He turned the control wheel slowly to the right. More, more . . . Southeast, south . . . He began to wonder why he was doing it. This was no longer the way to Dibna. He struggled to halt the motion, but his hands continued to move the control. Southwest . . . He was almost completely turned around. It would simply have to be corrected. Only . . .
His hands refused to obey, to turn him back. It was as if the will of another now directed his actions. He fought against it, but to no avail. He was now headed in almost exactly the one direction that he did not wish to go. As he watched himself being directed, the entire sequence of his actions took on a dreamlike quality, as though he himself were being forced further and further into the background, as though . . .
Dreamlike. For a moment, the tiny control lights swam before him, rearranging themselves into seven flickering forms. The full memory of his dream crashed down upon him then, with a feeling that somewhere the last laughter continued.
He had a strong premonition that he was saying goodbye to his villa.
* * *
Pol’s first impulse on reaching the labyrinth’s exit was to rush out through it. Instead, he halted just within the doorway. Something—he was not certain what—was amiss. It was as if he had been granted such a brief glimpse of a danger that he could not name it, could only be aware of its existence. Had something moved?
He wondered, looking out to the place where Moonbird watched a sleeping Nora. He took the rod into his hands and tried to recall elaborate spells from the books he had read in his father’s collection. Everything seemed to be all right, yet . . .
A slow-moving shadow slid across the ground before him, twisting itself over every irregularity. Still, it was easy for him, coming from the world that he had, to recognize the outline as that of a flying machine—a thing larger than the dark birds, if the sound which now reached his ears were any indication of its nearness.
There was a partial spell he had studied, simpler than the complete version of the same thing. It might require considerable energy, but then, he need no longer work solely with his hands upon the fabric of reality . . .
He raised the rod and began moving it about him, catching and swirling large quantities of the strands, of every color. As the shadow receded, the clot of strands grew before him, assuming a disc-like shape. The colors drained from it as it spun and increased in diameter, until, at length, it was a shimmering shield larger than himself. Objects beyond it rippled and swam and the rod vibrated steadily, silently within his grip.
Now. He took a step forward and the shield advanced a similar distance. Its size seemed sufficient for its purpose and he slowed the swirling movement to restrict its growth, to maintain it at its present size.
The shadow had passed away to his left, and he moved the rod in that direction and tilted it upward. He took another step and scanned the sky carefully. Unlike the complete spell, which rendered its caster entirely invisible, the partial spell he had been able to weave created only a flat screen, capable of blocking observation from a single direction.
Another step, and he caught sight of the battle-wagon, swinging away, farther to the left. Turning sideways, he adjusted the shield and began walking toward the trees. If he were to remain stationary, there was a way to rest his arm. As it was . . .
He crossed the cleared area, turning to follow the movement of the vessel, like some negative-petalled flower after an anti-sun, distorting the light that fell upon it, until finally he was walking backward when he reached the trees.
Standing now before the tree of the girl and the dragon, he spun the shield larger, watching the wavering image of the circling battle-wagon through the upper righthand quadrant of the screen.
He reached out and touched Moonbird.
I am going to awaken her now, he indicated. When I do, we are going to retreat within the wood.
And not fight?
We may not have to.
I could barf it to ruin . . .
Not if it gets you first. Trust me.
He turned to Nora and began releasing her from the sleep-spell, reflecting on how much simpler things would have been with the minotaur had he been able to do it at other than close range. Nora stirred, looked at him.
“I’ve been asleep! You did it to me! I—”
“Shh!” he cautioned. “They’re up there!” He gestured with his head. “Sounds carry in a quiet place like this. Save it for later. I’ve got the second piece. Now we have to get off into the trees. We’re invisible from just this one side.”
She got to her feet and stood stiffly erect.
“It was not a nice trick,” she said, “and you won’t catch me that way again.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” he stated. “Now let’s head back that way.”
She glanced at the ship in the sky, nodded and turned. Moonbird shifted his great bulk and edged slowly after her.
As he retreated, Pol slowed the swirling motion, withdrew his energies, released the spell. The trees covered them adequately now. It seemed that they had escaped from immediate danger.
Pol seated himself beneath a tree, hands clasped under his chin.
“What now?” Nora finally asked him.
“I am wondering whether I might be able to bring that thing down, as I did that lesser one at the pyramid. Now that I have two of the sections together, it seems possible.”
“It sounds worth trying.”
“I am going to wait until its course brings it nearer. Distance does seem to be a factor.”
For over a quarter of an hour, he watched the vessel, attaching strand after gray metallic strand to the rod that he held. Finally, when the ship swept by them again, he felt ready.
He raised the instrument and stared past it through gaps among the branches, amid the leaves, saw the strands grow taut, imagined that he could hear them singing as if caressed by some cosmic wind. The rod grew warm in his hand as he felt the energies flow forth.
