Article: 281267 of rec.arts.books.tolkien Path: news.uchicago.edu!newsfeed.stanford.edu!postnews1.google.com!not-for-mail From: <<>> (Banazir the Jedi Hobbit) Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien Subject: E-text VI.2: The Land of Mojo Date: 18 Feb 2002 20:46:55 -0800 Organization: http://groups.google.com/ Lines: 1478 Message-ID: <91a1d472.0202182046.31174fe7@posting.google.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 65.27.103.213 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Trace: posting.google.com 1014094016 1469 127.0.0.1 (19 Feb 2002 04:46:56 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse -aaatt- google -daht- com NNTP-Posting-Date: 19 Feb 2002 04:46:56 GMT Xref: news.uchicago.edu rec.arts.books.tolkien:281267 I hope this was worth the wait. :-) What can I say? I'm a genetic algorithmist. We study... crossover. ;-) -Banazir THE LAND OF MOJO (or, Charissa Explains It All) Sam had just wits enough left to seize the phaser from Gullible and thrust it back into his breast. "Run, Gullible!" he cried. "No, not that way! There's a sheer drop over the wall. Follow me!" Down the road from the gate they fled. In fifty paces, with a swift bend round a jutting bastion of the cliff, it took them out of the line of fire from the Tower. They had escaped the hue and cry of the Balrog servants for the moment. Cowering back against the rock they drew breath, and then they clutched at their hearts. "Chin oop, Samwise Gamgee! Ye hae come tae fer tae be broot doon bae a wee bit o' hairt atteck noo..." muttered Sam. Perching now on the wall beside the ruined gate a Nazdaq sent out its deadly aria. All the cliffs echoed. In terror they stumbled on. Soon the road bent sharply eastward again and exposed them for a dreadful moment to a search beam from the Tower. A scintillating red point appeared on the back of Sam's head scant milliseconds before Gullible staggered into him and they both tumbled to the ground. A puff of dust several meters beyond heralded the impact of thousands of steel flechettes hurled from a rifle mounted at the top of one of the battlements. As they flitted across the killing field they glanced back and saw a great chrome-steel shape upon it, manlike in shape yet taller; then they plunged down between high rock-walls in a cutting that fell steeply to join the Morgul-road. They came to the way-meeting. There was still no sign of orcs, nor of an answer to the song of the Nazdaq; but they knew that the silence would not last long, in Mordor's places of high culture. At any moment now the coherent photonic beam bombardment would begin. "This will nae do, Gullible," said Sam. "If we were real orcs, we should be walking aroond in sweats, with backpacks on oor shoulders and books under oor arms, not roonin' away as if being sniped at wi' laser-sighted ordinance. The first enemy we meet'll ken we are nae orcs. We must get oof this road somehoo." "But we can't," said Gullible, "not without wingses, precious!" Sam shuddered at the thought of Sauron's jet-propelled Balrogs streaming forth from the tower and the six outbuildings he could now make out: an ovoid structure that emitted a ghastly pale green glow; a glittering crystal pyramid reminiscent of the Tombs of the Kings at Armenelos that Sam had read about in Bilbo's history books; a monstrosity of an obelisk that reared its defiance at the silent sky; a small flat structure that appeared to be adorned with shadowy wing-like appendages; a massive building covered with horrific-looking buttresses, razor-sharp, that evoked the High Baroque period of Mordorian architecture; and finally, in the far distance, a spherical building that resembled a many faceted-gem resting on a jeweler's stand. Sam realized that this was the Slipcast, or Spaceship Ea, the last hurrah of Gondor (tm) in the days when Minas EPCoT was still Minas Ethel (tm). As Sam gazed in apprehension at the barracks of Sauron, he wondered that a being who could maintain such an arsenal and twist children of the First Kindred into servitude to Mordred could also build such a fine /bibliotheque/, tomb-like though it appeared. Even as he mused in dread, a tall Man appeared not twenty paces distant. Sam and Gullible started and faced him in wonder, as they hardly ever missed the onset of one of the big folk, however stealthly. The man was dressed in very worn traveling leathers and wore a distinctive-looking sword and a silvery guitar. For a moment Sam feared that Maglor was back to cause more trouble, but then he saw that the man had no ears. He must have grimaced in pity, for the man chuckled and said, "Don't worry, they'll grow back. I've lost my eyes before, so I know. Now let's get out of sight. Follow me." As Sam and Gullible trailed the man warily, the sky above began to turn overcast rapidly. Shortly the sun peeked out from behind a cloud... then another sun, then another. Sam whirled in amaze and saw that the Tower had vanished and all of Sauron's buildings along with it. "Who be ye, and where be ye takin' us?" he demanded. "Good questions, though the full answer would take longer than we are alloted, Master Samwise, or should I say `Lenindil'? That isn't really your name, you know." "How come ye tae noo my name, or, er, what isn't my name...?" sputtered Sam. "I know many things about you, for you have followed me into battle, and fought for me, and against me, and died for me, and by my hand. I will answer your first question and perhaps the rest will become clearer. I go by many names, few of them yet known in Muddle-earth, but someday at least a few of you shall have heard of Corbin of Ember." "Corbin of Ember? Well, who the he--" began Sam, but Corbin had already begun to walk into the east. Sam and Gullible had to hurry to catch up. "I will tell you a little of what has befallen since your company was broken. A shadow rises in the West, thanks to that no-good wizard Aruman." "Aruman? The traitor of Orthanc? Gandalf warned us of him." Corbin burst into laughter. "Samwise, my naive young friend, the titanically obese wizard you know as Gandalf is none other than Aruman, Chief of the Wide Council. Why do you think it's CALLED the Wide Council? You'll come to discover that he has had the REAL Gandalf imprisoned at the pinnacle of Isengard for over eight months now... if he hasn't already found a way to dispose of him for good." "But that's impossible! I saw him fight a Balrog! I saw him fall into the abyss of Moira!" "You saw a quarrel between two old gambling buddies that had reached its natural conclusion for Maiar of that ilk. The real Gandalf would have tried a tad harder to avoid Moira, I think. At any rate, who among you has ever actually SEEN Gandalf? Frodo and Bilbo, surely, but their perceptions are, shall we say, a bit warped thanks to the Ring. Have you paid close attention to Frodo when he's hallucinating under its influence? Typically a mortal will see a glowing greenish tinge around Eldar and Emberites (if you thought I looked a little Elvish, that's why), and even friends and kindly old relatives will suddenly sprout fangs. What's worse, the world starts to swirl like a dipped Toon, little white vehicles appear in the distance, the voices of the Wise sound strange and slurred, a strange fog permeates even the most beautiful rivers and forests, and water-dwelling creatures start to take on a certain... er, attractive quality." Sam could find no argument to hold up against this onslaught of awful truth. Gullible simply whimpered as if troubled by dire memories. "Anyway, go and compare notes with El Rond and Galadriel, or even Cordon, Elves who have met the REAL Gandalf. Even Denethor (tm), Dr. Faramir (tm), and Boromir (tm) have met him briefly--" "Boromir (tm)! The last time I saw him, he was busy getting killed!" "Boromir (tm) is not likely to fall by the hand of Man or Vala in this Shade. Unlike his "brother", he isn't even human, as you may discover if you survive and get back to Gondor (tm). Besides, not even a vat of /limpe/ would hurt him, as long as he's carrying his Sword." "What, that burred, crappy-looking thing that he filed on rocks?" "No, not that one... do you see this?" Corbin drew his sword, a meter-long affair that shone in the bright suns. It looked deadly sharp and a faint design seemed to have been embedded by some magic into the metal of the blade. A glyph on the hilt depicted a series of concentric rings, and Sam wondered if the sword had any connection to the Three named in the Ring-inscription. "Hardly," muttered Corbin, as if he had read Sam's mind. "If the Sword that Boromir (tm) wears still is one of the companions to this one, bearing what is easily mistaken for a device of Aruman on it, you'll find that he can't kill much with it except Nazdaq and barrow wights. Try to strike him down while he's got it, though, and you'll find that he just keeps coming back - repeatedly." "Now that you mention it, I did see him skewer Frodo with it." Sam's accent was receding again as he waxed thoughtful. "Ah, would that it had struck true." "Oh, I think it did. Boromir (tm) doesn't understand that Sword as well as I do. The Ruling Stewards haven't got a clue what it or the other heirloom of their house, the Qing[1] Ming[2] Jian[4], are. Take a close look at Denethor's (tm) blade if you ever get the chance and you'll see that although it is very thin, it is extremely deadly. It cleaves