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The Time of the Transference

Alan Dean Foster

For Richard and Karen and

Michele and Dawn Hirschhorn,

A small detour down the byways of life.

From cousin A, D, & F

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

A Biography of Alan Dean Foster

I

“JON-TOM, THERE’S SOMEONE in the tree.”

From the abyss of deep rest he replied. “Huh—what?”

Feminine fingers imprinted themselves on the flesh of his shoulder. “I said there’s someone in the tree.” The voice was sharp, melodious, familiar, as well it should have been.

Extending himself mightily, he opened one eye. Moonlight gilded the branches of his home and those of the belltrees that surrounded the glade of oaks. Morning was conspicuous by its absence, nor was there any indication that the sun intended to put in an appearance any time soon. He listened intently.

“Go back to sleep, Talea.” He turned over slowly. “There’s no one in the tree.”

“Not our tree, idiot!” she whispered huskily. “Old hard-shell’s tree.”

“Of course there’s someone inside Clothahump’s tree.”