[Kelvin 03] - Chimaera's Copper (with Robert E. Margroff) by Piers Anthony Read Free Book Online

a squat, ugly being with a head growing out of its shoulders and no neck at all. The being was crouched down, turning the Mouvar weapon over and over in webbed, long-fingered hands. The creature's arms and legs and webbed toes matched its fingers. On either side of the blunt head were round, flat spots resembling those on the head of a froog. More than anything it seemed like a giant froog with human additions.

    As he turned, he could see the others of his party, also conscious. His father looked as bewildered and helpless as he felt. Kian looked, if anything, worse, as though all his buoyancy and confidence were now replaced with despair. Froog men and women were all about them in this steamy swamp. All their weapons were being inspected and chatted over. Kelvin and his companions themselves were bound hand and foot.

    "Ohhh, we're not where we should be," John Knight said. "I'm sorry, Kelvin, you were right. The controls on the transporter were tampered with."

    But by whom? Kelvin dared not speak the question. There were more immediate matters. One of these squatted directly in front of him and thrust a large, flat thumb of a greenish webbed hand into his face.

    "You godhunters go to god," the creature said. Its voice was liquid and bubbling, as if breathed out under water. Throat sacks just beneath its head vibrated as it spoke, obviously with difficulty.

    "We're not godhunters," Kelvin said. Whatever they are.

    "We see," said the being. "We see. God see. God see all."

    What god? A god to creatures who looked like these could be evil and multieyed. He imagined a serpent with eyes all along its back and belly and sides: gigantic, looking down at them from concealment in those prickly tree branches, or invisibly from the orangish sky.

    "There won't be any wedding," Kian moaned. "I'm sorry, Kelvin, Father."

    "You didn't bring us, Son. We came of our own accord." Trust John Knight to try to make them feel better. "We'll get this straightened out and then we'll go to the right place and get you and Lonny married as planned."

    "You go to god," the froog-eared creature said reprovingly. "Strangers, tribute. Tribute, strangers."

    As it spoke, another of the creatures was poking a stick with sticky needles on it into the Mouvar weapon's bell-shaped muzzle. Its webbed fingers touched and squeezed the trigger. Pretty sparks and a low hissing amused and possibly delighted the meddler, doing no harm. There was no hostile magic so the display was entirely meaningless.

    "I'd say these are real primitives," John Knight said. "Not sophisticates like the flopears."

    Kelvin knew what he meant. The flopears of the other frame had been extremely savvy and tough creatures. It might be nice if these were their analogues in this strange frame. The beings here seemed to have no inkling. If John had insulted them by calling them primitives, they did not realize it.

    The froog-face in front of him repeated, "You go to god. You go to god. All of you together to god."

    "Persistent devil," John remarked. "You lads have any idea how to define a godhunter?"

    "One who hunts a god," Kelvin said. Stupid talk, but it was necessary to keep their courage up. Where was the levitation belt? He had worn it around his middle and now it was gone. His father-in-law St. Helens had become quite expert with it during the late unpleasantness, and afterward Kelvin had practiced with it and gotten quite good himself.

    Where was that belt? With it, he could extricate them all from this predicament.

    A great cry went up. One of the froogears was strutting about wearing it over its naked loins.

    "Oh, boy," John said. "If--but maybe it won't."

    Just then it did. Webbed fingers found and pressed the pretty red button. The froogear went sailing up. Froog- faces turned upward, greatly excited or indifferent as suited the individual. Some of the faces made croaking sounds. The biggest of the creatures stretched out an arm and croaked advice.

    The fumbler