iron as if it were green wood. I daresay nothing but a blade forged by Telemarcheter of Naugwood - Endurit, or perhaps Clamdrink - could break it." "How do you know so much about the Stewards and their arms?" "Well, that's interesting - you see, it was my brother Boolean who gave the Sword of the Heir and the sword of the Ruling Stewards to his grandfather Ecchptuion (tm)." "Your brother?" "One of at least four surviving ones, unfortunately. I come from a rather large family. My youngest brother Randy is now the King. Some of my sisters are here in Muddle-earth, by the way. One of them - Felona, the most dangerous - is masquerading as the Heir to the throne of Gondor (tm). If there's anything more perilous than a Emberite with aspirations to a crown, it's a good-looking redheaded Emberite. Bah." Sam and Gullible had heard nothing of the machinations that were transpiring in Minas Tirith (tm) at this very moment, so the gravity of this remark was lost upon them. "But they are not here to trouble our Quest..." said Sam, knowing better than to disclose his mission this time. "Your Quest is absolutely doomed to failure if you continue on to Mount Viagra in your current condition. Do you realize what lies between here and the Swami Naur? The Shade of my brother Band alone could derail your plan." "How?" "A while back he got hold of the Jewel of the Judge, which you fine folks know as the Slipcast of Maglor and the Heart of the Ocean. Some time soon after that Elvish bum threw it into the sea, it was summoned into a neighboring Shade by this Ainu named Al-D^ur. A few thousand years later it found its way into another Shade where they gave it the original name of the Black Elvenstone... finally it wound up in the hands of my grandfather Dorky, and the rest, as they say, is history." "I have no idea what you are talking about! Gullible, do you have any idea what he's talking about?" "No, saddam, we doesn't, SADDAM!" "Well, here's the problem. Band - or rather, his Shade - used the Jewel to hijack a t.a.r.d.i.S." "What the trask is a T.A.R.D.I.S.?!" screamed Gullible and Sam in unison. "t.a.r.d.i.S.," corrected Corbin distractedly, "time and relative dimension in Shade. It's basically a device that allows one to search Shade quickly, like that supercomputer `Neithan Ghost 2002' that my son Nerwen built, and move through it as one can with those Shade devices that they call the Spigots." "`Nerwen'?" mouthed Sam slowly. "Isn't that Elvish for--" "Shut up, he's really sensitive about that. 'Twas his mother Darla who named him, and you'll not find a more vindictive woman this side of the WB. Anyway, Band has hooked up with this really nasty sorceress - poisoner, necromancer, the works. Once, they abducted thousands of newborn babies from a huge nursery in the Matrix and brought them all to Muddle-earth and abandoned them at different points in its history using the t.a.r.d.i.S." Sam had to admit that, befuddled as he was by this rambling account, he was growing intrigued at this point. "Why?" he asked timidly. "Who knows? I think they were using this Shade as a training ground for an attack on Ember. `The Game', they called it. The funny thing is, humans from the Matrix Shade stop aging in this one if they are ever struck down here, and are very hard to kill for good. It's a really twisted plan." "Did it work?" "I wish I could tell you. I don't have a t.a.r.d.i.S. - it's a Mojo device." "Mojo?" "The Mojo of Chaosius is set in eternal opposition to the Design of Ember. Don't ask me what that means; I only even heard of the Mojo after the Fall Design War when they had imprisoned me in one of those Schroedinger's Balrog boxes. Anyway, the only way to hunt down Band now is to follow him through time and Shade. I'm on my way to Draino to recruit a law-orc, so that I can get the Court of Chaosius to release the t.a.r.d.i.S. they impounded from Nerwen's step-brother Yoghurt. I saw while passing through the Riddlemark that Band has unleashed the Dalek-hai and the /r^akh/ of Mordor." "Dalek-hai? Rock of Mordor? They sound nasty." "That's /r^akh/ of Mordor, and yes, they are. Dalek-hai will as soon disintegrate you as look at you, though they can't climb very well, and /r^akh/ are real pieces of work, best left to your fey imagination." "So, is Band in league with that imperialist scum Sauron?" spat Sam bitterly. "Band is in league with no one but himself, Master Samwise," answered Corbin simply. "He has indeed forged an alliance with the Dark Lord of Mordor - and make no mistake, Sauron is a master of evil - but it is bound to be temporary. When one is equipped with a t.a.r.d.i.S., it is easy to take a longer view." "So, how do we defeat him?" "We don't - or YOU don't, for now. The best thing you can do is to get back to your Quest, once I've taken you out of Sauron's reach and reunited you with Frodo." At this Sam and Gullible raised their voices in vigorous protest. "Trust me, he has an important part to play yet!" assured Corbin. "Even the Wise cannot see all ends. Who knew that Shelob would become the mother of a new race of peaceful giant spiders?" "WHAT?!?" exploded Sam. "Oh, that won't happen for millennia yet. Though I will say that a hobbit of your company will be called to take her egg to the stars. My friend the Doctor has seen it." "Dr. Who?" queried Sam. "Yes, precisely," answered Corbin cryptically. "Your friend is a time-traveler?" "Oh, my, yes. So is his wife, Tess - a wrinkled woman who talks as slowly as you like, but as stout-hearted a soul as you'll find in the cosmos. You know, I never thought he'd settle down, especially with that old lady (heaven knows he traveled around with enough attractive young women), but truth is stranger than fiction." "So, why can't your friend help us... complete our Quest?" asked Sam with great circumspection, eyeing Gullible out of the corner of his eye. "He's under a Temporal Prime Directive, though his people don't call it that. In this Shade, it's only the Feds, except for Braxton and some of the renegades, that observe it strictly, and the Bork and Suleiman are known to violate it willy-nilly. That energy weapon you're carrying? It was a Bork scout ship that planted a whole cache of them in Don Guldur, trying to accelerate the arms race." "You mean that someone is giving Sauron weapons from the future?" "Sauron and Aruman both. First the Bork assimilated a Tailon vessel, Protectors and all, and tried to smuggle it into the Armenelos Experience (tm) pavilion on Atlantis (tm) while Sauron was an exhibit guide there. I managed to blow it up although it, er, damaged the White Tree (R) a bit. Much later, Aruman got a whole cadre of HKs from the Suleiman, though the Ments wiped them out. Stripped the flesh right off their endoskeletons and stomped them flat. All he has left now are some blasters. Band even went into the Last Desert and fed the Water of Life to some were-worms, trying to get Sauron started in the spice industry, but Shai-Khulud does not come to the unfaithful, as the Haradrim say. Then his girlfriend Charissa slipped some /shrerama/ into El Rond's cordial. You have no idea how much havoc that sutff can wreak on half-elves; it's how Aruman was able to bring you all to the Council without El Rond realizing who he (or anyone else) was. After El Rond was served one glass of mead, Charissa was able to stride into the armory and walk the Whichblade right out of Imladris." "Which blade?" "That's the one," said Corbin to Sam's growing consternation. "Band obviously cannot wield it - none of US can - but Charissa used it to enslave a whole coven of vampires." "Whoa - that's a force to be reckoned with!" "Tell me about it. There's really only one person in Muddle-earth with the aptitude to deal with them, though she doesn't have the proper weaponry at the moment. But hey, if YOU want to tell Arwen she's the Slayer, be my guest." Sam tried to take this all in. It was too much - by far. His mind reeled as never before. He tried to grasp the concept of an enemy from the future, one who could seed the innocent world of elder days with the nightmare weapons of a darker time to come. He tried to think of flechette rifles, Archangel-class starships, the /zh^er^at/, mutagenic weapons, quantum torpedoes, jumpgates, planet-killing space stations, lightsabers, cerebroenergetically-enchanced metaconcerts with Third-Stage Lensmen and Second Foundationers at their focal points... and found that he could not. In fact, he could not even stay focused on a simple wheeled vehicle. Sam shook his head and tried again to picture a battering ram mounted on the front of Farmer Cotton's waggon. Somehow the image faded as quickly as he could summon it. He strained. He hummed the banned Workers' Anthem of the Shire. He tried to visualize just a single wheel. Suddenly a voice rang out clear and cold in his mind: "Stop that! Stop it, I say!" Sam looked at Gullible to see whether the wretch was playing some terrible ventriloquistic prank. Suddenly he realized where he had seen a wheel before. A flaming wheel. Slowly crept up to Gullible. "The Precious! It's on FIRE!" he screamed abruptly. "No! PRECIOUS! /saddam, SADDAM/!" cried Gullible, drawing the chain from around his wasted neck and throwing the Ring to the ground, then stamping on it. Handily, Sam scooped up the chain and the prize it held, ignoring Gullible's cries of outrage. He held the Ring before