Free Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs by Mike Resnick, Robert T. Garcia Page A

your arrival.” He raised a gnarled, nearly clawlike hand and gestured. Almost at once there was a sound from the entryway through which I had entered minutes earlier. Before I could turn, however, the tiny man rose from his throne and stepped from the dais.
    He walked carefully, as would an aged man who feared to lose his balance and damage fragile, ancient bones. As he passed me he grasped me by the biceps. He had to reach up to do so, but his grip was most surprisingly strong. He guided me toward the elaborately set table. Hardly had we reached our places when we were joined by three more individuals.
    One was the Princess Duare. Obviously her quarters had been as elaborately and tastefully equipped as had been my own. Her face bore no trace of the filth or the fatigue of our day’s misadventures. Instead her olive-hued skin glowed with the purity of youthful beauty. Her hair had been carefully coiffed in a soft, graceful fashion.
    She was garbed in soft, colorfully draped cloths that resembled fine silk. Their dominant shade was a deep vermillion set off with highlights of gentle yellow that seemed almost to live in the waving light of the oil-cressets and the great fireplace. The overall effect was suggestive of an Indian sari.
    Unfamiliar symbols were woven into Duare’s garments, vaguely suggestive of the signs of the Earthly zodiac, but how the Amtorians could have developed a zodiacal system without ever seeing the stars and planets was a mystery to me.
    The other two figures were of similar stature and build, although clearly one of them was female and the other male. As all five of us took our seats, our almost elfin host reached for a glittering goblet that stood before his place. In the few moments that had passed since the completion of our party, unobtrusive, dark-garbed servants had filled goblets at each place.
    “As is our custom,” the tiny man rasped, “we will introduce ourselves to our guests, and they to us. But first, a ceremonial sip of our fíonbeior .” He raised his goblet and tilted it for the barest moment toward his mouth.
    This must be some beverage, I thought. I am not a great imbiber, but in my wasted youth I will confess to spending many a happy hour with my compatriots, toasting and guzzling brews of various sorts. Our American government’s so-called Noble Experiment of Prohibition has served only to give strong waters the added appeal of forbidden fruit, and as a daring young man I had been ever eager to strike a blow for freedom.
    I took a hearty swallow of this Amtorian fíonbeior and at once promised myself to be more cautious with the beverage. Not that it was unpleasant stuff. On the contrary, it was thoroughly delicious, but it had hardly had time to reach my stomach when my ears were filled with a rushing sound and my eyes filled with tears.
    I lowered my goblet.
    The elf laughed.
    “Very well,” he rasped, “I see that one of our guests has already learned a valuable lesson. I am pleased.”
    A peculiar expression gave his face the appearance of a grinning skull for the barest of moments.
    “As is our custom,” he resumed, “we welcome our guests by introducing ourselves. Then we shall ask them to do the same.”
    He nodded his head, as if approving of his own conduct.
    “In my lifetime I have been known by many names,” he said, “but for now you may call me simply Dr. Bodog. I am your host. You are welcome in my home. We shall all get to know one another well during your stay.”
    Clearly, he was addressing Duare and myself.
    “And my children,” he went on, nodding his great, hairless dome toward the man and woman who had entered the hall along with Duare.
    “Yes,” the man said, raising his goblet and taking a ceremonial sip of the fíonbeior. I watched as everyone at the table emulated him. This time, I assure you, I was more cautious.
    “My name is Oggar,” he stated. His voice was deep and powerful, a suitable match for his heavily muscled