Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [186]
"Thib, it ik ikik;riz izit tiz tizzik ik, izyik!" The flying man's tone was impatient—but Lafayette hardly noticed that. With one part of his mind he had registered only a series of whistling, staccato sounds—but with another, he had heard words:
"I said, what's the matter? Been eating snik berries?"
"No," Lafayette said, and felt his mouth shape the sound: "Nif."
"I thought maybe the zik-zik's had spotted a zazz-worm," the message came clearly through the buzzing and clicking.
"I thought they were trying to eat me alive," O'Leary said—and heard himself mouthing the same twittering sounds.
"Do you feel all right, Haz?" The flying man came forward, moving quickly, with a precise, mincing gait. "You sound as if you had a mouthful of mush."
"As a matter of fact," O'Leary said, "I don't feel too well. I'm afraid heights make me dizzy. Could you, ah, show me the quickest way down?"
"Over the side, what else?" The flying man stared curiously at Lafayette; his eyes strayed to O'Leary's wing, which he had propped against the bole for support.
"Hey—it looks like—good night, fella, why didn't you say so? That's a broken freeble-bone, or I'm a landlubber!"
"I guess," Lafayette said, hearing his voice echo from far away. "I guess . . . it is . . . at that . . ."
He was only dimly aware of hands that caught him, voices that shirped and whistled around him, of being assisted along the rough-textured path, of being lifted, pulled, of twinges from his injury, faint and far away; and then of a moment of pressure—pressure inside his bones, inside his mind, an instant of a curious vertigo, of the world turned inside out . . .
Then he was in cool darkness and an odor of camphor, sinking down on a soft couch amid murmurings that faded into a soft green sleep.
4
"That's three times," he was saying as he awoke. "My skull can't take much more of it."
"Of what, Tazlo darling?" a soft, sweet voice whispered.
"Of being hit with a blunt instrument," O'Leary said. He forced his eyes open, gazed up at a piquant feminine face that looked down at him with an expression of tender concern.
"Poor Tazlo. How did it happen? You were always such a skillful flier . . ."
"Are you really here?" Lafayette asked. "Or are you part of the dream?"
"I am here, my Tazlo." A soft, slim-fingered hand touched Lafayette's cheek gently. "Are you in much pain?"
"A reasonable amount, considering what I've been through. Strange. I go along for months at a time—even years—without so much as a mild concussion—and then bam—slam—bash! They start using my head for a practice dummy. That's how I can tell I'm having an adventure. But I really can't take much more of it."
"But you're safe now, Tazlo dear."
"Ummmnn." He smiled lazily up at the girl. "That's one of the compensations of an active life; these delightful fantasies I have while I'm waking up."
He looked around the room: it was circular, with vertical-grained wood-paneled walls, a dark, polished floor; a lofty ceiling, lost in shadows, through which a single shaft of sunlight struck. The bed on which he lay had a carved footboard, a downy mattress, comfortable as a cloud.
"I suppose in a minute I'll discover I'm impaled on a sharp branch a hundred yards over a gorge filled with cacti or crocodiles," he said resignedly, "but at the moment, I have no complaints whatever."
"Tazlo—please . . ." There was a stifled sob in her voice. "Speak sensibly; tell me you know me—your own little Sisli Pim."
"Are you a Sisli Pim, my dear?"
"I'm Sisli Pim, your Intended! You don't remember me!" The elfin face puckered tearfully; but with an effort, she checked the flood, managed a small smile. "But you can't help that, I know. It's the bump on your head that makes you so strange."
"Me, strange?" Lafayette smiled indulgently. "I'm the only normal thing in this whole silly dream—not that you're silly, er, Sisli. You're quite adorable—"
"Do you really think so?" She smiled enchantingly. In the dim light Lafayette