his eyes and looked hard at it. "Stop! Quit staring at me! JUST STOP IT!" shrieked the voice in his mind. The ring seemed to grow in Sam's vision as he wrestled with it. "You're making me look fat! I'M GOING TO CRY!!" Finally Sam relented and stuffed the Ring into his orcish athletic jacket, smirking. "So, what do we do now?" persisted Sam. "I'll take you back to Mordor by an... indirect route. Sauron will soon be sending his new apprentice, Darth Uranus, after you, but if you can get to the base of the Mountain, you'll be beyond his grasp." "Who is this Darth Uranus? We didn't see him in the tower." "He's... new. A successor to the late, unlamented Leech-king, who is meeting his end as we speak. The captain of Sauron's home guard goes by many names, none of which he can remember without help: Leerath, Geschlocken, Mordorlithe Flokarsbane, but you can call him Jerry. No relation to my brother." The sky, having cycled through shades of graphite and snow as well as ruby, strawberry, tangerine, lime, sage, blueberry, indigo, and grape hues, was now dim and unremarkably empty, a single westering yellow sun hidden from view. "And here we shall part ways. Here comes my assistant with your `master' and that strange hobbit woman, Spiegel." A hulk of a Man was herding a bedraggled and miserable-looking Frodo and an even more miserable-looking Spiegel along. His clothing was scant and he wore fur-lined boots and bore a gigantic two-handed sword. "What ho, Cimmerian?" cried Corbin. "What is best in life?" "Crush da enemy, see dem driven before me, and listen to da lamentations of dere women!" grinned the barbarian. "How--? HOW did he get that - TRAITOR - out of Sauron's grip?" shouted a flabbergasted Sam. "Let us ask him," suggested Corbin amiably. "How did you rescue them, my friend?" "I had some... help," the huge man replied, his grin widening. Suddenly, and with only a whisper of sound, a huge bronze dragon materialized between the parties. Astride it sat a proud warrior, only vaguely human-looking, with a silver hand. Behind him was seated an albino personage of regal bearing and unreadable countenance. His eyes held a chilling intelligence as he regarded Sam and Gullible wryly. Strapped to the man's waist was a very large black runesword that reminded Sam of Dagnabit, the incredibly talkative blade of Turin that had driven him, ironically, to fall upon it in order to smother its incessant babbling. The bronze dragon belched flames unhurriedly and spat out a brownish, sweet-smelling substance on the ground. "Very good!" exclaimed Corbin enthusiastically. "That's better than I thought. Did you complete the extraction without any hassles?" "A little collateral damage," admitted the barbarian, nodding at the first prince, who held up the dripping head of Gorbush. At this Spiegel sniveled and burst into fresh tears. "Murderer, C'rum, we hates it forever, /enron/, /enron/!" she wailed, distraught. Corbin spoke decisively. "It would appear that we owe you a debt for your, er, mate, there, miss. How would you like to come with me to a place where there are many orcs, well-treated and free from the domination of such a one as yon Sauron?" At this Spiegel perked up. She mustered her dignity and looked at Corbin levelly, no mean feat considering their difference in height. "Come. We are needed. There is much that you can do." Corbin bent low to Sam, Gullible, and Frodo, whom the Cimmerian war chief had shoved into the reunited group. "Remember - trust no one. The truth is... out there. And the next time you meet a strange girl who escaped from some lab, don't be so surprised if she can beat the crap out of you." Corbin winked conspiratorially and stood. "It's time to go; we'll have to deal with the pretender later," he called to the royal dragon-riders and the barbarian, who followed a newly resolute-looking Spiegel as she strode alongside the bronze. "To Britannica first, and thence... to Draino!" cried Corbin. Together the party of six strode into the distance and vanished. * * * The eastern faces of the Ethel Duwap were sheer, falling in cliff and precipice to the black trough that lay between them and the inner ridge. A short way beyond the way-meeting, after another steep incline, a flying bridge of rope leapt over the chasm into the tumbled slopes and apartments of the Orc Quarter. With a desperate spurt Sam and Gullible tiptoed along the bridge, hauling Frodo along by main force; but they had hardly reached its further end when they heard the blare of Sauron's public announcement system, alerting listeners to the presence of intruders. Down in the dark trough, cut off from the dying glare of Orodruin, Frodo and Sam could not see ahead, but already they heard the whiz of bicycle tires, and upon the road there sounded the soft shuffle of many sneakers. "Quick, both of you! Over we go!" cried Sam. With cautious haste he crouched and slipped his legs through a gap in the rope bridge, eyeing both Frodo and Gullible suspiciously as he dangled precariously. Fortunately there was no longer any dreadful drop into the gulf, for the landscaping of the Morgai Apartments had already risen almost to the level of the road; but it was too dark for them to guess the depth of the fall. "Well, here goes, ye scoundrels," said Sam. "See you in-- waaAAA!" He let go. Gullible, then Frodo, followed. And even as they fell they heard the rush of daredevil cyclists sweeping their mountain bikes over the bridge and the rattle of orc-feet running up behind. But Sam would have laughed, if he had dared. Half fearing a breaking plunge down on to bone-smashing art nouveau, the trio landed after a drop of no more than a dozen feet, thudding softly into the last thing that they had expected: a bank of snow created by one of Sauron's devices. When the sound of bike and foot had passed, Sam slid to the bottom of the artificial drift with alacrity. "Well, hit me with an avalanche and call me a mogul, but I didn't know as any snow fell in Mordor! But if I had a-known, this is just what I'd have looked for. This stuff is already melting and soaking my orcish T-shirt. Wish I'd a-put that jacket on!" "Jackets don't keep magical snow out," said Frodo, hoping Sam didn't notice how effectively the all-weather parka he had lifted during his "liberation" was working. "Now down we go, Gullible," Sam whispered. "Slide all the way down into the valley quick, and then turn northward, as soon as ever we can." Day was coming again in the world outside, but here all was still pitch dark. Frodo, Gullible, and Sam listened intently for gruesome noises, imagined and real. The Mountain smouldered and its fires flared through various hues like the skies under which the self-styled Emberite prince had led them. The easterly wind that had been blowing ever since they left Ethelien now seemed dead. Using slats that had fallen out of the dilapidated bridge above them, they snowboarded down in the blind shadows, down and down until they could go no further. At length they stopped, and sat side by side, their backs against a boulder. All were sweating. Frodo tried to eat a few handfuls of the artificial snow and realized that it had no effect on his thirst. "If Sauron himself was to offer me a glass of water, I'd shake his hand," he gasped. "Don't say such things, ye traitor, or I'll cut ye throot!" snarled Sam. Then he stretched himself out, dizzy and weary, and he spoke no more for a while. At last with a struggle he got up again. As he expected, Frodo was fast asleep. "Wake up, pig!" he said. "Come on, ye soft slob! You've hardly walked in days." Frodo scrambled to his feet. "Well I never!" he said. "I must have dropped off. It's a long time, Sam, since I had a proper sleep, and my eyes just closed down on their own." Sam kicked Frodo in the ribs and elbowed Gullible for good measure, though the latter was wide awake. "MOVE out, lazy asses, or I'll kick ye all the way to the Mountain, and that's a fact! DOUBLE TIME!" He now led the way, northward as near as he could guess, among the stones and boulders lying thick at the bottom of the great ravine. But presently they stopped again. "It's no good, Sam," whined Frodo. "I can't manage it. This pack, I mean. It must weigh 15 pounds if it's an ounce. Even my mithril-coat seemed heavy when I was tired. This is far heavier. And what's the use of it? We shan't need these books where you're taking us." "But we may have some need of tinder," said Sam. "And there's the student body of UNM that we may yet have to blend into. I don't like to think of us with naught but your leather brain between us and a quiz in the dark." "Look here, Sam," said Frodo: "I am tired, weary, I haven't a hope left. But I have to go on trying to get to the Mountain, as long as I can follow you and the thrice-accursed Ring. This extra weight is killing me. It must go. But don't think I'll ever forget to effort it must have taken for you to bring it along." "Quit your bitching, Mr. Frodo. You'd ask me to carry you on my back, if you could. Let it go then! See if I care!" Frodo laid aside his parka and took off the orcish backpack and flung it away. He shivered a little. "What I really need is something warm," he said. "It's gone cold, or else I've caught a chill." "O no you don't! I've heard THAT one before... It didn't work for Dame Lobelia and it won't work for you!" "As if!" snorted Frodo. "But if you want the parka, I'll