"You're here in your official capacity? To guard the flyer?
To arrest skulking Yips?"
"Where?" asked Chiike.
"The chap over by the hangar? That's not a skulking Yip; that's my help. I agree he ought to be arrested, but Glawen won't have time today. He's your pilot."
Julian stood back in surprise and displeasure. He stared at Glawen.
"Are you competent?"
"Let me put it this way," said Glawen.
"My luggage is aboard the flyer. Yours is being driven off aboard the carry-all."
Julian waved his hat.
"Hi! Driver! Come back here!" He turned angrily to Glawen.
"Just don't stand there; do something!"
Glawen shrugged.
"If one of us has to run after the truck, it might as well be you."
Chiike put two fingers into his mouth and blew a great shrill blast. The carry-all halted and, in response to Chilke's gesture, returned. With a set expression, Julian transferred his bags to the flyer. Once again he turned to Glawen.
"I insist upon a skillful and experienced pilot. Are you so qualified?"
Glawen handed over a small folder.
"Here are my certificates of proficiency, and my licensing."
Julian glanced skeptically through the folder.
"Hm.
Everything seems in order. Very well. We are bound for Mad Mountain Lodge."
"We'll be in the air about four hours. This particular flyer is not fast, but it's quite suitable for errands of this sort."
Julian said no more. He stepped up into the flyer, to join Milo and Wayness, who had already taken their places. Glawen paused for a final word with Chiike.
"What's your verdict?"
"A bit hoity-toity, I should say."
"That's my impression, too. Well, we're off for Mad Mountain Lodge." Glawen climbed aboard the flyer and seated himself at the controls. He touched buttons, pushed the as censor toggle; the flyer rose into the air. Glawen engaged the autopilot and the flyer slid away into the southwest.
The rolling Muldoon Mountains passed below; the orchards and vineyards of the Araminta enclave gave way to unsullied wilderness:
first a pleasant land of wide green meadows among forests of dark blue allombrosa. Presently they came upon the Twan Tivol River, sweeping down from the north to terminate in the Dankwallow Swamp, the source of both the River Wan and the River Leur: a vast area of ponds, puddles, marshes and morasses, overgrown with purple-green verges, balwoon bush, tussocks of saw grass with a few gaunt skeleton trees for accent.
Syrene shone from a cloudless deep blue sky.
"In case anyone is interested," said Glawen, "we'll have good weather all the way. Also, if the meteorologists are to be trusted, it's a fine day at Mad Mountain, with no banjees reported in the vicinity."
Julian attempted a jocularity: "This being the case, and with no bloodshed in prospect, the tourists no doubt will be refunded their money."
Glawen responded politely: "I don't think so."
Milo added the comment: "And that's why the place is called Mad Mountain."
"Are you sure?" asked Wayness.
"I've been wondering."
"The name obviously derives from the banjee battles," said Julian in rather patronizing tones.
"Their futility--madness, if you will-has long been recognized, at least by the LPF. If my scheme is feasible and is acted upon, we shall rename the place Peace Mountain."
' Banjee: one of the many varieties ofmandoril indigenous to Cadwal. The usual banjee is a massive two-legged creature, somewhat andromorphic, if grotesquely so. The banjee is sheathed in chi ling black in the mature male, which stands eight to nine feet tall. The head is covered with stiff black hair except for the frontal visage of naked bone.
The banjees are remarkable in many ways. They begin life as neuters, become female at the age of six years, metamorphose to males at the age of sixteen, growing each year thereafter in size, mass and ferocity, until they are eventually killed in battle.
Banjees communicate in a language impervious to the most subtle analytical methods of the Gaean linguists. The banjees construct tools and weapons, and exhibit what seem to be the glimmerings of an aesthetic sense, which, like the language, evades the understanding of the human mind.
Banjees are intractable and while ferocious are not actively aggressive under ordinary conditions. They are well aware of the tourists who crowd the terrace at Mad Mountain Lodge to watch them pass, but pay no heed. Reckless persons sometimes approach the marching hordes or even the battles in order to secure dramatic photographs. Emboldened by the apparent indifference of the banjees, they venture a step or two closer, then another step, which takes them past some imperceptible boundary into the banjees' "zone of reaction," and then they are killed.
