The Deavys by Alan Dean Foster Page B

from Atlantis, did not question their requests. Anyone who could see the snakezels coiling and writhing within the serving bin was by definition sufficiently adept to deal with one. Using a pair of special tongs, he removed a twisting, hissing diamondback from the container and placed it within a large piece of appropriately enchanted wax paper. On contact, the snakezel suffered instant petrification, freezing in the shape of the less exotic pretzels with which it had shared a home only a moment before.
    â€œY’want mustard wid dat?” the proprietor asked Rose.
    â€œSure. Also frankincense and myrrh.”
    The young blond émigré smiled and jerked a thumb toward a nearby shelf. “Over there with the other condiments.” Fishing out a striped snakezel, he passed the sleek solidified snack across to Amber. “What you want on yours?”
    â€œJust sea salt, thanks.” Taking the wax paper handful, she bit into the snakezel with gusto, starting at the head.
    In addition to the snakezels, all four of them ordered drinks: cold mead for Rose and Amber, a coke for Simwan, and for N/Ice a tall glass of imported schweel, which managed to be both hot and cold at the same time. As they headed away from the snack booth, the pet carrier rocked insistently in Simwan’s grip.
    â€œHey, what about me!”
    Leaning toward the box, Simwan whispered tightly, “Cats don’t eat snakezels and they don’t order drinks with ice.”
    Reluctantly acknowledging the truth of that statement, Pithfwid urged them on. “We can’t stand around gawking all day. Better get to your uncle Herkimer’s place and check in. You know your parents will be waiting to hear that you’ve arrived safely.”
    â€œAw, Pithfwid,” Amber protested, “can’t we just walk? There’s so much to see!”
    â€œIndeed,” the cat replied, drawing a seriously startled look from a passing six-year-old firmly attached to his mother’s hand. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Check in first. Get me something to eat. Then we have work to do. Put out feelers in search of the Crub.” As he finished, a pair of feelers emerged from his ears and promptly set out across the street, looking like a pair of fuzzy black worms training for the hundred-meter dash. Ords did not see them, of course, but the pair did have to deal with a brace of persistent pigeons. They made it safely across the street and disappeared into a welcoming drainage grate when one of the pigeons, overly fixated on the unusual prey, ended up ornamenting the windshield of a speeding delivery van, thereby contributing much to the ongoing irritation and bad language of its bilious driver.

VII
    By a Foulness ye shall know Him. Also by his home address.”
    That was the thought that was in Jekjik’s mind as he zig-zagged his way toward the entrance. It looked no different from any other drain in Central Park: a decorative round steel grate that covered the terminus of a small concrete drainage ditch, almost completely hidden by trees and grass. Only someone educated in the ways of the city would know that it led to realms beyond the imagining of the urban engineers who had designed and built the system.
    Making sure he didn’t catch his large, fluffy tail in the grate, Jekjik squeezed through one of the several gaps and dropped down onto the service ledge that paralleled the deeper, wider ditch. He was thankful it had rained hard last week. The flush of fresh water had scoured the tunnel clean of the more mephitic muck with which it was often filled, and the stench that still lingered was tolerable.
    Even so, he had to catch and hold his breath several times. A resident of the trees, he was never comfortable underground. Occasional squeaks and scritches marked the movement of those who were. Despite invitations to do so, he did not stop to chat with any of them. He was already late. A bearer of