Free Chorus Skating by Alan Dean Foster Page B

statement, since there is a distinct possibility of polluting this pristine pond with blood and other bodily wastes. It will save you a lot of trouble later.” Eyes narrowing, he squinted at the ocelot’s companions-in-arms.
    â€œEach of you, of course, should really fill out your own set of forms. It’s only proper jurisprudential procedure.” He turned back to their leader. “You should also submit, in triplicate, Request Form 287-B and C, granting you exclusive rights to mug, assault, rob, and otherwise impose upon these two travelers. Prior to swinging that weapon, of course.”
    By this time the ocelot’s eyes had completely glazed over. Swaying slightly, unable either to raise the deadly sword or flee, he stood motionless while the owl rambled on, until the benumbed carnivore had vanished completely beneath a suffocating and steadily mounting pile of white paper, with a few yellow and pink forms tossed in for color.
    â€œâ€¦ Batch Form four hundred and twelve,” the owl droned on, “which simply must be turned in within twenty-four hours of rendering a victim into more than eleven pieces, but not less than three. Unless attached addenda ten and twelve have been filed beforehand, in which case …”
    From within the burgeoning mountain of forms a faint, desperate voice could be heard crying for help. Or perhaps begging for mercy: The words were so thickly muffled that Jon-Tom couldn’t be sure.
    Led by the old mandrill, the rest of the bandits rushed forward to attack the pile. But the paper piled up faster than they could hack it away, a veritable torrent of forms, requisition sheets, and contracts, until the entire band found themselves overwhelmed and enveloped.
    The avalanche spread out in high, curling waves, swamping the fire and sending the travelers’ supper crashing to the ground. For an instant it blazed higher, until the flames were snuffed out by a squall of blank permits. Ever curious, Mudge darted forward and snatched one from the pile.
    â€œIt says we’re suspected o’ attemptin’ to establish a restaurant without applyin’ for a license.” He threw Jon-Tom a warning look. “Maybe ’tis time to call a bit o’ a halt to the music-mongerin’, mate.”
    â€œI’ve already stopped.” Jon-Tom found himself retreating toward the pool as the first hundred blank forms crept toward his feet. They could no longer see the owl, but they could sure hear him. His ominous bureaucratic drone continued to echo from the canyon walls.
    Racing forward, Mudge snatched up the rest of their gear and threw it at Jon-Tom, who caught it reflexively. Then the otter was tugging on his friend’s arm.
    â€œCome on, mate!”
    â€œW-what?” Jon-Tom mumbled. His eyes were beginning to glaze over as well.
    So Mudge bit him.
    â€œ Ow! ” Jon-Tom responded with dazed anger, which the otter ignored. “What’d you do that for?”
    â€œIt was gettin’ to you to. Bleedin’ insidious, it is.” He was half leading, half dragging his friend along the beach toward the far end of the pool. Bemused but glad to be on their way again, the orphaned cloud of music preceded them. “Fortunately, I ain’t smart enough to be susceptible.”
    With the nimble otter leading the way and selecting the easiest path, they scrambled out of the ravine. Jon-Tom boosted his short-legged friend over the long drops, while Mudge ascended narrow chimneys inaccessible to Jon-Tom, tossing down their rope to help the human up to the next ledge. With fear and apprehension motivating them, they soon found themselves standing on level ground above the canyon.
    Looking back, they could see that it continued to fill up with a heaving sea of foamlike forms and informative pamphlets. The paper was already lapping at the rim of the ravine and clutching at the roots of terrified trees. From somewhere far below, the submerged