flicker. He stepped off the ramp  and onto
 the roughly cleared  stone floor  and beheld  a sight  that no
 mortal had seen in millennia.
   Dragon  eggs.  ъow  upon  row of  carved niches,  each hold-
 ing a single melon-sized egg. ъow after  row, tier  upon tier,
 stretching far beyond the feeble range of light from  the Col-
 lapsing  Self-Igniting  Pocket  Lamp  Mark  XVI.  The  lips of
 each  niche  glittered with  dew, formed  when the  steamy air
 below met the cooler air of this chamber.
   A gnomish voice drifted to Sturm. "What do you see?"
   "This  is  it,"  he called  back, hand  cupped to  his mouth.
 "The great egg chamber!"
   The  gnomes  scrambled  up  the  ramp  and spilled  into the
 cavern,  jostling  past Sturm  for a  better view.  They oohed
 and  aahed  and  uttered  fervent  exclamations to  their holy
 trio: ъeorx, gears, and hydrodynamics.
   "How many  eggs do  you suppose  there are?"  breathed Fit-
 ter. Sturm shot a glance at Sighter.

   "In view, there are eight tiers," said Sighter. "And sixty-
 two per tier."
   "For a total of -" Cutwood figured frantically.
   "-  496,  said  Sturm,  recalling the  figure that  Cupelix had
 given him.
   "That's right," said Stutts, totting up his numbers.
   They  walked  forward  with Sturm  leading. Wingover
 hovered at the  rear, since  the lamp  dazzled his  piercing eye-
 sight.  He  could  see  through  the velvet  darkness, so  he was
 able to keep their entry hole in sight.
   "Ow," Sturm muttered, shifting the lamp to his other
 hand. The ring was getting very hot.
   "This  way!  Turn  this  way!"  said  ъoperig  suddenly. Sturm
 turned to his left.
   "What was it?" he asked.
   "Something  moved  over  there.  I didn't  see it  very clearly."
   A jet black thing  scuttled out  of the  niche behind  the eggs
 and  leaped  into  the  air  toward  Sturm's  light.  He recoiled
 clumsily  and  dropped  the  lamp.  Something  small  and  furry-
 feeling  brushed  over  his  foot  and   was  gone.   The  gnomes
 were all yelling and stamping their feet.
   "Silence!  Silence,  I say!"  Sturm roared.  He found  the lost
 lamp.  Its  fuel  was  almost extinguished.  Only a  faint corona
 of blue flame  circled the  lump of  grease. Sturm  sheltered the
 tiny  fire  with his  hands and  it grew  brighter. He  picked up
 the lamp and faced the gnomes.
   They  were  not  scared  in  the  least.  Wingover  had bounded
 forward  from  his  place  in line  and planted  his foot  on the
 thing  that  had  burst  from  the egg  niche. It  squirmed under
 his toes, trying to get away. At first sight, it resembled a fat,
 hairy  spider, but  as Sturm  brought the  lamp nearer,  they all
 recognized it.
   "It's a glove!" said Stutts.
   "One  of  Kit's  gloves,"  said  Sturm,  recognizing  the pattern
 of stitching on the back. "It's one of a pair she left  behind on
 the Cloudmaster when we went off on our ore expedition."
   "How'd  it  get  here?"  asked  ъainspot. Birdcall  twittered a
 question of his own.
   "He says, 'Why is it alive?"' Stutts added.
   ъainspot grasped the glove by its 'fingers' and told