For a time, nothing seemed to happen. Then they heard a cough and a rattle, followed by a sputtering noise. Two of the ship’s rotors began to slow. It listed to starboard as a third propeller went out. Immediately, it began to descend, and Pol guessed that this was an action of the pilot’s in trying to avoid a crash, rather than an indication that it might not remain airborne a while longer. His knuckles grew white as he gripped the rod, willing more force into his spell. More rattling and coughing noises came from the sinking vessel. A thin wisp of smoke arose from beneath the cowling at its forward end. Two more rotors halted, but by now it was only fifteen or twenty meters above the ground, near to the western perimeter of the labyrinth.
It dropped only a short distance, moments later, and a hatch at its rear fell open. Three men hurried out and another followed more slowly, coughing. Pol saw a darting of flames within and more moving forms beating at and attempting to smother them. He lowered the rod and extended his hand to Nora,
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I’ve burned out several engines. They won’t be able to follow.”
They clambered up onto Moonbird’s back.
Now! Hurry! Take us away!
We can finish them off first.
They are helpless now. Get us aloft!
Moonbird began a waddling run beneath the trees, fanning the air with his wings. When he broke into the cleared area, he lifted above the ground. A cry came up from somewhere to the right.
Pol saw the three men who had fled the smoldering battle-wagon. They were kneeling and had raised their weapons. White puffs emerged from the muzzles, and he immediately felt a burning pain in the back of his neck and slumped across Moonbird’s shoulder. He heard Nora cry out and felt her catching at his shirt, his belt. His head swirled through dark places, but he did not immediately lose consciousness, A distant booming sound came to his ears. His neck was wet.
We should have finished them first . . . Moonbird was saying.
Nora was talking as she did something behind him, but he could not hear the w
ords.
Then his eyes closed and everything diminished.
* * *
When the world came back, her hand was on his neck, holding a cold compress in place. He smelled the sea. He felt the play of muscles beneath the scales against which his cheek was pressed. Moonbird smelled a bit like old leather, gunpowder and lemon juice, he suddenly realized. Somehow the thought struck him as funny and he chuckled.
“You’re awake?” said Nora.
“Yes. How serious is it?”
“It looks as if someone laid a hot poker across your neck and held it there for a time.”
“That’s about how it feels, too. What’s on it?”
“A piece of cloth I soaked in water.”
“Thanks. It helps.”
“Do you know a spell to heal it?”
“Not offhand. But I may be able to think of something. Tell me first what happened, though.”
“You were hit by something. I think it might have come from one of those smoking sticks the men were pointing.”
“Yes, it did. But what was the crashing noise? Did their ship explode?”
“No. It had larger—things—like those pointed by the men. These turned to follow us, then they began smoking and making the noise. Several things seemed to explode near us. Then it stopped.”
Pol propped himself and looked back. It hurt to turn his head. The island was already receding in the distance, its outline vaguely misted. He looked down at the sea, up toward the sun.
Moonbird, are you all right?
Yes. And you?
I’ll be okay. But we seem to be heading northwest, rather than southwest. Maybe I’m wrong, though. You are the expert.
You are not wrong.
“Let me tie that in place for you.”
“Go ahead.”
Why? What is the matter?
The place you wish to visit next—it lies a great distance from here, many day’s travel.
Yes, I know. That is why it is important that we follow the route I have laid out. Many island stopovers will be necessary.
Not really. Maps mean less to me than my feelings. I realized recently there is a shortcut.
How can that be? The shortest distance between two points is a—a great circle segment.
I will take us the way of the dragons.
The way of the dragons? What do you mean?
I have been that way before. Between some places there are special routes. Holes in the air, we call them. They move about, slowly. The closest one to a place near where you would go now lies in this direction.
Holes in the air? What are they like?
Uncomfortable. But I know the way.
Anything that is uncomfortable to a dragon might prove fatal to anyone else.
I have borne your father through them.
They are much faster?
Yes.
All right. Go ahead. How far is it?
I may get us there by evening.
Is there a place before that where we can stop for repairs?
Several.
Good.
The sun hung low and red before them. To the right, a fuzzy line of coast darkened the horizon like a rough brush stroke. Mounds and streamers of pink and orange clouds filled the sky to the left and ahead. Moonbird was climbing and the wind seemed to grow colder with each beat of his wings. Pol stared upward and rubbed his eyes, for his vision had suddenly blurred.
The blur remained. He moved his head and it stayed in the same place.
Moonbird . . . ?
Yes, we are nearing it. It will be soon now.
Is there anything special that we should do?
Do not let go. Mind your possessions. I cannot help you if we become separated.
The wrinkle in the sky had grown larger as they climbed, reminding Pol of the invisibility shield viewed from the user’s side. They reached its altitude and passed it. Looking down upon it, he saw it to be silvery, shining and opaque, like a pool of mercury, touched faintly pink by the receding sun. It achieved an even more substantial appearance as they rose higher above it.
Why have we passed it?
It must be entered from the bright side.
“We are going to dive through that?” Nora asked.
“Yes.”
