'You're an impatient cuss,' she smiled at him. 'You haven't seen me dance yet. I was a well-paid dancer once, It should be worth your while.'
'Dance, then,' he said, settling himself against a rock. 'You make the music. You know how.'
He thought for a moment, then uncovered another bit of technique known to the dead. He began to send out mentally Debussy's Claire de Lune. She heard it, smiled at him as she caught the music, and began to dance.
Her body was not very good; certainly not as good as it had been. But as he studied the dancing, sometimes with eyes closed so that he could hear only the rustle of her feet on the snow and sometimes so abstracted that he could hear only the displacement of air as she moved, Colt was deeply stirred.
He tuned in on her thoughts, picking out the swiftly running stream, the skittering little point of consciousness that danced over them.
'Now I am a swan,' said her thoughts while she danced to the music.
'Now I am a swan, dying for love of the young prince who has wandered through the courtyard. And now I am the prince, very pretty and as dumb as a prince could be. Now I am his father the King, very wrathy and pompous. And now, and through it all, I was really the great stone gargoyle on the square top tower who saw all and grinned to himself.'
She pirouetted to an end with the music, bowing with a stylized, satirically cloying grace. He applauded lustily.
'Unless you have other ideas,' she said, 'I would like to dance again.'
Her face was rosy and fresh-looking.
He began to construct music in his mind while she listened in and took little tentative steps. Colt started with a split-log-drum's beat, pulse speed, low and penetrating. He built up another rhythm overlaying it, a little slower, with wood-block timbre. It was louder than the first.
Rapidly he constructed a series of seven polyrhythmic layers, from the bottom split-log pulse to a small, incessant snare-drum beat.
'I'm an animal now, a small, very arboreal animal. I can prick up my ears; my toes are opposed, so I can grasp a branch.'
He added a bone-xylophone melody, very crude, of only three tones.
'My eyes are both in front of my face. My vision has become stereoscopic. I can sit up and handle leaves. I can pick insects from the branches I live in.'
Colt augmented the xylophone melody with a loud, crude brass.
Valeska thought, 'I'm bigger—my arms are longer. And I often walk little distances on the ground, on my feet and my arm knuckles.'
Colt added a see-sawing, gutty-sounding string timbre, in a melody opposed to the xylophone and the brass.
'I'm bigger—bigger—too big for trees. And I eat grubs as well as leaves—and I walk almost straight up—see me walk!'
He watched her swinging along the ground, apish, with the memory of brachiation stamped in every limb. He modified the bone-xylophone's timbre to a woody ring, increased the melodic range to a full octave.
With tremendous effort Valeska heaved over an imaginary rock, chipped at it. 'I'm making flint hand-axes. They kill animals bigger than I am—tigers and bears—see my kitchen heap, high as a mountain, full of their bones!'
He augumented with a unison choir of woodwinds and a jangling ten-string harp.
'I eat bread and drink beer and I pray to the Nile—I sing and I dance, I farm and I bake—see me spin rope! See me paint pictures on plaster!'
A wailing clarinet mourned through the rhythmic sea. Valeska danced statelily. 'Yes—now I'm a man's woman —now I'm on top of the heap of the ages—now I'm a human—now I'm a woman….'
Colt stopped short the whole accumulation of percussion, melody and harmony in a score of timbres, cutting in precisely a single blues piano that carried in its minor, sobbing-sad left hand all the sorrow of ages; in the serpentine-stabbing chords splashed gold by the right sang the triumph of man in his glory of metal and stone.
Valeska danced, sending out no words of what the dance was, for it was she, what she dreamed, what she had been, and what she was to be. The dance and the music were Valeska, and they ended when she was in Colt's arms. The brandy bottle dropped from his grip and smashed on the rock.
Their long, wordless communion was broken by a disjointed yell from the two sides of the ridge as fighting forces streamed to battle. From the Bad caravan came the yell, 'Kill and maim! Destroy! Destroy!' And the Good caravan cried, 'In the name of the right! For sanctity and peace on Earth! Defend the right!'
Colt and Valeska found themselves torn apart in the rush to attack, swept into the thick of the fighting. The thundering voices from above, and the lightning, were almost continuous. The blinding radiance rather than the night hampered the fighting.
They were battling with queer, outlandish things—frying pans, camp stools, table forks. One embattled defender of the right had picked up a piteously bleating kid and was laying about him with it, holding its tiny hooves in a bunch.
Colt saw skulls crack, but nobody gave way or even fell. The dead were immortal. Then what in blazes was this all about? There was something excruciatingly wrong somewhere, and he couldn't fathom what it was.
He saw the righteous and amiable Raisuli Batar clubbing away with a table leg; minutes later he saw the fiendish and amiable chief of the Bad men swinging about him with another.
Vaguely sensing that he ought perhaps to be on the side of the right, he picked up a kettle by the handle and looked about for someone to bean with it. He saw a face that might be that of a fiend strayed from Hell, eyes rolling hideously, teeth locked and grinding with rage as its owner carved away at a small-sized somebody with a broken- bladed axe.
He was on the verge of cracking the fiend out of Hell when it considered itself finished with its victim, temporarily at least, and turned to Colt.
'Hello, there,' snapped the fiend. 'Show some life, will you?'
Colt started as he saw that the fiend was Lodz, one of the Good men.
Bewildered, he strayed off, nearly being gouged in the face by Grandfather T'ang, who was happily swinging away with a jagged hunk of suntori bottle, not bothering to discriminate.
But how did one discriminate? It came over him very suddenly that one didn't and couldn't. The caravaneers were attacking each other. At that moment there came through a mental call from Valeska, who had just made the same discovery on her own. They joined and mounted a table, inspecting the sea of struggling human beings.
'It's all in the way you look at them,' said Valeska softly.
Colt nodded. 'There was only one caravan,' he said in somber tones.
He experimented silently a bit, discovering that by a twiddle of the eyes he could convert Raisuli Batar into the Bad caravan leader, turban and all. And the same went for the Bad idol—a reverse twiddle converted it into the smiling, blue-eyed guardian of the Good caravan. It was like the optical illusion of the three shaded cubes that point one way or the other, depending on how you decide to see them.
'That was what Grandfather rang meant,' said the woman. Her eyes drifted to the old man. He had just drained another bottle; with a businesslike swing against a rock he shattered the bottom into a splendid cutting tool and set to work again.
'There's no logic to it,' Colt said forlornly. 'None at all.' Valeska smiled happily and hugged him.
Colt felt his cheek laid open.
'Bon soir. Guten Tag. Buon giorno. Buenos dias. Bon soir. Guten Tag.
Buon—'
'You can stop that,' said Colt, struggling to his feet. He cracked his head against a strut, hung on dazedly. 'Where's—'
He inspected the two men standing before him with healthy grins. They wore the Red Army uniform under half-buttoned flying suits. The strut that had got in his way belonged to a big, black helicopter; amidships was blazoned the crimson star of the Soviet Union.
'You're well and all that, I fawncy?' asked one of the flyers. 'We spotted you and landed—bunged up your cheek a bit—Volanov heah would try to overshoot.'
'I'm fine,' said Colt, feeling his bandage. 'Why'n hell can't you Russians learn to speak American?'