 Wingover  to  lift  his  foot.  The  weather  seer  brought  the
 wriggling  thing  to  eye  level  and  grunted.  "Strong  little
 thing!"
   Sighter  glared  through  his  ever-present lens.  "This glove
 is made of cowhide  and rabbit  fur, but  the seams  have disap-
 peared." He pressed a finger into the soft leather side. "It has
 a heartbeat."
   "ъidiculous," Flash said. "Gloves don't come to life."
   "On Lunitari?" said Stutts. "Why not?"
   Sturm   remembered   Cupelix's   remark   about   the  cumula-
 tive life force of all the dragon eggs being responsible for the
 intense  aura  of  magical  power on  Lunitari. He  offered this
 bit of information to the gnomes.
   "Ah,"  said  Sighter  with  a sage  expression. "The  level of
 magical  force  must be  particularly high  in these  caverns. "
 dare  say,  any  animal  or  vegetable  product  left  down here
 long enough might develop a life of its own."
   ъoperig   looked  down   at  his   own  pigskin   boots.  "You
 mean my shoes might take on life and run away with me?"
   "We  shan't  be  down here  long enough  for that  to happen,"
 Stutts assured him.
   ъainspot  put  the  glove  down  on  its  back  and  pinned it
 with his foot.  Cutwood suggested  that they  dissect it  to see
 what internal organs it had.
   "Let it go. It's harmless," said Sturm. "We don't have time to
 fool around with it."
   ъainspot  raised  his  foot  and  the  glove flipped  over. It
 scampered into the recesses of the egg niches.
   "I wonder," said Flash, "what a living glove eats?"
   "Finger  food,"  said  Fitter.  ъoperig  cuffed  him  lightly on
 the head and his hand promptly stuck there.
   "Are you finished?" Sturm said impatiently. "There's
 more of the cave to see, and I  don't think  the lamp  will last
 much longer." Indeed,  even as  he spoke,  silver drops  of mol-
 ten tin dripped off the lamp's front end.
   They   hurried   down   the   tunnel.   Sounds   of   movement
 came  to  them  and  they  halted.  The  rear legs  and teardrop
 abdomen  of  a  working  Micone  maneuvered  out  of  the  dark-
 ness.  The  Micone  sensed  their light  and scuttled  around to
 face the intruders.  Its antennae  almost straightened  while it

 studied  the  man  and  gnomes.  Sturm  had  a  momentary flash
 of fear. If  the Micone  attacked, his  lone sword  would never
 prevail.
         The Micone kinked its feelers again and turned away.
 Sturm and the gnomes let out a collective sigh of relief.
   They  inched  past  the  giant,  who  was busy  chipping away
 glassy 'dew' from the  shelf below  a row  of eggs.  A fragment
 of the  clear encrustation  landed at  ъainspot's feet,  and he
 pounced on it. He dropped it in a tiny silk bag and  pulled the
 drawstring. "For later analysis," he said.
   The caverns  gave no  sign of  ending, and  after penetrating
 a  hundred  yards or  so into  them, Sturm  called a  halt. The
 place  they  stopped was  thick with  Micones, and  the giant
 ants swept  past the  explorers without  any heed.  Cupelix had
 told the ants to ignore them,  and the  ants obeyed,  in their
 precise, unswerving way.
   "We'd  best  go  back  before we  get trampled,"  Sturm said,
 dodging a flurry of Micone legs.
   ъainspot  drifted  away  from  the others  to where  the ants
 were  engaged  in  cleaning  the dragon  eggs. As  they chipped
 and anointed  and turned  the blockish  eggs, the  ants exposed
 the undersides of the eggs to the air. Some of the shells had a
 scabrous  layer   peeling  off,   and  the   ants  scrupulously
 removed this dead layer. It was this  cast-off shell  that made
 the  parchmentlike  skin  they'd  found  in the  first chamber.
 ъainspot picked up a sheaf  of cast-offs  below the  lowest egg
 shelf.  A  Micone  turned  sharply  toward  him   and  snatched
 the leathery shell fragment with its mandibles.
   "No!"  said  ъainspot  stubbornly. "It's  mine, you  threw it
 away!"  The  gnome  dug  in  his  toes  and  pulled.  The shell
 wouldn't  yield  and  neither  would  the  ant.   ъainspot  got
 angry.  His  enveloping cloud  thickened and  lightning flashed
 within it.
   "ъainspot,  leave  it.  We'll  take  samples  from  the outer
 cave,"  said  Wingover.  But  the  Micone's  implacable resist-
 ance  made  the  usually  mild  gnome  madder  and   madder.  A
 cyclone four feet wide lashed at the  ant, and  miniature claps
 of thunder reverberated through the cave.
   Sturm  entered  ъainspot's  tiny  tempest.  To  his surprise,
 the whirling rain was  hot. "ъainspot!"  he said,  grabbing the

