“Oh, I don’t know. Snivelers are common, but so are dragons. Size is not as important for the fossil record as quality and completeness.”
“Well, do you have a water dragon in your record yet?”
“No, most of them fall to my cousin the deepsea muck, just as most birds are harvested by my other cousin, the tarpit. I would dearly like to have a specimen like that.”
“We offer you that water dragon there,” Dor said. “All you need to do is make a channel deep enough for the dragon to pass. Then we’ll lure it in-and then you can close the channel and secure your specimen for fossilization.”
“Say, that would work!” the dune agreed. “It’s a deal.”
“Start your channel, then. We’ll sail down it first, leading the dragon. Make sure you let us go, though.”
“Sure. You go, the dragon stays.”
“I don’t trust this,” Irene muttered.
“Neither do I,” Dor agreed. “But we’re in a bind. Chet, can you apply your calculus?”
“The smallest of stones can be considered calculi,” Chet said. “That is to say, sarid. Now sand has certain properties . . .” He trailed off, then brightened. “You have seagrass seed?” he asked Irene.
“Lots of it. But I don’t see how-“ Then her eyes glowed. “Oh, I do see! Yes, I’ll be ready, Chet!”
The sand began to hump itself into twin mounds, opening a narrow channel of water between them. Chet guided the boat directly down that channel. The dragon, perceiving their seeming escape, honked wrathfully and gnashed its teeth.
“Express hope the dragon doesn’t realize how deep this channel is,” Dor told Grundy. “In dragon talk.”
Grundy smiled grimly. “I know my business!” He emitted dragon noises.
Immediately the dragon explored the end of the channel, plunging its head into it. With a glad honk it writhed on into the inviting passage.
Soon the dragon was close on their wake. Its entire body was now within the separation in the dune. “Now-close it up!” Dor cried to the dune.
The dune did so. Suddenly the channel was narrowing and disappearing as sand heaped into it. Too late the dragon realized its peril; it tried to turn, to retreat, but the way out was blocked. It honked and thrashed, but was in deep trouble in shallow water.
However, the channel ahead of the boat was also filling in. “Hey, let us out!” Dor cried.
“Why should I let perfectly good fossil material go?” the dune asked reasonably. “This way I’ve got both you and the dragon. It’s the haul of the century!”
“But you promised!” Dor said plaintively. “We made a deal!”
“Promises and deals aren’t worth the breath it takes to utter them -and I don’t even breathe.”
“I knew it,” Chet said. “Betrayal.”
“Do your stuff, Irene,” Dor said.
Irene brought out two handfuls of seeds. “Grow!” she yelled, scattering them widely. On either side the grass sprouted rapidly, sending its deep roots into the sand, grabbing, holding.
“Hey!” the dune yelled, much as Dor had, as it tripped over itself where the grass anchored it.
“You reneged on our agreement,” Dor called back. “Now you pay the penalty.” For the sand in this region was no longer able to move; the grass had converted it to ordinary ground.
Enraged, the dune made one final effort. It humped up horrendously in the region beyond the growing grass, then rolled forward with such impetus that it spilled into the channel, filling it.
“It’s swamping the boat!” Dor cried. “Abandon ship!”
“Some gratitude!” the boat complained. “I carry you loyally all over Xanth, risking my keel, and the moment things get rough, you abandon me!”
The boat had a case, but they couldn’t afford to argue it. Heedless of its objection, they all piled out as the sand piled in. They ran across the remaining section of grass-anchorage while the boat disappeared into the dune. The sand was unable to follow them here; its limit had been reached, and already the blades of grass were creeping up through the new mound, nailing it down. The main body of the dune had to retreat and concentrate on the thrashing dragon that bid fair to escape by coiling out of the vanished channel and writhing back toward the sea.
The party stood at the edge of the bay. “We lost our boat,” Irene said.
“And the flying carpet, and escape hoop, and food.”
“And my bow and arrows,” Chet said mournfully. “All I salvaged was the gourd. We played it too close; those monsters are stronger and smarter than we thought. We learn from experience.”
Dor was silent. He was the nominal leader of this party; the responsibility was his. If he could not manage a single trip south without disaster, how could he hope to handle the situation when he got to Centaur Isle? How could he handle the job of being King, if it came to that?
But they couldn’t remain here long, whether in thought or in despair.
Already the natives of the region were becoming aware of them. Carnivorous grass picked up where the freshly planted sea grass left off, and the former was sending its hungry shoots toward them. Vines trembled, bright droplets of sap-saliva oozing from their surfaces. There was a buzzing of wings; something airborne would soon show up.
But now at last the sunfish dimmed out, and night returned; the day creatures retreated in confusion, and the night creatures stirred.
“If there’s one thing worse than day in the wilderness,” Irene said, shivering, “it’s night. What do we do now?”
Dor wished he had an answer.
“Your plants have saved us once,” Chet told her. “Do you have another plant that could protect us or transport us?”
“Let me see.” In the dark she put her hand in her bag of seeds and felt around. “Mostly food plants, and special effects . . . a beerbarrel tree-how did that get in here? . . . water locust . . . bulrush-“
“Bulrushes!” Chet said. “Aren’t those the kinds that are always in a hurry?”
“They rush everywhere,” she agreed.
“Suppose we wove them into a boat or raft-could we control its motion?”
“Yes, I suppose, if you put a ring in the craft’s nose. But-“
“Let’s do it,” the centaur said. “Anything will be better than waiting here for whatever is creeping up on us.”
“I’ll start the bulrushes growing,” she agreed. “We can weave them before they’re mature. But you’ll have to find a ring before we can finish.”
“Dor and Grundy-please question your contacts and see if you can locate a ring,” the centaur said.
They started in, Dor questioning the nonliving, Grundy the living. Neither could find a ring in the vicinity. The weaving of the growing bulrushes proceeded apace; it seemed Chet and Irene were familiar with the technique and worked well together. But already the rushes were thrashing about, trying to free themselves to travel. The mass of the mat-raft was burgeoning; soon it would be too strong to restrain.
“Bring ring,” Smash said.
“We’re trying to!” Dor snapped, clinging to a corner of the struggling mat. The thing was hideously strong.
“Germ worm,” the ogre said insistently. His huge hairy paw pushed something at Dor. The object seemed to be a loop of fur.
A loop? “A ring!” Dor exclaimed. “Where did you get it?”
“Me grow on toe,” Smash explained. “Which itch.”
“You grew the ring on your toe-and it itched?” Dor was having trouble assimilating this.
“Let me check,” Grundy said. He made a funny sizzle, talking with something, then laughed. “You know what that is? A ring worm!”