by one he watched as the rest of his companions were deposited alongside. They mashed down the grass so he could see them clearly, lined up like so many kabobs. The similarity was not encouraging.
    Clothahump had evidently retreated into his shell in an attempt to avoid being moved. They had simply hefted him shell and all to carry him. When he finally stuck arms and legs out again, they were waiting with lassos and ropes. They managed to snare only a leg before he retreated in on himself.
    Mutterings issued from inside the shell. This produced excited conversation among the creatures. They kicked and punched at the impervious body frantically.
    The activity was directed by one of their number, who displayed a variety of metal ornaments and decorative bits of bone in hair and beard. Under his direction a couple of the creatures poked around inside the shell. They were soon able to drag the protesting, indignant turtle’s head out. With the aid of others they shoved several bunches of dried, balled-up grass into his mouth and secured the gag tightly. Clothahump reached up to pull the stuffing out, and they tied his arms also. At that point he slumped back and looked exhausted.
    The creature resplendent in bone and metal jumped up and down happily, jabbing a long feather-encrusted pole at the now safely bound and gagged turtle. Evidently the fashion plate was the local witch doctor or wizard, Jon-Tom decided. He’d recognized that Clothahump had been starting a spell inside his shell and had succeeded in rendering his opponent magically impotent.
    Jon-Tom lay quietly and wondered if they would recognize the sorceral potential of his singing, but the duar was inside the wagon and he was firmly tied on the ground.
    Moans came from nearby. Straining, he saw another of their captors idly kicking Talea with considerable force. Each time she’d curse her tormentor he’d kick her. She would jerk in pain and it would be several minutes before she regained enough strength to curse him again.
    â€œKnock it off!” he yelled at her assailant. “Pick on somebody your own size!”
    The creature responded by leaving Talea and walking over to stare curiously down into Jon-Tom’s face. He jabbered at him experimentally.
    Jon-Tom smiled broadly. “Same to you, you sawed-off shithead.”
    It’s doubtful the creature followed Jon-Tom’s meaning, but he accepted the incomprehensible comment with equanimity and commenced booting the lanky youth in the side instead. Jon-Tom gritted his teeth and refused to give the creature the satisfaction of hearing him groan.
    After several kicks produced nothing but a steady glare, his attacker became bored and wandered off to argue with some of his companions.
    In fact, there appeared to be as much fighting taking place between members of the tribe as there’d been between them and their captives. Jon-Tom looked around and was astonished to see tiny structures, camp fires, and ugly, hairless smaller versions of the adults, which could only be children. Small green and blue lizards wore backpacks and suggested scaly mules. There was consistent and unrelenting activity taking place around the six bound bodies.
    Camp fires and buildings gave every appearance of having been in place for some time. Jon-Tom tried to estimate the distance they’d traveled.
    â€œChrist,” he muttered, “we couldn’t have been camped more than a couple of hundred yards from this town, and we never even saw them.”
    â€œThe grass conceals the Mimpa,” Caz told him. Jon-Tom looked to his right, saw rabbit ears pointed in his direction. “They move freely among it, completely hidden from most of their