 little fellow by the shoulders. "Let go!"
   A  bolt of  lightning, diminutive  by nature's  standards, yet
 still five feet long,  struck the  Micone in  the center  of its
 head.  The  strike  knocked  Sturm  and  ъainspot   backward  at
 least  six  feet.  The gnome  landed on  Sturm, shook  his head,
 and found that he was holding the scrap of eggshell.
   "I have it!" he said triumphantly.
   Sturm, flat on his back and not happy, said, "Do you
 mind?" ъainspot blushed and rolled off the man's stomach.
   "Look  at  that,"  Cutwood  said  in  awe.  The  gnomes ringed
 the lightning-struck ant.
   The bolt had split the createature's head in half with the pre-
 cision  of  a diamond  cutter. The  Micone's headless  body col-
 lapsed,  the  thorax  sagging  to  the  floor.  Immediately, two
 more  Micones  appeared  and  began  to  clean  up.  They nipped
 the shattered ant's carcass apart and carried each bit away.
   "At least we know they can be killed," said ъoperig.
   "And our  ъainspot did  it!" said  Fitter. The  gentle weather
 seer was mortified.
   "I've never lost my temper like that," he said. "I'm sorry. It
 was  unforgivable.  The  poor  myrmidon   was  only   doing  its
 appointed task, and I killed it."
   "You  very  thoroughly  killed  it,"  Sturm  said,  impressed.
 "ъemind me not to make you angry, ъainspot."
   "I  hope  Cupelix  won't  be  angry,"  ъainspot  said worriedly.
   "It wasn't intentional," said ъoperig consolingly.
   "I  doubt  any  single ant  is that  important to  him," Sturm
 said. "Now can we go back l"
   The  lamp  failed  before  they were  all up  the ramp  to the
 steam  chamber.  Wingover  took  the  lead  and  each  one  held
 the hand  of the  person in  front and  behind him.  They avoid-
 ed  the  budding  giants  in  the birthing  cave -  though Flash
 cast  a  longing  look at  his jacket,  still dangling  from the
 Micone's  jaws  -  and  soon  they  were  back  in  the rubbish-
 filled  grand  cavern.  The  six  Micones  who had  brought them
 were  just  as  they'd  left  them,  unmoved  by  as much  as an
 inch.  Sturm  and  the  gnomes  mounted,  and  without   a  word
 or gesture needed, the giant ants lurched into motion.

                        Chapter 24

                  Little Fitter's Pants

      The drnagon, with Kitiara clinging to his neck,
 dropped like a stone from his lair, flaring out his  wings to
 ease his landing. Kitiara discarded her cloak and reached the
 notch-shaped  doorway  just  as  the  Micones  bearing  Sturm
 and the gnomes appeared.
 "It's about time you got back!" she  yelled. "Stand  to arms,
 all of you - the Lunitarians are forming to attack!"
 A  barrage  of glass  javelins arced  through the  doorway to
 shatter  on  the  marble floor.  The gnomes,  though curious,
 retreated under a shower of red glass splinters. The Lunitar-
 ians were hooting wildly.
     "They mean to have you," Cupelix said. "They're calling
 for your blood."
 "Surely they can't get in?" ъainspot said.