trade it to you for your lighter jacket." "I don't want naything of yours, capitalist pig!" snapped an indignant Samwise. He unslung his pack and took out the elven-cloak. "Just stuff this inside the orcish T-shirt. Never mind the stupid convention of wearing cloaks outside your armor and T-shirts inside. It don't look quite orc-fashion, but it'll keep you from freezing your fool self to death, and I daresay it'll keep you from harm better than any other gear. It has the Lady's Warranty on it." He turned over a flap of fabric sewn into the seam between the hood and collar of the elven cloak. "MADE IN LORIEN - 100% polyester" it read. "D'oh!" he sputtered. Frodo took the cloak and fastened the brooch. "That's better!" he said. "I feel much lighter. I can go on now. But this campus is really depressing. As I read theory in Sauron's library, Sam, I tried to remember the Brandywine Bar, Woody's End, and The Water - any of the fine pubs in Hobbiton. But I can't see them now." "It's you that's talking of water this time - shut up!" cried Sam. "If only the Lady could see us or hear us, I'd say to her: `You imperialist oppressor, all we want is light and water: just clean water and plain flashlights, not this bottled phosphorescent ooze that's probably irradiating us all.'" He hauled the Phial, now glowing with its own faint green light, out of its lead-lined bag and shook it at a cringing Gullible and Frodo. "But it's a long way to Lorien and that crazy--" Sam sighed and gesticulated wildly towards the heights of the Ethel Duwap, now only to be guessed as a deeper blackness against the black sky. They started off again, hiking into the campus proper. At length they came to the Lower Quad and Frodo paused. "There's a mathematician about to pass us by," he said. "You can tell by the way he's dressed. Keep still for a while and he won't notice." Crouched under a metallic statue that looked simultaneously like a wrench and the hands of Sauron choking the last breath from a dying pigeon, they sat facing back westward and did not speak for some time. Then Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. "He's passed," he said. They stood up, and then they all stared in wonder. Away to their left, southward, against a sky that was turning grey, the peaks and high ridges of the great range began to appear dark and black, visible shapes. Light was growing behind them. Slowly it crept towards the North. There was battle far above in the high spaces of the air. The sky above Mordor was divided into a rotating daylit region in the shape of a whale and a night region covering its complement, perpetually chasing each other. "Look at it, Mr. Frodo!" said Sam. "Look at it! It reminds me of the Mojo and Design that that strange Man was rambling about. Something's happening. He's not having it all his own way. I wish I could figure out what is going on!" It was the morning of the fifteenth of March, which was the eleventh of February according to some lunar calendars of the Easterlings, and over the Vale of Anduin the Sun was rising above the eastern shadow, and the south-west wind was blowing. HeyHoDen lay dying on the Pelennor Fields, oblivious to all of these details. As Frodo, Sam, and Gullible stood and gazed, the rim of light spread all along the line of the Ethel Duwap, and then they saw two shapes, moving at a great speed out of the West, at first only a pair of specks against the glimmering strip above the mountain-tops, but growing, until they plunged like a bolt into the dark canopy and passed high above them. As they zipped along, bobbing in the breeze, the disembodied voice of a Nazdaq sent out a song in a long, reverberating baritone; but this tune no longer held any terror for them: it was the song of the washed-up, ill tidings for the Dark Tower. The Leech-king had met Ms. Eowynifred of Edoras City, Edoras, and her significant /ohtar/. Finally the two tiny shapes disappeared into a cupola of the Dark Tower. Scant second later, an amorphous ectoplasmic mass began to ooze slowly out from a window of the cupola. The trio heard the strange, faint sound of the bluish blob squeezing through the window with great effort, followed by a sigh of relief, then silence. The shape floated down and out of sight. "What did I tell you? Something's happening!" cried Sam. "The war's going well," said that jingoistic Gorbush; but Lugnardo he wasn't so sure. And he was right there too. Things are looking up, Mr. Frodo. Haven't you got some hope now?" "Kindasorta... well okay, no, not really. That's away beyond the mountains. We're going east not west. And I'm so tired. And I begin to see the Ring in my mind all the time, like a great wheel of fire." Sam's quick spirits sank again at once. Even nestled in his pocket, the burden of the Ring felt like an awful weight strapped to his waist - like the millstone of Sandyman's oppression! He looked at Frodo suspiciously, wondering if he realized the effect his words were having. Making a quick decision, he hauled Frodo aside, out of Gullible's view, surreptitiously slipping the ring from its chain and holding it at the base of his thumb. "You look pale, Mr. Frodo," he observed with mock concern. "I've got one thing I wanted: a phaser. Enough to help us, though I guess it's dangerous too. Try a bit further, and then have a rest. But take a morsel to eat now, a bit of the Elves' food; it may hearten you." Pulling a /twinkie/ from his pack and unfolding the /forlorn/ leaf from it, he jammed his thumb into it quickly, then divided it into three pieces and handed one each to Gullible and Frodo. Swallowing the sweet, spongy cake as best they could with their parched mouths, they plodded on as Sam strode with a smug grin that neither of the others noticed. The light, though no more than a grey dusk, was now enough for them to see that they were deep in the valley between the mountains. It sloped up gently northward, and at its bottom went the bed of a now dry and withered stream. Beyond its stony course they saw a beaten path that wound its way under the feet of the westward cliffs. Had they known, they could have reached it quicker, for it was a shortcut across the UNM campus that left the twin curving stairs of the tourist route at the Googol Quad and went up through a narrow stair to the Upper Quad. It was used by campus security orcs or by students on their way to the snack bar, between Cirith Googol and the narrows of Orthancmouth, pinched by the iron nose of Carach Malden. It was perilous for the hobbits to use such a path, but they needed speed, and Frodo felt (as usual) that he could not face the toil of scrambling across the north campus or across the perilous death lanes around it. And he judged that northward was, maybe, the way that Darth Uranus would least expect them to take. The road east to the plain, or the pass back westward through the dorms, those he would first search most thoroughly. Only when they were well north of the Tower did he mean to turn and seek for some way to take them east, east on the last desperate stage of his journey. So now they crossed the stony bed and passed in front of the student union on the way to the orc-path, and for some time they marched along it. A glass pavilion shadowed the cliff at their left and obscured their passage to watchers from above; but the path made many bends, and at each bend they gripped their sword-hilts and went forward cautiously. The light grew no stronger, for Mount Viagra was still belching forth a tremendous blue fume that, beaten upwards by the opposing airs, mounted higher and higher, until it reached a region above the wind and spread in an immeasurable roof, whose central pillar rose out of the shadows beyond their view. They had trudged for more than an hour when they heard a sound that brought them to a halt. Unbelievable, but unmistakable. Water trickling. Out of a little gully on the left, so sharp and narrow that it looked as if the ground had been cloven by some huge axe, water came dripping down: the last remains, maybe, of some sweet rain gathered from far distant seas, but ill-fated to fall at last upon the walls of the Black Land and wander fruitless through the UNM campus. Here it came out of the rock in a little silver creek, and flowed across the path, and turning south ran away swiftly to be lost among the dead stones. Sam sprang towards the banks eagerly. "If ever I see the Lady again, I will tell her!" he cried. "THIS is potable water, not that two-in-one watch dial paint she gave us!" Then he stopped. "You drink first, Mr. Frodo," he said. "All right, but there's room enough for two." "I didn't mean that," said Sam. "I mean: if it's poisonous, or something that will show its badness quick, well, Master Bilbo was always going on about /noblesse oblige/, if you understand me." "I do, you worthless scum. But I think we'll trust our luck together, Sam; or our blessing. Still, be careful now, if it's very cold!" Frodo's tongue was still numb from the touch of the magical sparkling snow. The water was cool but not icy, and it had an unpleasant taste, like that of carbonated water laced with caffeine and brominated vegetable oil, or so they would have said at home. Here it seemed beyond all praise, and beyond fear or prudence. They drank their fill, and Sam replenished his water-bottle. After that Frodo felt easier, and they went on for several blocks, until the