Pol touched the back of his neck and felt only a moderate ache. Already, the healing spell he had concocted seemed to be working—or at least killing the pain. Nora squeezed his shoulder.
“I’m ready.”
He patted her hand as Moonbird achieved a position above the circle and began to slow.
“Hang on.”
They began to drop. Moonbird’s wings beat again, driving them faster.
It is not solid, Pol told himself without conviction, as the shining thing grew before them.
Suddenly, they were past it, and there was no up or down, only forward. Right and left would not stay put, for they seemed to be swirling, spiraling about a light-streaked vortex while a continuously rising scream pierced their ears. Pol bit his lip and clung tightly to Moonbird’s neck. Nora was hugging him so hard that it hurt. He tried closing his eyes, but that worsened things, making his rising vertigo near to unbearable. There did seem to be a bit of brightness far, far ahead. His stomach wrenched, and whatever emerged was mercifully whipped away, Moonbird began expelling flames which fled back past them like glowing spears. The wailing had now reached at least partially into the ultrasonic. If he stared too long at the smears of light they seemed on the verge of becoming grotesque, open-mouthed faces. The one steady patch of brightness seemed no nearer.
Are all of the shortcuts like this? Pol asked.
No. We’re lucky, Moonbird replied. There are some bad ones.
XVIII.
Eyes aching, shoulders sore from the long flight, Mouseglove circled the tumbling stone structure, saw no sign of other visitors and was about to land nearby. His hands jerked, however, swinging the vessel out over the jungle until a cleared area came into sight. His sigh was voluntary as he brought the small ship down for a landing, but when he attempted to utter a choice from his amazing collection of curses, he discovered that his tongue would not respond.
You could at least let me rest, he mentally addressed his unseen manipulators. Whatever it is that you want of me, you will get a better performance if I am not exhausted.
We regret the inconvenience, came their first communication since his dream on Anvil Mountain, accompanied briefly by a peculiar doubling of vision, as if the scene about him were momentarily overlaid by the image of a flickering taper, a dark presence moving near it. But there is no choice, You overtook the other vessels during the night. We gave you a different course, and yours is a faster ship. But your lead is not that great. There is no time to rest. Take the wide, flat blade from the sheath on the door. Go outside. Cut branches, fronds. Conceal this vessel.
He felt free—free to comply. He did not.
But—
He was seized once again. He felt himself begin to rise, springing the hatch, taking the blade into his hand. There were no replies to his next inquiries.
The great-leaved plants were easy to cut. It did not take him long to cover the small ship. Then he opened a compartment toward the vessel’s rear, to strip it, clean it and snap auxiliary fuel cubes into its chambers. The thought of this situation had troubled him during a more alert moment. There was no way the sunlight converters could do the entire job required for the return trip, even if his unwilling hands had not covered over their panels with leaves.
When he had finished the work he stood still for a moment, breathing the warm moist air, listening to the morning calls of the bright parrots, wondering whether he would now be permitted a brief rest. Almost as he thought it, however, his feet began to move, bearing him in what he believed to be the direction of the stone structure with the grotesque carvings. He swung the blade as he went, widening the trail. After only a few paces, he was drenched with perspiration. Insects buzzed about him, and the most m
addening part of the entire experience was his inability to brush them away.
At last, he staggered into the cleared area where the stepped structure stood, stylized stone beasts projecting from its vine-covered walls, grinning past him.
I must rest, he tried. In the shade. Please!
There is absolutely no time, came the reply, with another flickering image. You must go around to the other side of the building and enter there.
He felt himself beginning to move again. He wanted to cry out, but this was still denied him. He moved faster and faster, barely aware of where he stepped, yet somehow he did not stumble.
He was halted again, before the weed-clogged, vine-hung doorway. Then the blade flashed forward and he began clearing it.
Soon he was through the opening and rushing along a corridor. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the gloom, but whatever was in charge of him seemed to know where he was going.
It was only when he neared the head of a wide flight of stairs that he began to slow, finally coming to a halt to regard the scene that lay below and before him, partly illuminated through an irregular gap in the roof where several stone blocks had fallen—the result of an earthquake perhaps . . .
At the far side of the chamber below was a low stone wall. Beyond it was the blackness of a hole. Before it was a diminutive version of the entire stepped building itself, complete with tiny statues and carvings. Atop this, in a crumbling orange basket, lay a narrow cylinder half the length of a man’s forearm. It appeared to be glowing with a faint, greenish light. Mouseglove took advantage of the respite to breathe deeply of the moist air, to enjoy the coolness . . .
That, thief is the object you must steal.
Again, the candle; again, the imperative.
The cylinder?
Yes.
Why bother to tell me? You’re pulling all the strings.
Not any longer. We are about to release you. Your native wit and reflexes are superior to anything we might compel you to in such matters.
Suddenly, he was free. He mopped his brow, dusted his garments and fell to his knees, breathing heavily. One of his reflexes kept him silent, if this were indeed to be a piece of work. Mentally, he framed his most immediate question:
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