Changeling (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny Page A

my back and let us fly!
    Where?
    Out the old tunnel, to view the world.
    Pol hesitated, his courage ebbing.
     . . . But if I don’t do it now, I never will, he decided. I know that. Whereas if I do, I may be able to do it again one day. And I may need to . . . 
    A moment, he communicated, looking for the easiest way up.
    Moonbird lowered his head fully and extended his neck.
    Come.
    Pol mounted, located what he hoped was a traditional dragon rider’s position, above the shoulders, at the widening base of the neck. He clung with his legs and his arms. Behind him, he heard the vanes stir.
    I sense that you play a musical instrument, Moonbird began, as they moved forward (To distract him? No—too sophisticated a concept). You must bring it next time and play to me as we fly, for I love music.
    That might be novel.
    They sprang from the ground and Moonbird immediately located a draft of air which they followed into a broader, higher part of the cavern. The light from the lantern Pol had left on the ground dwindled quickly, and they flew through an absolute darkness for what seemed a long while.
    Suddenly, with a rush of cool air, there were stars all about them. A moment later, surprising himself, Pol began to sing.
     

 
     
XIII .
     
    Mark rolled out of his bed, drew the purple dressing gown about his shoulders and sat clutching his head, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
    How long had it been — four, five, six days? — since the robo-surgeon had worked him over?
    He raised his head. The room was dark. The thing which protruded from his left eye socket hummed. Finally, it grew silent and he had vision on that side.
    He rose and crossed the meticulously well-kept chamber—all metal and plastic and glass—and regarded himself in the mirror above the washstand. He tapped lightly with his fingertips about the perimeter of the lens case, where it joined his brow and cheekbone.
     . . . Still too tender. Impair efficiency to take too many drugs, but I’ll need some more to be able to think at all . . . 
    He withdrew a container of tablets from a drawer in the stand, gulped two and proceeded to wash and shave without turning on a light.
     . . . It does have some advantages, though, especially if you get turned around this way. Must be the middle of the night . . . 
    He drew on a pair of brown trousers with many pockets, a green sweater, a pair of boots. He opened the rear door of his apartment and stepped out onto the terrace. His personal flier stood on the pad—delta-winged, compact, glassy and light. Mechanical things rose and fell in the distance, some only visible in his left field of vision. He inhaled the fragrance of imported plants, turned, crossed to an elevator hatch, dropped three levels to a footbridge leading across the road. He crossed there, heading for the surveillance center in the lower, adjacent building.
    One of the small, gnarled men, clad in a brown and black uniform, sat before a bank of glowing screens. Whether he actually watched any of them was something Mark could not tell from the rear—one of the reasons he disliked using people except in situations such as this where he had no choice.
    As he approached, his optic prosthesis hummed, its lens becoming a greenish color as it adjusted to the lighting. The man straightened in his chair.
    “Good evening sir,” he said, not turning away from the screens.
     . . . Damned sharp senses these fellows have.
    “Anything to report?”
    “Yes, sir. Two surveillance birds are missing.”
    “Missing? Where?”

     
    “The village, your own—”
    “What happened to them?”
    “Don’t know, sir. They just suddenly weren’t there anymore.”
    “How long ago was this?”
    “A little over three hours ago, sir.”
    “Didn’t you try to maneuver any of the others to get a look at what was happening?”
    “It was too sudden, sir.”
    “In other words, nothing was done. Why wasn’t I notified immediately?”
    “You