 "The tree-men are beyond reason," the dragon replied.
 "So they're coming," Sturm said grimly."He shucked off
 his  outer  garb  and made  ready his  armor and  helmet. Kiti-
 ara  marched  recklessly  back  and  forth  before   the  door,
 drawing the tree-men's attention.
 "Shall we sting them a little?" she said to Sturm.
 "It  does  seem  necessary  to  discourage them,"  he admitted.
 To the dragon, he said, "Can you lend us some Micones?
 They would even the odds for us."
 "They  would   be  of   little  use,"   said  Cupelix.   A  glass
 hatchet  whistled  in  and  thumped against  his scaly  belly. It
 bounced  off  harmlessly   and  broke   on  the   floor.  Cupelix
 regarded  the  ruined  weapon  idly.  "The  Micones   are  almost
 totally blind in daylight," he said. "If  I unleashed  them, they
 would as likely cut you two to pieces as any tree-man."
 "Enough  talk,"  Kitiara  barked.  She  hitched  her  shield up
 on her forearm. "I'm going to swing some steel!"
 Sturm  cinched  his  sword  belt  tighter.  "Kit,  wait  for me!"
 He  was  shieldless,  but  his  mail was  heavier than  Kit's. He
 drew his sword and ran to the door.
 The   tree-men  had   scaled  the   earthen  rampart   turned  up
 by the Micones and  were using  its height  to gain  velocity for
 their spear casts. Kitiara held her shield to her face as missile
 after  missile  crashed  against  it.  "C'mon,  you  bark-covered
 devils!"  she  shouted.  "Throw  on!  Kitiara  Uth Matar  is com-
 ing for you!"
 She  started  up  the  slope. It  was hard  going, what  with the
 steep  angle  and  the  loose  soil.  Sturm,   more  circumspect,
 worked  his  way  around  the  obelisk   to  where   the  rampart
 was  not so  steep. He  gained the  top at  nearly the  same time
 Kitiara  did,  though  there  were  forty  yards  and  twenty-odd
 tree-men between them.
 Sturm  had   to  fence   with  the   Lunitarians  on   the  mound
 and  dodge  spears  hurled  from  the  ground  below.  The  Luni-
 tarians were hooting at the top  of their  voices, and  it didn't
 take  much  imagination to  see the  anger distorting  their sim-
 ple faces.
 Kitiara plowed into a trio of tree-men, all of whom tow-
 ered over her. She did little more than inflict deep chips on
 them  with  her  sword.  She  did  catch  one  tree-man  with his

 arm  down,  and lopped  it off  with a  single stroke.  The sev-
 ered  limb  hit  the  ground  and  crawled  about,  seeking  its
 former  owner.  It  got tangled  up in  Kitiara's legs,  and she
 tripped, falling backward amid a flurry of spear thrusts.
   The  tree-men  converged  on  the  fallen  woman,   and  Sturm
 could  only  think  that she'd  been wounded.  He roared  at the
 foe and cut at  their backs.  Unable to  strike through  a heart
 and kill them,  he concentrated  on their  stumpy legs.  A glass
 blade swept over his face. The hot line  it left  dripped blood.
 He ignored it. Lunitarians  toppled off  the dirt  wall, rolling
 down to bowl over their fellows on the ground.
   There was a terrible tearing sensation  in Sturm's  right leg.
 He  looked back  and saw  a spear  embedded in  the back  of his
 thigh,  blood  welling  around  the  already  crimson  shaft. He
 swung  his  sword  back,  snapping  the  spear  shaft   off  and
 leaving the head in his leg. He couldn't see Kitiara at  all. He
 went  down,  weak  from  the  pain  and loss  of blood.  He slid
 down  the  rampart  on  the  side  nearest  the  obelisk. Whoop-
 ing tree-men skidded after  him, shouting  their version  of his
 name.
   Finished, he thought. This is how it ends -
   The  expected  spear  points  did not  descend on  his unar-
 mored  face  and  neck.  The  sounds of  battle raged  over him,
 though he fancied that  he heard  high-pitched cries  of delight
 and   triumph.   The   gnomes?   Surely  they   hadn't  ventured
 forth. They'd be slaughtered!
   The  hooting  of  the   berserk  Lunitarians   receded.  Sturm
 lifted his  head with  great effort  and tried  to see  what was
 happening.  A  tree-man  stood  atop  the  rampart,  waving  his
 sword  before  him,  trying  to  ward  off  some  unseen  foe. A
 dark  object  whipped  into  view  and hit  the tree-man  in the
 face,  thunk!  The  Lunitarian  disappeared  over   the  rampart
 amid shouts of gnomish laughter.
   Someone turned Sturm over. The red dirt was dusted
 from his eyes. Kitiara.
   "Looks  like  you  caught one,"  she said  in a  friendly way.
 Her  face  was  scratched  and  her  hands cut  up, but  she was
 otherwise unhurt.
   "Are  you  well?"  he  asked  weakly.  Kitiara nodded  and put
 the neck of her water bottle to his lips. The trickle of rainwa-

