"We shall. This waiting blasts my ethereal soul."
"You're an impatient cuss," she smiled at him. "You haven't seen me dance yet. I was a well-paid dancer once. It should be worth your while."
"Dance, then," he said, settling himself against a rock.
"You make the music. You know how."
He thought for a moment, then uncovered another bit of technique known to the dead. He began to send out mentally Debussy's Au Claire de Lune. She heard it, smiled at him as she caught the music and began to dance.
Her body was not very good; certainly not as good as it had been. But as he studied the dancing, sometimes with eyes closed so that he could hear the rustle only of her feet on snow and sometimes so abstracted that he could hear only the displacement of air as she moved, Colt was deeply stirred.
He tuned in on her thoughts, picking out the swiftly-running stream, the skittering little point of consciousness that danced over them.
"Now I am a swan," said her thoughts while she danced to the music. "Now I am a swan, dying for love of the young prince who has wandered through the courtyard. And now I am the prince, very pretty and as dumb as a prince could be. Now I am his father the King, very wrathy and pompous. And now, and through it all, I was really the great stone gargoyle on the square top-tower who saw all and grinned to himself."
She pirouetted to an end with the music, bowing with a stylized, satirically cloying grace. He applauded lustily.
"Unless you have other ideas," she said, "I would like to dance again." Her face was rosy and fresh-looking.
He began to construct music in his mind while she listened in and took little tentative steps. Colt started with a split-log-drum's beat, pulse speed, low and penetrating. He built up another rythm overlaying it, a little slower, with wood-block timbre. It was louder than the first. Rapidly he constructed a series of seven polyrythmic layers, from the bottom split-log pulse to a small, incessant snare-drum beat.
Colt listened in on the dancer's swirling thoughts as he studied her steps and kept the percussional counterpoint going.
Valeska told him: "I'm an animal now, a small, very arboreal animal. I can prick up my ears; my toes are opposed so I can grasp a branch."
He added a bone-xylophone melody, very crude, of only three tones. "My eyes are both in front of my face. My vision has become stereoscopic. I can sit up and handle leaves. I can pick insects from the branches I live in."
Colt augmented the xylophone melody with a loud, crude brass. Valeska thought: "I'm bigger—my arms are longer. And I often walk little distances on the ground, on my feet and my arm-knuckles."
Colt added a see-sawing, gutty-sounding string-timbre, in a melody opposed to the xylophone and the brass: "I'm bigger—bigger—too big for trees. And I eat grubs as well as leaves—and I walk almost straight up—see me walk!" He watched her swinging along the ground, apish, with the memory of brachiation stamped in every limb. He modified the bone- xylophone's timbre to a woody ring, increased the melodic range to a full octave.
With tremendous effort Valeska heaved over an imaginary rock, chipped at it: "I'm making flint hand-axes. They kill animals bigger than I am—tigers and bears—see my kitchen-heap, high as a mountain, full of their bones!"
He augmented with a unison choir of wood-winds and a jangling ten-string harp: "I eat bread and drink beer and I pray to the Nile—I sing and I dance, I farm and I bake—see me spin rope! See me paint pictures on plaster!"
A wailing clarionet mourned through the rythmic sea. Valeska danced statelily: "Yes—now I'm a man's woman—now I'm on top of the heap of the ages—now I'm a human—now I'm a woman. . ."
Colt stopped short the whole accumulation of percussion, melody and harmony in a score of timbres, cutting in precisely a single blues piano that carried in its minor, sobbing-sad left hand all the sorrow of ages, in the serpentine-stabbing chords splashed gold by the right sang the triumph of man in his glory of metal and stone.
Valeska danced, sending out no words of what the dance was, for it was her, what she dreamed, what she had been and what she was to be. The dance and the music were Valeska, and they ended when she was in Colt's arms. The brandy-bottle dropped from his grip and smashed on the rock.
Their long, wordless community was broken by a disjointed yell from the two sides of the ridge as fighting forces streamed to battle. From the Bad caravan came the yell: "Kill and maim! Destroy! Destroy!" And the Good caravan cried: "In the name of the right! For sanctity and peace on Earth! Defend the right!"
Colt and Valeska found themselves torn apart in the rush to attack, swept into the thick of the fighting. The thundering voices from above, and the lightning, were almost continuous. The blinding radiance rather than the night hampered the fighting.
They were battling with queer, outlandish things—frying pans, camp stools, table-forks. One embattled defender of the right had picked up a piteously bleating kid and was laying about him with it, holding its tiny hooves in a bunch.
