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. No one looked up, and within moments
the soarwagon was past them, continuing its descend-
ing spiral.
Long minutes passed, then the other group was in sight
again below, now dead ahead. The gnome leaned out to
squint at them. He saw them clearly now. Armored gob-
lins, a company of them marching in rough phalanx or-
der, with a slightly larger figure in the lead -- a waddling,
greenish-colored thing in bright misfitting armor. Bob-
bin had never seen a hobgoblin before, though he knew
what they were. If anything, he decided, hobgoblins
were even uglier than ordinary goblins. Without its
bright garb, the thing would have resembled a big, mis-
shapen frog.
The soarwagon closed on the marching company be-
low, lower now, only a few hundred yards up.
Well, Bobbin told himself, I'll circle over those other
people again pretty soon. I can tell them then that there
are goblins coming. None of my business, I suppose, but
then nobody needs goblins.
As he sailed over the marching goblins, Bobbin heard
their shouts and leaned out to look down at them. Cross-
bows and blades were brandished at him, and guttural
taunts drifted upward. On impulse, the gnome looked
around for something unpleasant that he could drop on
them. The only thing that came to hand was an empty
line-spool wedged between the raisin basket and the lat-
eral courses. He gripped it, pulled it loose... then
grabbed the rails of his cab and hung on for dear life as
the snagged tilt controls of the soarwagon suddenly
broke free and the vehicle responded
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