Changeling (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny Page B

had left orders not to be disturbed, sir.”
    “Yes . . . I know. What do you make of it?”
    “No idea, sir.”
    “It has to be a malfunction of some sort. Pull back the others in that area for complete inspections. Send out fresh ones. Wait!”
    He moved nearer and studied the appropriate screens.
    “Any activity in the village?”
    “None, sir.”
    “The girl has not been out of her house?”
    “No, sir. It has been dark for hours.”
    “I think I may pick her up tomorrow. It depends on how I feel. Plan B, three birds—two for safety escort. See that they’re standing ready.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The small man stole a glance at him.
    “I must say, sir. The new eye-thing is most attractive.”
    “Oh? Really? Thank you,” he mumbled, then turned and left.
    What had he been thinking? The pills must be starting to work . . . . He wouldn’t be in shape by tomorrow. Wait another day. Should he go back and countermand that last order? No. Let it stand. Let it stand . . . .
    He wandered down to spot-check a factory, his eye humming its way to yellow.
    *  *  *
    Lantern-swinging shadows bouncing from his rapid step, the small man passed along the maze of tunnels, occasionally pausing to listen and to peer about abrupt corners. Usually, when he halted, he also shuddered.
    It might almost have been easier without the lantern, he thought, back there. And that slab . . . He did not remember that broken slab at the cave mouth.
    He thought back upon the scene he had witnessed immediately after awakening. The man acting almost as if he were talking with that monster, then mounting it and flying off, fortunately leaving his lantern behind. Who could it have been, and what the circumstances?
    He turned right at the next branching, remembering his way. There seemed to be no sounds, other than those of his own making. Rather peculiar, in the aftermath of such a battle . . . 
    When he finally reached the foot of the huge stair, he left the lantern. He moved soundlessly through the darkness, toward some small illumination above. When his eyes just cleared the top step, he halted and surveyed the hall.
    “How long have I slept?” he asked of, perhaps, the tattered tapestry.
    But he did not wait for a reply.
    *  *  *
    As the sun pinked the eastern corner of the sky, Moonbird descended slowly to land upon the last steady tower of Rondoval. Pol dismounted and slapped him upon the shoulder.
    Good morrow, my friend. I will call you again soon.
    I will hear. I will come.
    The great dark form leapt from the tower and drifted across the sky, heading for one of the hidden entrances to the caverns. A green strand seemed to connect its shoulder to Pol’s still upraised hand. It faded soon to join the other strands of the world, drifting everywhere.
    For several moments, he watched the stars fading in the west, wondering at the strange flying things Moonbird had destroyed earlier, wondering even more at the beast’s comment, They had troubled my dreams.
    Turning, with a glance to the sunrise, he entered the tower, to make his way down and around within it, returning to the library which had come more and more to feel like home. He hummed as he walked, occasionally snapping his fingers. He finally felt that he belonged—a member of the magic-working, dragon-riding family which had lived here. He wanted to take his guitar into his hands and sing about it, watching the dust depart the surfaces in each chamber through which he strolled, the furniture move itself about, the debris roll into heaps in corners, the strands of power which controlled these operations attaching themselves to, resonating with, his instrument. Rondoval did actually feel more his at this moment than it had at any time before.
    When he reached the library, he moved to pour himself a drink, to celebrate. He was surprised to find the bottle empty. He had thought that several inches still remained within it. For that matter, he had thought that some