broadening of the road and the beginnings of a rough wall along its edge warned them that they were drawing near to another campus building. "This is where we turn aside, Sam," said Frodo. "And according to the folding map that came with the Deed, we must turn east." He sighed as he looked at the gloomy ridges across the valley. "I have just about enough strength left to get up to the College of Law there. And then I've got to get some sleep." The river-bed was now some way below the path. They scrambled down to it, and began to cross the lanes for bikers and joggers. To their surprise they came upon dark pools fed by threads of water trickling down from some source higher up the valley. Upon its outer marges under the westward mountains Mordor was a dying land, but it was not yet dead. And here in the heart of UNM things still grew, harsh, twisted, bitter, struggling for life. In the glens of the Morgai Apartment Complex on the other side of the valley, low scrubby trees lurked among the cheap landscaping rocks and half-buried sculptures that looked like giant cubes of granite and obsidian horses shaped by some decadent Edorassian. Everywhere great carniferns sporting writhing, tangled brambles sprawled. Some had long stabbing thorns, some hooked barbs that threatened to disembowel, some had cybernetic prostheses that looked like blender attachments, and a few were able to launch small projectiles that evoked the creature that had stalked Sam and Gullible during their flight. Large flies with dingy coloring but marked with a stylized red eye, a symbol that resembled the (R) in Numenor (R), and the words "Patent Pending" buzzed and stung until a Varda flytrap the size of Aragon snapped them up. Frodo narrowly avoided having his already-bloodied hand taken off by it as well. "Orc-gear's no good," said Sam, waving his arms at the midges that were too small for the flytrap. "I wish I'd got an orc's ichor!" Before long, Frodo could go no further. They had climbed up a narrow shelving ravine behind one of the lecture halls in the UNM College of Law, but they still had a long way to go before they could even come in sight of the last campus outbuilding. "I must rest now, Sam, and sleep if I can." said Frodo. He looked about, but there seemed nowhere even for a lawyer to hide in this dismal country. At length, tired out, they slunk between a hedge and curtain of ivy on the building's dark face. There they sat and made such a meal as they could. Keeping back the precious /twinkies/ for the evil days ahead, they ate the half of what remained in Sam's duffel bag: some dried fruit they had purchased at Durin's Last Stand, and some cups of instant ramen they had accepted from Dr. Faramir - which they now regretted packing, having very little water and nothing with which to build a fire. They had drunk again from the pools in the valley, but the dehydrated, MSG-ridden noodles made them very thirsty again. When Sam thought of water even his fanatic spirit quailed. Beyond the Morgai there was the dreadful plain of the Upper Quad to cross. "Now you go to sleep first, Mr. Frodo," he said. "It's getting dark again. I reckon this day is nearly over." Frodo was, of course, asleep before the words were fully spoken. Sam struggled with his own weariness, expecting Frodo to attack him for the Ring, but not daring to reveal his subterfuge; and there he sat silent till deep night fell. Then at last, to keep himself awake, he crawled from the hiding-place and looked out. The land seemed full of legal briefs being shuffled and books being unshelved and sly noises, but there was no other sound. Far above the Ethel Duwap in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it touched his revolutionary heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like the bullets of the firing squad, the thoughts pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: the light of class struggle was for ever beyond its reach. His desperate flight from the Tower had been defiance rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even that of the Ring, ceased to trouble him. A red glory would bathe the Shire yet. He crawled back into the brambles and laid himself between Frodo and Gullible, and putting away all fear he cast himself into a deep untroubled sleep. They woke together, hand in hand in hand. All withdrew their hands in shock and looked at each other warily. Sam was almost fresh, ready for another day; but Frodo sighed. His sleep had been uneasy, filled with dreams of being impaled upon a Tree of Pain by an aristocratic-looking fellow whom everyone called "Count", and waking brought him no comfort. Still his sleep had not been without all healing virtue: he was stronger, more able to stagger along through the huge campus. Strangely enough, there was no mass transit here, though Lithlad Station had been a hotbed of activity. They did not know the time, nor how long they had slept; but after a little wandering and search they found a covered walkway that took them partway across the Upper Quad. Exiting the walkway before they reached the strange halls of the Psychology Department, they took a morsel of food and a sip of water and went on across the Quad, until it ended in yet another barren lot adorned by a strange helical chrome sculpture. Here the last living things gave up their struggle; the lot outside the Library was grassless, bare, jagged, barren as a slate. Circling around it, they found themselves on the very edge of the last fence of Mordor. Before them, at the bottom of a fall of some fifteen hundred feet, lay the inner plain stretching away into a formless gloom beyond their sight. The wind of the world blew now from the West, and the great clouds were lifted high, floating away eastward; but still only a grey light came to the dreary Mall of Gorgoroth proper. There smokers trailed on the ground and lurked in hollows, and steam leaked from an underground geothermal complex that Sauron had built. Still far away, forty miles at least, they saw Mount Viagra, its feet founded in ashen ruin, its huge cone rising to an artificially- maintained height, where its caldera was swathed in cloud. Its fires were now dimmed, and it stood in smouldering slumber, as threatening and dangerous as a hobbit's appetite between lunch and tea. Behind it there hung a vast shadow, ominous as a thunder-cloud, the veils of Barad-dur that was reared far way upon a long spur of the Ashen Mountains thrust down from the North. The Dark Power had returned to this stronghold and was now deep in thought, and the Eye turned inward, pondering a high-resolution videoteleconferencing system: a bright sword, and a still-overweight but now dignified face it saw, and for a while it gave little thought to other things; and all its great campus, gate on gate, and building on building, was wrapped in a brooding gloom. Sam, Frodo, an Gullible gazed out in mingled loathing and wonder on this hateful land. Between them and the smoking mountain, and about it north and south, all seemed ruinous and dead, a desert burned and choked. They wondered how the Lord of this realm maintained and fed his research and teaching assistants. Yet students he had. As far as their eyes could reach, along the skirts of the Morgai and away southward, there were camps of brightly-colored tents, some ordered like small towns. One of the largest of these was right below them. Barely a mile out into the plain it clustered like some huge nest of insects, with straight dreary streets of huts and long low drab buildings. At the western margin, a roundish green one made from Elvish-looking canvas read "PUHJAFOONI/TELEFON". About it the ground was busy with folk going to and fro with a strange spring in their steps; a wide road ran from it south-west to join the Morgul-way, and along it many lines of small black shapes were hurrying. "I don't like the look of things at all," said Sam. "Pretty hopeless, I call it, saving that where there's such a lot of folk there must be wells or water, not to mention food. And these are Men, not Orcs, or my eyes are all wrong... wait, is that a BALROG down there singing?" Truth to tell, Sam and Frodo could see the camp teeming with Men, Elves, dragons, and even a few Ents and Hobbits. Neither he nor Frodo knew anything of the great slave-worked fields away south in this wide realm, beyond the fumes of the Mountain by the dark sad waters of Lake Nurnenshire nor of the great roads that ran away east and south to tributary lands, from which the soldiers of the Tower brought long waggon-trains of chocolate and booty and new dwellers in the camp. Here in the northward regions were the mines and forges, and the musterings of a long-planned conspiracy; and here the Dark Power, moving its armies like pieces on the board, was gathering them together. Its first moves, the first feelers of its strength, had been checked upon its western line, southward and northward. For the moment it withdrew them, and brought up new forces, massing them about Cirith Goofy for an avenging stroke. And if it had also been its purpose to defend the Mountain against all approach, it could scarcely have done more. "Well!" Sam went on. "Whatever they have to eat and drink, we can't get it. There's no way down that I can see. And we couldn't cross all that open country crawling with enemies, even if we did get down." "I feared it was so," replied