The Neverending Story by Michael Ende

forecasting it was no use at all. Since then I’ve come to the conclusion that the sphinxes’ decision is based on pure chance and that no principle whatever is involved.
    But my wife calls my conclusion scandalous, un-Fantastican, and absolutely unscientific.”
    “Are you starting your old nonsense again?” came Urgl’s angry voice from the cave. “Shame on you! Such skepticism only shows that the bit of brain you once had has dried up on you.”
    “Hear that?” said Engywook with a sigh. “And the worst of it is that she’s right.”
    “What about the Childlike Empress’s amulet?” Atreyu asked. “Do you think they’ll respect it? They too are natives of Fantastica, after all.”
    “Yes, I suppose they are,” said Engywook, shaking his apple-sized head. “But to respect it they’d have to see it. And they don’t see anything. But their gaze would strike you. And I’m not so sure the sphinxes would obey the Childlike Empress. Maybe they are greater than she is. I don’t know, I don’t know. Anyway, it’s most worrisome.”
    “Then what do you advise?” Atreyu asked.
    “You will have to do what all the others have done. Wait and see what the sphinxes decide—without hoping to know why.”
    Atreyu nodded thoughtfully.
    Urgl came out of the cave. In one hand she held a bucket with some steaming liquid in it, and under her other arm she was carrying a bundle of dried plants. Muttering to herself, she went to the luckdragon, who was still lying motionless, fast asleep. She started climbing around on him and changing the dressings on his wounds. Her enormous patient heaved one contented sigh and stretched; otherwise he seemed unaware of her ministrations.
    “Couldn’t you make yourself a little useful?” she said to Engywook as she was hurrying back to the kitchen, “instead of sitting around like this, talking rubbish?”
    “I am making myself extremely useful,” her husband called after her. “Possibly more useful than you, but that’s more than a simple-minded woman like you will ever understand!”
    Turning to Atreyu, he went on: “She can only think of practical matters. She has no feeling for the great overarching ideas.”
    The clock in the belfry struck three.
    By now Bastian’s father must have noticed—if he was ever going to—that Bastian hadn’t come home. Would he worry? Maybe he’d go looking for him. Maybe he had already notified the police. Maybe calls had gone out over the radio. Bastian felt a sick pain in the pit of his stomach.
    But if the police had been notified, where would they look for him? Could they possibly come to this attic?
    Had he locked the door when he came back from the toilet? He couldn’t remember. He got up and checked. Yes, the door was locked and bolted.
    Outside, the November afternoon was drawing to a close. Ever so slowly the light was failing.
    To steady his nerves, Bastian paced the floor for a while. Looking about him, he discovered quite a few things one wouldn’t have expected to find in a school. For instance, a battered old Victrola with a big horn attached—God only knew when and by whom it had been brought here. In one corner there were some paintings in ornate gilt frames. They were so faded that hardly anything could be made out—only here and there a pale, solemn-looking face that shimmered against a dark background. And then there was a rusty, seven-armed candelabrum, still holding the stumps of thick wax candles, bearded with drippings.
    Bastian gave a sudden start, for looking into a dark corner he saw someone moving. But when he looked again, it dawned on him that he had only seen himself, reflected in a large mirror that had lost half its silvering. He went closer and looked at himself for a while. He was really nothing much to look at, with his pudgy build and his bowlegs and pasty face. He shook his head and said aloud: “No!”
    Then he went back to his mats. By then it was so dark that he had to hold the book up to his