 ter was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.
  "Ho, Master Sturm! Mistress Kitiara! We have won!"
 Stutts  declared.  He  stuck  his  thumbs under  his suspenders
 and  threw  out  his  chest.  "The  Improvised   Trouser  Flail
 Mark I was a success!"
  "The what?"
  "Never  mind,"  Kitiara  said.  "Let's  get you  inside." She
 scooped  him  up as  easily as  Sturm would  pick up  an infant
 and carried him into the obelisk.
  The  gnomes  were  pounding  each  other   on  the   back  and
 talking  as  fast  and  as loudly  as they  could. Sturm  saw a
 weird contraption to one side of the  passage: an  upright col-
 lection of posts and gears, from which  dangled three  pairs of
 gnome-sized  pants,  stuffed  tightly  with   something  heavy,
 probably  dirt.  Cupelix  was  on  his  lowest  perch, watching
 intently.  When  he  saw  that  Sturm  was wounded,  he offered
 to help treat the injury.
  "No  magic,"  Sturm  said  stubbornly.   His  whole   leg  was
 achingly  numb.  It  was  cold, very  cold. The  dragon's broad
 brass face swooped down close to his.
  "No  magic, even  if it  means your  life?" said  the polished
 reptilian voice.
  "No magic," Sturm insisted.
  ъainspot turned Sturm's face away and put a bitter-
 tasting  root  in his  mouth. The  gnome said,  "Chew, please."
 Confident  that  he  was  in  the  thoroughly  non-magical care
 of  the  gnomes,  Sturm  did  as he  was told.  Numbness spread
 through his body.
  He  didn't  fall  asleep.  Sturm  quite  distinctly  heard the
 gnomes  consulting  over  his  wound,  heard  rather  than felt
 the glass spear  tip being  removed from  his flesh,  heard the
 dragon offering advice on how  best to  close the  gaping hole.
 Then  he  was  lying  on  his  stomach, the  numbness gone.
 Sturm's  leg  throbbed  unmercifully. He  lifted himself  up on
 his hands.
  "If you say 'where am I?' I'll hit you," said Kitiara genially.
  "What happened?" he said.
  "You  were  injured,"  said  Sighter,  who  was  squatting near
 Sturm's head.
  "That I recall well. Who repelled the tree-folk?"

    "I wish I could say that I did," Kitiara said.
    "We  did  it,"  Stutts  declared,  coming up  behind Sighter.
  Cupelix rumbled something that Sturm couldn't make out.
  Stutts  blanched  and said,  "With help  from the  dragon, that
  is."
    "We  adapted  a  gnomeflinger  design,"  Wingover  said. He
  knelt  alongside  Stutts  and  peeked over  Sighter's shoulder.
  "We used Cutwood's pants, filled with dirt,  as a  test subject
  for flinging. Birdcall suggested hurling the pants at the Luni-
  tarians, but that would have sufficed for only one shot -"
    "So  me  and  ъoperig  gave  up   ours,"  said   Fitter,  who
  squirmed  into  view.  His  striped  long  johns  were eloquent
  proof of the truth of his statement. "We  filled 'em  with dirt
  and tied 'em to the throwing arms -"
    "-  and  used the  gear system  to pummel  the enemy  off the
  wall," ъoperig finished for his apprentice.
    "Very  clever,"  Sturm  admitted.  "But  why  should fiercely
  angry  tree-folk  flee  when  thumped  with  a  few   pairs  of
  pants? Why didn't they swarm all over you?"
    "That  was  my  doing,"  said  Cupelix  modestly.  "I  wove a
  spell  of  illusion  over  the  gnomes  and their  machine. The
  Lunitarians  saw  a  huge,  flame-breathing red  dragon attack-
  ing them, its  terrible claws  snatching them  one by  one from
  the  rampart.  The  physical  effect,  combined with  the vivid
  illusion, was quite effective. The tree-men have fled."
    "What's  to  prevent  them  from  recovering their  nerve and
  coming back?" said Kitiara.
    "At sunset, I shall send the  Micones to  harry them  back to
  their village once and for all."
           Their story told, the gnomes dispersed. Sturm called
  Stutts back to him.
    "Yes?" said the senior gnome.
    "Have you inspected the repairs on the Cloudmaster?"
    "Not yet."
    "Urge your colleagues forward, my friend. We must be
  off this world soon," said Sturm.
    Stutts  stroked his  short, silky  beard. "What's  the hurry?
  The new engine components ought to be tested