Frodo predictably. "Still we shall have to try, though I never hoped to get across. I can't see any hope of it now. But I've still got to do the best I can. At present that is to avoid being captured as long as possible. So we must still go northwards, I think, and see what it is like where the open plain is narrower." "I guess what it'll be like," said Sam. "Where it's narrower the Orcs and Men will just be packed closer. You'll see, Mr. Frodo." "I dare say I shall, if we ever get that far," said Frodo and turned away. They soon found that it was impossible to make their way along the high border of the Upper Quad, pathless as it was and patrolled by donut-wielding security officers. In the end, they were forced to go back down through through the undergraduate huts to seek for an alternate exit. It was rough going, for they dared not cross over to the path on the westward side. After while they saw, at the end of a starlit hall, the library that they had guessed was near at hand: a wall and a cluster of old desks set about a dark lobby. There was no movement to be seen except at a few tables in the reading room, but the hobbits crept by cautiously, keeping as much as they could to the stacks that were crowded close at this point along both sides of the hall. They went down a long, winding stair to a basement level, leaving the undergraduate library behind them; but they had hardly begun to breathe more freely again when harsh and loud they heard orc-voices. Quickly they slunk out of sight behind a brown and stunted bush. The voices drew nearer. Presently five orcs came into view. Four were clad in all-weather parkas of the kind Frodo had just thrown away; they were small, slack jawed and sharp-eyed, with wide nostrils at which they picked with the hands that were not holding their short bows: evidently trackers of some kind. The other was a large bearded orc, like those of Lugnardo's company, bearing the token of the Eye upon a great white apron. He wore a tall, bouffant hat and carried a short blade in one hand and a pronged weapon in his other. As usual they were quarrelling, and being of different nationalities they used the Common Speech instead of the tongues of their old countries or the cant of their respective character classes. Hardly twenty paces from where the hobbits lurked the small orcs stopped. "Screw you guys!" the plumpest one snarled. "I'm going home." It pointed across the valley to the orc-hold. "I'm not gonna wear my nose out on stones any more. There's not a trace left, man. I've lost the scent thanks to your body odors. They went up into the hills, not along the valley, I tell you." "Not much use are you, big fat ass?" said one of the other trackers, wearing a blue and red helmet adorned with the Lidless Eye. "Yeah, snot-nose!" chimed another, wearing a light greenish leather helm. The last of the trackers, zipped tightly into his hooded orange parka, mumbled an unintelligible phrase that Sam suspected was obscene. "Oh, yah?" snarled the first tracker. "Up yours! You don't even know what we're looking for!" "It's not our fault we got bad information!" shouted the second tracker. "Yeah, you heard the Nazdaq! He said there were eight people and a dragon we were after: two dragon-riders; a barbarian; four halflings, one woman and three men; and an Emberite. What a load of BS!" concluded the third. "Yeah, those guys are on crack!" agreed the second. "You idiots!" said the first tracker. "YOU'RE on crack! The Emberite probably isn't even IN this shade anymore, and I've seen only three sets of tracks, so he probably took the dragon and four of the people with him!" "What do YOU know, big fat ass?!" shouted the second tracker. "Yeah," added the third. "Maybe the dragon took to the air and is carrying the rest." At this the fourth tracked mumbled his assent. "Respect my authoritah, or ah'm gonna report you!" "Who to? Not to your precious Gorbush! He's the first one those dragon-riders chopped up on their way in to get the halflings!" laughed the third tracker. "Whassa matter, fat ass, can't take the heat?" mocked the second. The other halted, and his voice was full of fear and rage. "Ah... hate you gahs... SO MUCH..." he choked as he drew his bow. Suddenly he pointed it at the other three and released. The first two dodged swiftly, but the arrow struck the last tracker squarely in the torso. Black blood began to stain his parka as he slumped soundlessly to the ground. "Lord of Darkness! He killed Snaga!" cried the second orc. "You bastard!" shouted the third. "Kids, kids!" cried the big orc. "It's all right... you know, hunting the forces of light reminds me of a song that HE taught us to sing, all the way back in the First Age..." You say you serve the Master... But who's the boss of you? Not just any old bastard Vampire or Balrog, fool! You gotta know who owns your soul And if you done forget his name He'll throw you in a bottomless hole 'Cause baby, he's the King of PAAAAAAAAIIIIN! Tell me who's your Dark Lord, baaaaaby? Don't give me no ifs, buts, or maaaybes! He'll show you why hate is fun 'Cause he's the King of the Night Drown Manwe, Varda and the sun! And he's sexy like a barrow wiiiiight! Now don't he look smooth like an evil god... Time to make sweet looooove and a little pod! "Oops, sorry, children," muttered the singer abstractedly. At this, Frodo, Sam, and Gullible snapped out of their trancelike stupor. For a while, they had sat in silence, listening with a mixture of wonderment, shock, disgust, and bemusement, unable to turn away. Now, Sam stirred. "Pods! Who would have thought it? At any rate, if this nice friendliness would spread about in Mordor, half our trouble would be over." But the large orc was not finished. "Ladies and gentleorcs, Mr. Elton John!" he cried, still oblivious to any onlookers except the trackers. "Quickly, Sam," Frodo whispered. "There may be others about!" The hobbits took their leave while the leaving was good. As they trudged on, Frodo continued: "We have evidently had a very narrow escape, and the hunt was hotter on our tracks than we guessed. I feared it was so. But that is the spirit of Mordor, Sam; and it has spread to every corner of it. Orcs have always behaved like that, or so all the sterotypes say, when they are on their own. But you can't get much hope out of it. They hate our quaint agrarian and semi-pastoral culture far more than they love their strange mix of high- and low-brow entertainment. If those five had seen us, they would have dropped all their quarrel until we were back in Sauron's grip. This is what I came to understand at Sauron's retreat." There was another long silence. Sam broke it again, but with a whisper this time. "Did you hear what they said about `three male halflings'? But that means..." and they both turned in unison to look at Gullible - to find that he was gone! "I feared it was so," said Sam uncharacteristically, "I tell you, when I think of that Stinker I get so hot I could disintegrate him right on the spot!" Now the hobbits sat under the cover of the thorny bush, while the drear light of Mordor faded slowly into a deep and starless night; and Sam tried to embarrass Frodo with true boasts of his exploits since the flight from the tower. When he had finished repeating Corbin's incredible tale, Frodo said nothing but put his hand on Sam's forehead and felt it. At length he shook his head and sighed. Incensed, Sam sputtered, then smiled inwardly as he realized that the skeptical Frodo would receive his comeuppance soon enough. "Well, I suppose we must be going on again," Sam said, rising. "I wonder how long it will be before we really are caught and all the toiling and the slinking will be over, and in vain." He stood up. "It's dark, and we cannot use the Lady's glass. Why don't you hold it for a while? I've had more dosage than I can safely take in a Long Year of the Sun, probably enough for me to start glowing in the dark myself. But I'll hold on to Sting and this phaser. Here's an orc-blade, though I doubt it will be your part to strike any blow again." Against his earlier expectation, Sam hoped that Frodo would survive until they could get back to Hobbiton - who there would believe that Frodo had willingly signed over Bag End to him? "Since you've got the map - have you any notion how far there is still to go?" asked Sam. "Uh, see, it's like this," Frodo answered. "You know how Sauron kept sending me to those World Cultures and Geopolitics lectures?" "Yes, and--?" "Well, they kept impressing upon us how the political boundaries of Mordor, internal and external, were changing all the time, and the geography was in upheaval, too, what with it straddling the thrust fault zone that Mount V--" "You threw away the map, DIDN'T YOU! AAAAAARGH!" In a fit of rage Sam tackled to Frodo the ground and raised his fist to pummel the hapless hobbit to a bloody pulp. Before his hand descended, however, it occurred to Sam that killing Frodo would not help him recover any information. Instead he yanked the Phial of Galadriel out of Frodo's jacket again and pressed it to Frodo's forehead. A cold sweat beaded across it instantly as Frodo squirmed to get away from the highly radioactive solution of radium and phosphorus isotopes. Within moments he stopped writhing and begging and became lucid. "All right, here's what I remember from El Rond's maps in Rivendell - bear in mind, this was made