He glanced back at the sleeping creature as he realized that he would have to stop playing in order to unwind the spells.

He reduced the tempo and strummed more softly.... Sleep, sleep, sleep...

He stopped and lowered the instrument. His left hand twisted forward. When the first spell was undone, he glanced back and saw that the beast still slumbered.

As he worked on the second one, he heard a noise behind him, but at that moment he could not look away. Finally, it fell apart beneath his hands and he turned quickly, strands dispersing all about him.

The minotaur had only turned in its sleep.

He returned to the consideration of the final spell. It was no more difficult than the others. But he could not rush its untwining for the proper pace was as much a matter of necessity as the appropriate movements. His left hand darted, hooked and twisted. These last strands were colder than the others and, correspondingly, released a greater feeling of heat when they were at last undone.

Again, Pol looked back.

The minotaur's eyes were open and staring at him.

Who are you?

A singer.

What do you want here?

A mere bauble.

The thing in the niche? It bites. Take care.

I shall. You do not mind that I take it?

Why should I? It is nothing to me. Where have I been?

Dreaming.

I had never been there before. There were bright things I'd never seen....

Colors?

Perhaps. Everything was good. Like never before. I want to go there again.

That can be arranged.

I want to dwell there forever.

Close your eyes then, and listen to the music.

The minotaur closed his eyes.

Bring this music and send me away....

Pol began to play, recovering all the visions which had come to him earlier. As he did, his eyes passed over the second section of the rod in its niche--longer, narrower than the first segment, bearing a scene of animals and men and woodland spirits, free of strife, dancing, eating, loving...

He struck the strings, reached out, seized the rod-section and fitted it into the first at his belt. Then he resumed playing as the minotaur still drowsed. He felt the increased warmth, the mightily enhanced sense of power that now twisted about the rod. As he played, he called upon it for a new usage and he felt that power move warmly through his abdomen, down his arm, into the guitar, to be joined with the music itself.

...Across the fields, where there is no strife, no hunger, no pain, where no one is a monster, where the light is soft, where the birds call and the brooks burble, where twilight comes on bringing stars like swarms of fireflies--to dwell there forever, never to awaken, never to depart--sleep, bull-man, in the peace you have never known--always, ever...

Pol turned away from the sleeper. He touched his wrist to the new section of the rod. Somewhere, buried in his unconscious, it seemed that there should be a record of every step, every turning he had taken on the way in. Therefore--

The dragon-image rose like a phoenix glowing above his wrist. Surely, it should be able to reach those buried memories.

Go! he commanded. I follow!

It darted away from him, to depart the hall from the doorway nearest the niche, rather than the one through which he had entered.

He hesitated only a moment, then followed, smiling. So much for theory. He took it as a message that the forces his special sense reached and manipulated were not to be categorized in so facile a manner.

As he took his first turn beyond the doorway, he had his final glimpse of the sleeping minotaur, over his right shoulder. He saw the knot of his own spell drifting above the prostrate form, like a giant, yellow butterfly.

Mouseglove's relief was immense as the ship cleared the highest tower and soared out, away from Anvil Mountain. Already, the lights of its city were small beneath him, and he was surprised to be taken by a sensation of beauty viewed as he looked upon it. Turning away, he continued to direct the vessel up past the regions where the dark bird-things wove their interminable patterns. So far, there was no indication of pursuit. He pushed the ship to its ultimate speed and held it there until the mountain was only a dim outline behind him. At last, this, too, faded and only the stars gave him light.

Then he relaxed, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall over the back of his seat. He sighed and rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. A great tension began draining away, and the beginnings of delight in the act of flying under his own control came over him.

Soon ... At this speed, he would be in Dibna before morning. That would provide ample time for hiding the vessel and walking into town. In a day's time, he should be able to locate a buyer or a middle-man for the disposition of the figurines. Unless, of course, the men who had commissioned their theft were still alive, still wanted them. Either way ... A few days more, possibly, to tie up the deal. Then, his purse full of coins, he would treat himself to a bit of revelry. After that, use the flying machine to travel to another town where no one would know of the transaction. In fact, it might be best to do that before celebrating. Then find a place to settle down. A villa on a hillside, with a view of the sea. A cook, a manservant, a gardener--it would be pleasant to have a garden--and a few assorted slave girls....

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.