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As he swung to the left, climbing about the side of a small hill, he saw a slim figure in a blue blouse and gray skirt, standing by the side of the trail, waving to him. He slowed immediately when he recognized Nora.
Coming to a stop, be leaned over and opened the door.
"Get in," he said.
She studied the car through narrowed eyes, then shook her head slowly.
"No," she said. "I thought you'd come this way, and I came on ahead to warn you--not to go for a ride in the thing."
"Warn me?"
"They're angry--"
"I know that."
She struck her fist against her palm.
"Don't interrupt! Listen! Could you hear what they were saying?"
"No. I---"
"I didn't think so, over all that noise. Well, I could, and I don't think that they are going to calm down and see things your way. I think that the only reason you're alive right now is that they couldn't break into this thing. ..." Gingerly, she reached out and touched the door. "Don't go back to the village. You probably ought to leave again--" Her voice broke and she turned away. "You never got in touch," she managed later. "You said that you would, and you never did."
"I--I couldn't, Nora."
"Where were you?"
"Far away ..."
"Far? As far as Anvil Mountain, or one of the other forbidden places? That's where you got this thing, isn't it?"
He did not reply.
"Isn't it?" she repeated.
"It's not the way you think," he answered then. "Yes, I was there, but--"
"Go away! I don't want to know you any more! I've warned you. If you value your life, leave here again--and this time, don't come back!"
"I can convince you you're wrong--if you'll listen, if you will let me show you some--"
"I don't want to listen and I don't want to see anything!"
She turned and ran off through the trees. He would have pursued her, but he feared leaving the car there, should any villagers be following.
"Come back!" he called.
But there was no answer.
Reluctantly, he closed the door and continued on. A puzzled centaur peered after him from the hilltop.
VII
The synthetic caterpillars crisscrossed the streets of the reviving city, removing trash and rubble. Their super-intendant, a short, wide-shouldered mutant with heavy brow-ridges, followed their slow progress, occasionally leaning upon his hooked driving-prod. The skies were su
Michael Chain, florid-faced, hair thi
"The record isn't doing too well, eh?" Michael said.
Dan raised his eyes, shook his head.
"I seem to go over better in person," he replied. Then he shrugged. "Hard to tell what you're doing wrong the first time around, though, I can already see a number of things I should have done differently--"
"It was good," Michael surprised him by saying. "I liked it." He flipped a palm upward and gestured vaguely away. "Even so," he went on."A small outfit, no promotion... Do you have any idea how many songs are recorded each year?"
"Yes, I do. It's--"
"... And you know something about statistics, even with a liberal arts background. It's practically a lottery situation."
"It's rough," Dan acknowledged.
The hand turned over and struck the tabletop.
"It's damn near impossible to make it, that's what it is."
A sound of breaking crockery emerged from the kitchen. Dan sighed.
"I suppose you're right, but I'm not ready to give it up yet."
The elder Chain called for an after di
"Still seeing that Lewis girl?"
"Yes."
"She strikes me as kind of cheap."
"We've had some good times together."
Michael shrugged.
"It's your life."
Dan finished his coffee. When he looked up, Michael was staring at him, smiling.
"It is," the older man said. He reached out and touched Dan's hand. "I'm glad your mind's your own. I know I sometimes push hard. But listen. Even without the degree, there'll always be a place for you in the firm. If you should ever change your mind, you can learn what you need on the job--pick up some night courses... No sales pitch. I'm just telling you. There'll still be a place."
"Thanks, Dad."
Michael finished his drink and looked about.
"Waiter!" he called. "The check!"
The chandelier began to quiver, but Dan recognized the feeling and quelled it in time.
Mor stood, leaning against the bedpost for support. He inserted a knuckle into an eye-socket and nibbed vigorously. It seemed that all he did these days was sleep. And his ankles, swollen again...
He raised the water bottle from the bedside table and took a long drink. He coughed, then swallowed a potion he had left ready, washing it down with another gulp of water.
Crossing the chamber, he drew back the long, dark drape and opened a shutter. Stars sparkled in a pale sky. Was it morning or evening? He was not certain.
Stroking his white beard, he stared out across the hushed land, realizing that something other than physiology had troubled his slumber. He waited for the dream, the message, the feeling to recur, but it did not.
After a long while, he let the drape fall, not bothering to close the shutter. Perhaps if he returned to bed, it might come back to him... Yes, that seemed a good idea.
Shaking his head slowly, he retraced his steps across the room. Human bodies are so much trouble, he reflected.
An owl hooted several times. The mice scurried within the walls.
Deep beneath the ruin of Castle Rondoval, weighted by the heavy spell of sleep that filled the cavern, Moonbird, mightiest of the dragons, assumed a stiff, heraldic pose upon the floor and relaxed it with equal sudde
Raging in his impotence, Moonbird retreated to the dark places of sleep, narrowly missing a smaller form nearby as he tossed, his claws raking furrows along a stony ledge.