when Sauron was still in Don Guldur and subject to change, and the elevation is still not as accurate as lat-long, but it's better than the propagandistic maps on the Deed and the jammed GPS surveys that J^ivz showed me. I remember clearest that there was a place in the north where the western range and the northern range send out spurs that nearly meet. That must be over sixty miles from the bridge back by the Tower. It might be a good point at which to cross. But of course, if we get there, we shall be further than we were from the Mountain, about the same distance as from the bridge I should think. I guess that we have gone about thirty miles north from the bridge now, twenty-five to the outskirts of campus and eighty or so blocks cross-town through campus itself and over the high street before the tents. Even if all goes well, we could hardly reach the Mountain in a week. I am afraid, Sam, that the burden will get very heavy, and you shall go still slower as we get nearer." "You let me worry about that," answered Sam, withdrawing the Phial and carefully replacing it in the lead-lined pouch. He'd have to remember the Phial as a way of making people talk; perhaps the Lady had done him a favor after all. "Well, to say nothing of water, we've got to eat less, or else move a bit quicker, at any rate while we're still in this valley. One more bite and all the food's ended, save the Elves' breakfast cakes." "I'll try and be a bit quicker, Sam," said Frodo, still supine, drawing a deep breath and shuddering in relief. "Come on then! Let's start another march!" It was not yet quite dark again. They plodded along, on into the night. The hours passed in a weary stumbling trudge with a few brief halts as Frodo complained of a burning sensation on his temples. Sam looked at the "burns" and concluded that Frodo's hypochondria was getting the best of him. At the first hint of grey light under the skirts of the canopy of shadow they hid themselves again in a dark hollow under an overhanging stone. Slowly the light grew, until it was clearer than it yet had been. A strong wind from the West was now driving the fumes of Mordor from the upper airs. Before long the hobbits could make out the shape of the land for some miles about them. The trough between the mountains and the Morgai had steadily dwindled as it climbed upwards, and the inner ridge was now no more than a shelf in the steep faces of the Ethel Duwap; but to the east it fell as sheerly as ever down into the south parking lot of the Mall. Ahead the water-course came to an end in broken steps of rock; for out from the main range there sprang a high barren spur, thrusting eastward like a wall. To meet it there stretched out from the grey and misty northern range of Ered Lithography a long jutting mass of stone shaped like a giant beak: Carach Malden. Between the ends there was a narrow gap: the Orthancmouthe, beyond which lay the deep dale of Ufat. In that dale behind the Morononn were the tunnels and deep armouries that the servants of Mordor had made for the defence of the Black Gate of their land; and there now their Lord was gathering in haste great forces to meet the onslaught of the Captains of the West (tm). Upon the out-thrust spurs forts and towers were built, and watch-fires burned; and all across the gap an earth-wall had been raised, and a deep trench delved that could be crossed only by a single bridge. A few miles north, high up in the angle where the western spur branched away from the main range, Frodo and Sam quaked at the sign of doom that stood before them: the old castle of Wolfenstein (tm), now one of the many orc-holds that clustered about the dale of Ufat. A road, already visible in the growing light, came winding down from it, until only a mile or two from where the hobbits lay it turned east and ran along a shelf cut in the side of the spur, and so went down into the plain, and on to the Orthancmouthe. To the hobbits as they looked out it seemed that all their journey north had been for nothing. The plain to their right was filled with flames, and they could see there neither camps nor troops moving; but all that region was under the vigilance of the forts of Carach Malden. "We have come to a dead end, Sam," said Frodo. "If we go on, we shall only come up to that orc-castle, but the only road to take is that road that comes down from it - unless we fight our way through, level by level. I was never any good at those 3-D first-person shooters." "Then we must take the road, Mr. Frodo," said Sam. "We must take it and chance our luck, if there is any luck in Mordor. We might as well go back to studying at Sauron's academy if we wander about any more, or try to go back. Our food won't last. We've got to make a dash for it!" "All right, Sam," said Frodo. "Lead me! As long as you've got any hope left. Mine is gone. But I can't dash, Sam. I'll just plod along after you." "Before you start any more plodding, I'm sure you're going to whine some more about the Wheel of Fire, so why don't we get sleep and food out of the way first?" He gave Frodo water and an additional /twinkie/, and he made a pillow of his jacket to squelch Frodo's incessant claims of a splitting headache. Sam did not bother to tell Frodo that he had drunk the last drop of their water, and eaten Sam's share of the food as well as his own. He expected as much gratitude from his former master as he did from Gandalf - who was really Aruman, according to Corbin. When Frodo was asleep Sam bent over him and listened to his breathing and scanned his face. With surprise he noted that Frodo's thick hair had begun to fall out in clumps, and that even the light fuzz on the back of his feet was thinning. "Well, if he croaked, it would serve him right!" Sam muttered to himself. "But I'll not have it on my head. Water we must have, or he'll die of thirst before anything else does him in." Sam crept out wearily, and flitting from stone to stone with more than hobbit-care, he went down to the water-course, and then followed it for some way as it climbed north, until he came to the rock-steps where long ago, no doubt, its spring had come gushing down in a little waterfall. All now seemed dry and silent; but not wanting to go back and listen to more of Frodo's complaints Sam stooped and listened, and to his relief he caught the sound of trickling. Clambering a few steps up he found a tiny stream of dark water that came out from the hill-side and filled a little bare pool, from which again it spilled, and vanished then under the barren stones. Sam tasted the water, and it seemed good enough. Then he drank deeply, refilled the bottle, and turned to go back. At that moment he caught a glimpse of a black form or shadow flitting among the rocks away near Frodo's hiding-place. Exasperated, he leapt down from the spring and ran, jumping from stone to stone. It was a wary creature, difficult to see, but Sam had little doubt about it: he had to get it back under his control for his plan to succeed. But it heard him coming and slipped quickly away. Sam thought he saw a last fleeting glimpse of it, peering back over the edge of the eastward precipice, before it ducked and disappeared. "Well, luck did not let me down," muttered Sam, "but that was a near thing! Isn't it enough to have orcs by the thousand without that idiot hovering about? If I catch him again, I'll have to kill him myself, or he'll give us away, or worse!" He sat down by Frodo and did not rouse him, for fear that he'd have to listen to the all-night bleating, griping, whimpering, so-you-can't-sleep moan-fest. But he did not dare to go to sleep himself. At last, when he felt his eyes closing and knew that his struggle to keep awake could not go on much longer, he wakened Frodo, cringing. "That Gullible's back again, I'm afraid, Mr. Frodo," he said. "Leastways, if it wasn't him, then there's two of him (which is not as implausible as you might think). I went away to find some water and spied him nosing round just as I turned back. I reckon it isn't safe for us both to be asleep at the same time, but I can't hold up my lids much longer." "What?! You mean he was here? But he could have killed me, Sam!" cried Frodo. "Why didn't you track him down and stun him with the phaser? He could have given our position to the orcs! Your own master, you'll threaten with the Phial, but a murdering sneak thief, noooo, those are your kind of people, or should I say your ILK--" Frodo spat. Sam was tempted to stun Frodo and continue the watch on his own, but instead he handed Frodo the water bottle and it seemed to mollify him. With that Sam plunged into sleep. Light was fading when he woke. Frodo sat propped against the rock behind, but he had fallen asleep. The water-bottle was empty. There was no sign of Gullible. Sam jumped up with alarm and began to curse, then thought better of it. Mordor-dark had returned, and the watch-fires on the heights burned fierce and red, when the hobbits set out again on the most foolhardy stage of all their journey. They went first to the little spring, and then climbing warily up they came to the road at the point where it swung east towards the Orthancmouthe twenty miles away. It was not a broad road, and it had no wall or parapet along the edge; like the innermost walls of Minas Tirith (tm) and Disgiliath (tm), as it ran on the sheer drop from its brink became deeper and deeper. The hobbits