Later, Nora seemed to stroll back into the room, taking the hand of Pol, who still stood beside the door. They crossed slowly to a pair of chairs and sat facing one another.

"Lovely weather."

"Yes."

Periodically, one of them would rise and walk about the room. There were a number of things they would do, together and apart, taking perhaps an hour before the sequence began again.

The prototype blue-bellied, gray-backed tracer-bird followed their every step, hung upon their words. It did not turn away at the noises below, or as Moonbird rose above the flagstones, drifted over the far wall, pivoted on the point of a breeze, bore east and vanished.

As the night progressed, Mouseglove had slowly come to feel as if he were a prisoner. Despite several near-disasters, he had remained undetected, gradually enlarging his mental map of the area and developing an awareness of the city's peculiar defenses. But he could find no way off of Anvil Mountain. The perimeters of the plateau were extremely well-patrolled, both by the small men and the half-mechanical caterpillars, as well as being subject to the scrutiny of fixed mechanical eyes and those of the circling birds. It seemed that not even an insect could pass undetected.

Picking lock after lock, he had finally located stores of foodstuffs and transferred what he judged a sufficient quantity to his hiding place. He memorized every niche, every unfrequented passage he came upon. With a thief s eye, he studied the various fixed detection devices from a distance and finally close up, coming to appreciate their functions and some of their weaknesses.

It was only by chance--chance, and Mark's immediate decision to bolster his combat forces above the level he had formerly felt adequate--that Mouseglove happened upon a newly formed ground school for the preliminary training of pilots for a series of manned fliers on which production had been stepped up.

Lying flat on the roof, blocked from overhead detection by an angled air duct, he could hear the words and view the training machine through a grating he had exposed by removing a small panel.

He listened to the entire lecture. When it was over, he had convinced himself. If he could audit just a few more sessions, he would be willing to steal a flier by night and take his chances in the air. Short of finding a hidden tunnel through the rock itself, it seemed the only way to manage an escape.

Feeling a grudging respect for the red-haired man who had brought this city back to life, he returned to his quarters to rest until evening when he intended spying upon the surveillance center once again and later breaking into the classroom to study the trainer's controls at closer range.

Following a full meal, he slept deeply; one hand upon his dagger, a stolen grenade he knew was some sort of weapon beneath the other.

Statue-like, an old female and two young stallions stood on a crag in the midst of a stand of dwarf pines, regarding Castle Rondoval.

"There is nothing out of the ordinary," she said.

"I saw lights last night, Stel, and I heard noises. Bitalph, in the south, did report a dragon."

"The place is probably haunted," she said. "Enough has gone on there."

"And what of the dragon?" asked the younger stallion.

"If one has come awake, it will be dealt with---eventually--by those it most oppresses. It could also be a foreign beast."

"Then we should do nothing?"

"Let us watch here, a day and a night. We can take turns. I've no desire to enter the place."

"Nor I."

It was much later in the day that they saw the dragon rise and drift eastward.

"There!"

"Yes."

"What do we do now?"

"Alert the others. It may never return. But then, again, it may."

"It appeared that there were two riders."

"I know."

"You were there on the day of the battle, Stel. Was that one of the old dragons of Kondoval?"

"All dragons look alike to me. But the riders... One of them looked like Devil Det himself, younger and stronger than I ever saw him."

"Woe!"

"Alas!"

"Go and spread the word among the folk. And we had best talk with the men of the villages, and with old Mor."

"Mor is gone, A Wise One--Grane--said that he walked the golden road and will not return."

"Then things are becoming difficult. Go! I will investigate farther."

"You would enter the castle yourself?"

"Go! Do as I say! Now!"

The youths obeyed her. They knew the look in her eye, and they still feared her hoofs.

During his evening explorations, Mouseglove was attracted by a series of screams emerging from a small, barred window. Approaching, he ventured one quick glance through the opening, then ducked into a pool of shadow to digest what he had seen and, if possible, to eavesdrop.

The first impression had shaken him. But upon reflection, he wondered whether the small man in the reclining chair had indeed been covered with snakes. The black things did seem overlong to qualify for serpenthood, and their farther ends did all appear to be attached to the large metal box nearby. Also, their movements could have been a result of the man's own thrashings. Mark had stood nearby with a small metal case in his hand, turning something on the face of the unit.

He listened to the shrieks a little longer, wondering for what offense the man might be undergoing discipline. Wondering, too, whether anything was to be gained by remaining, or by venturing another look.

There was silence. He waited, but the cries did not resume. He decided to remain. There came faint sounds of movement from within.

Finally, he could bear it no longer. He rose for another glimpse.

Mark, facing away from the window, was detaching what now appeared to be a series of shiny black ropes from the suppine form, coiling them and placing them in compartments within the large box. The smaller man's eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. When the last of the leads were removed, he stirred weakly. Mark passed him a glass of something pink and he drank from it.

"How do you feel?" the large man asked.

"Shaky," the other replied, flexing his arms, his legs. "But everything's all right again."

"Did it hurt?"

"No. Not really."

"You screamed a lot."

"I know. Some were blue, but most were red."

"The screams?"

"Yes. And I could smell them."

"Excellent. You were a brave man to volunteer for this, and I want to thank you."

"I was happy to serve."

"Tell me more about it."

"I tasted the colors, too--and the sounds."

"It was a fine mix, then. Pity it only has such a short range. There are all sorts of problems in scaling it up, too ... I wish I had more time."

"What do you call the--thing that did it?"

Mark hefted the small unit.

"For want of a better name, I call it a jumble box. It smears your sensory inputs, mixes them. Instant synesthesia."

The man gestured toward the huge unit to his right.

"That didn't do it? Just the little one you're holding?"

"That's right. The other just recorded what was happening. If you didn't hurt, tell me why you cried out so much?"

"I--I couldn't understand what was happening. Everything was still there, but it was changed ... It scared me."

"No pain?"

"No one place that hurt. Just a--feeling that disaster was coming. Most of the time, it kept getting worse. Sometimes, though--"

"What?"

"There were moments of great pleasure."

"You were able to count all right."

"Yes... Most of the numbers were yellow. Some tasted sour."

"Did you feel you could have gotten up, walked about?"

"Maybe. If I'd have thought of it. It was hard to think. Too much was wrong."

"You are a brave man, and I thank you again. I will not forget this service. Now, let's test your reflexes."