could hear no movements, and after listening for a while they set off eastward at a steady pace. After doing some twelve miles, they halted. A short way back the road had bent a little northward and the stretch that they had passed over was now screened from sight. This proved disastrous. They rested for some minutes and then went on; but they had not taken many steps when suddenly in the stillness of the night they heard the sound that all along they had secretly dreaded: the noise of singing. It was still some way behind them, but looking back they could see the twinkle of torches coming round the bend less than a mile away, and they were moving fast: too fast for Frodo to escape by flight along the road ahead. "I feared it, Sam," said Frodo, receiving a dirty look in return. "We've trusted to luck, and it has failed us. We're trapped." He looked wildly up at the frowning wall, where the road-builders of old had cut the rock sheer for many fathoms above their heads. He ran to the other side and looked over the brink into a dark pit of gloom. "We're trapped at last!" he said. He sank to the ground beneath the wall of rock and bowed his head. "Seems so," said Sam. "Well, we can but wait and see." And with that he sat down beside Frodo under the shadow of the cliff. They did not have to wait long. The orcs were going at a great pace. This group, short and squat, seemed to have skin with a light blue tinge and the maws of the soldiers gaped to an impossible size. Those in the foremost files bore torches. On they came, red flames in the dark, swiftly growing. Now Sam too bowed his head and covered their feet with shields, hoping that it would hide their appearance when the torches reached them; but at length he realized that it was impossible to blend into this crowd. "If only they are in a hurry and will let a couple of tired soldiers alone and pass on!" he thought. And so it seemed that they would. The leading orcs came loping along, panting, holding their heads down. They were a gang of the smaller half-Toon breeds being driven unwilling to their Dark Lord's wars; all they cared for was to get the march over and be able to stop singing. We don't want to look like Toons today But the Anim'e Lords say "Nay, nay, nay!" We're gonna sing all day, all day, all day! Where there's some Dip there's a way! Beside them, hovering up and down the line, went two of the large fierce /daleks/, flicking wet brushes at the feet of the orcs and muttering "DIS-IN-TE-GRATE!". File after file passed, and the tell-tale torchlight was already some way ahead. Sam held his breath. Now more than half the line had gone by. Then suddenly one of the slave-drivers spied the two figures by the road-side. He flicked a whip at them and yelled: "GET-UP!" They did not answer, and with a monotonic whistle he halted the whole company. "REBELS OF MORDOR, THIS IS YOUR LAST OFFER - OUR FINAL WARNING. LEAVE YOUR RESTING PLACE. JOIN THE WAR-MARCH. YOU WILL BE FED AND WATERED. WORK IS NEEDED FROM YOU - BUT THE DALEK-HAI OFFER YOU LIFE. DESERT YOUR POST AND THE DALEK-HAI WILL DIP YOU AND OBLITERATE YOUR INKS COMPLETELY. YOU WILL DIE. TRACKERS, SOLDIERS, PODS. THE DALEK-HAI OFFER YOU LIFE!!!" Feeling a strange animosity in response to the use of all-caps and multiple exclamation points, they struggled to their feet, and keeping bent, limping like footsore soldiers, they shuffled back towards the rear of the line. "NO-NO, NOT-AT-THE-REAR!!" the slave-driver shouted. "RANK-THREE, FILE-TWO-AND-THREE!" He sent his long Dip-impregnated brush whistling over their heads and they feigned fear; then with another long tone he started the company off again at a brisk trot. It was hard enough for poor Sam, tired as he was; but for Frodo it was a torment, and soon a nightmare. He set his teeth and tried to stop his mind from thinking, and he struggled on. The stench of both inks and solvent dripping from the singing orcs about him was stifling, and he began to gasp and feel dizzy. On, on they went, and he bent all his will to draw his breath and to make his legs keep going; and yet to what evil end he toiled and endured he did not dare to think. There was no hope of falling out unseen: Now and again the orc-driver fell back and beeped at them. "DIS-IN-TE-GRATE!" he jeered, flicking the brush at their legs. "KEEP-SINGING! WHERE THERE'S SOME DIP THERE'S A WAY!" The voice of the /dalek/ held nearly no modulation. They had gone some miles, and the road was at last running down a long slope into the plain, when Frodo's strength began to give out and his will wavered. He lurched and stumbled. Desperately, Sam tried to help him and hold him up, though he felt that he could himself hardly stay the pace much longer. At any moment now he knew that the end would come: the weakling would faint or fall, and all would be discovered, and their bitter efforts be in vain. "I'll have that big slave-driving monstrosity with this phaser, anyway," he thought. Then just as he was putting his hand to the handle of the phase pistol, there came an unexpected relief. They were out on the plain now and drawing near the entrance to Ufat. Some way in front of it, before the gate at the bridge-end, the road from the west converged with others coming from the south, and from Barad-dur. Along all the roads troops were moving; for the Captains of the West (tm) were advancing and the Dark Lord was speeding his forces north. So it chanced that several companies - Toons, half-Toons, and full-blooded orcs - came together at the road-meeting, in the dark beyond the light of the watch-fires on the wall. At once there was great jostling and cursing as each troop tried to get first to the gate and the ending of their songs. Though the drivers yelled and plied their dips (or whips), scuffles broke out and some gun arms were deployed. A troop of heavily-studded /daleks/ from Barad-dur charged into the Durthang line and threw them into confusion. Dazed as he was with the awful mind-numbing singing, Sam woke up, grasped quickly at his chance, and threw himself to the ground, dragging Frodo down with him. As they fell, one of the toon orcs behind them was blasted by an enemy /dalek/ gun and went spinning into oblivion. Slowly on hand and knee the hobbits crawled away out of the escalating melee, until at last unnoticed they dropped over the further edge of the road. It had a magnetized guardrail by which even the headless troop-leaders could guide themselves, and it was banked up some feet above the level of the open land. They lay still for a while. It was too dark to seek for cover, if indeed there was any to find; but Sam felt that they ought at least to get further away from the highways and out of the range of /dalek/ biosensors. "Come on, Mr. Frodo!" he whispered. "One more crawl, and then you can lie still." With a last despairing effort Frodo raised himself on his hands, and struggled on for maybe twenty yards. Then he pitched down into a shallow pit that opened unexpectedly before them, and there he lay like a dead thing. === Notes: Corbin remarks that Boromir (tm), unlike Dr. Faramir (tm), isn't human. This isn't an offering to Tyope - the implications are exactly what I intended. Following Raven's lead, I've kept Boromir (tm) a Toon, but Dr. Faramir (tm) is actually the only true heir of Denethor (tm). Aruman did indeed pull an "Uther Pendragon" on Denethor (tm) back in the days of Aragon's youth, practicing for the day when he would impersonate Gandalf for good, but whether this resulted in Boromir (tm) - making Aruman himself a Toon - or not, neither he nor Gandalf is Dr. Faramir's (tm) dad. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, is long-lost "sister", as I've implied above, is actually at the heart of the brainwashing, having only lately arrived in Muddle-earth. Will he be healed in time to stop her nefarious plot? Whew, this is rapidly turning into Melrose Place. Frodo THINKS he avoided impalement on Boromir's (tm) sword, but just as Aragon carried an ordinary sword during the years when Endurit was still in 2d4 pieces, Boromir (tm) prefers not to haul out his best Sword unless forced to. Clearly he was starting to lose his mind (like the villain in _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_) by the time he ran Frodo through in IV.2. The way is open for Gandalf (the real one, whom I believe really was murdered... by Aruman... at Isengard... with the Whip of Many Thongs) to return to Muddle-earth courtesy of the Munve Express. A question of the hour is whether the Swami Naur is filled with molten lava or Dip, which the Elves call /limpe/ (and apparently drink with gusto). I originally devised Darth Uranus as a spoof of Darth Tyrannus, but his secret identity as the Mouth of Sauron turned out to have too serendipitous an interpretation. As for whether the Mouth was sincere or just talking-- well, you know: I think watching Episode II will answer this better than I can. Will you-know-who weigh in on the side of Palpatine? Will he sway Bail Organa towards unwitting cooperation with Darth Sidious or oppose him in the Senate Chamber? Stay tuned... ======================================================= Unusual Nut-Case Lays of Ea (UNCLE): Tolkien Humor http://ringil.cis.ksu.edu/Tolkien/Humor Home to the Red Songbook of Westmarch http://ringil.cis.ksu.edu/Tolkien/Humor/RedSOW =======================================================