He felt free--free to comply. He did not.
But--
He was seized once again. He felt himself begin to rise, springing the hatch, taking the blade into his hand. There were no replies to his next inquiries.
The great-leaved plants were easy to cut. It did not take him long to cover the small ship. Then he opened a compartment toward the vessel's rear, to strip it, clean it and snap auxiliary fuel cubes into its chambers. The thought of this situation had troubled him during a more alert moment. There was no way the sunlight converters could do the entire job required for the return trip, even if his unwilling hands had not covered over their panels with leaves.
When he had finished the work he stood still for a moment, breathing the warm moist air, listening to the morning calls of the bright parrots, wondering whether he would now be permitted a brief rest. Almost as he thought it, however, his feet began to move, bearing him in what he believed to be the direction of the stone structure with the grotesque carvings. He swung the blade as he went, widening the trail. After only a few paces, he was drenched with perspiration. Insects buzzed about him, and the most maddening part of the entire experience was his inability to brush them away.
At last, he staggered into the cleared area where the stepped structure stood, stylized stone beasts projecting from its vine-covered walls, grinning past him.
I must rest, he tried. In the shade. Please!
There is absolutely no time, came the reply, with another flickering image. You must go around to the other side of the building and enter there.
He felt himself beginning to move again. He wanted to cry out, but this was still denied him. He moved faster and faster, barely aware of where he stepped, yet somehow he did not stumble.
He was halted again, before the weed-clogged, vine-hung doorway. Then the blade flashed forward and he began clearing it.
Soon he was through the opening and rushing along a corridor. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the gloom, but whatever was in charge of him seemed to know where he was going.
It was only when he neared the head of a wide flight of stairs that he began to slow, finally coming to a halt to regard the scene that lay below and before him, partly illuminated through an irregular gap in the roof where several stone blocks had fallen--the result of an earthquake perhaps...
At the far side of the chamber below was a low stone wall. Beyond it was the blackness of a hole. Before it was a diminutive version of the entire stepped building itself, complete with tiny statues and carvings. Atop this, in a crumbling orange basket, lay a narrow cylinder half the length of a man's forearm. It appeared to be glowing with a faint, greenish light. Mouseglove took advantage of the respite to breathe deeply of the moist air, to enjoy the coolness...
That, thief is the object you must steal.
Again, the candle; again, the imperative.
The cylinder?
Yes.
Why bother to tell me? You're pulling all the strings.
Not any longer. We are about to release you. Your native wit and reflexes are superior to anything we might compel you to in such matters.
Suddenly, he was free. He mopped his brow, dusted his garments and fell to his knees, breathing heavily. One of his reflexes kept him silent, if this were indeed to be a piece of work. Mentally, he framed his most immediate question:
What is so difficult about descending these stairs, crossing the room and picking that thing up?
The dweller in the well.
What is it? What can it do?
If it detects your presence it will rise up and attempt to prevent the theft. It is a great feathered serpent.
Mouseglove began to shake. With his cloak, he muffled the lowering of the blade to the stone floor. He covered his face with his hands and rubbed his eyes, massaged his forehead.
This is so unfair! I only work in prime form, not when I'm half-dead with fatigue!
This time, there is no other way.
Damn you!
We are wasting time. Will you do it?
Have I any real choice? If there is any justice--
Then be about it!
Mouseglove dropped his hands and straightened. He swung into a seated position upon the top step and adjusted his boots. He ran his fingers through his hair, wiped his palms on his trousers and took up the blade. He stood.
With a silent, sweeping movement, he took himself to the left hand side of the stair. Turning sideways then, he began to descend a step at a time, slowly and soundlessly.
When he reached the bottom, he stood perfectly still, listening. Was that the slightest of rustling noises from the well? Yes. It came again, then ceased. Would it be better to dash forward, seize the cylinder and run for it now? Or should he continue to rely on stealth? How big was the creature, and how fast could it move?
As no answers were forthcoming, he took it that his guesses were as good as his tormentors'. He took a single step forward and paused again. Silence. He took another. Yes, the thing was definitely glowing. It was what Pol would be after and apparently would not have time to reach. Why not? Those approaching ships of Mark's... ? Probably. So where would that leave him, Mouseglove, even if he succeeded in making off with the bauble? Had the Seven something more in mind for him? Or would he finally be totally free, to go his own way?
Another step... Nothing. Two more quick ones...
A rustling, as of scales against stone...
He controlled a shudder and stepped again, over a small heap of rubble. The rustling continued, as if something large and coiled were unwinding itself.
The grenade! Heave one down the well! Fall flat! Cover your head!
He did as he was told. The grenade was in his hand, then in the air. As he threw himself forward behind the pedestal, he caught a glimpse of an enormous, bright, feather-crowned head rising above the low wall, of huge unblinking eyes, dark as pits, turned in his direction, a green excrescence, like a blazing emerald, set in the brow above them. Then an explosion shook the building.
A large block fell from the ceiling at the corner to the left of the stair, followed by a fall of gravel and dirt, dust particles dancing in the light rays. The orange basket tumbled from its rest, the rod rolling from it. It struck the lower step of the small pyramid, bounced and came to rest beside Mouseglove's elbow.
You've got it! Take it and run!
He looked about, discovered it, seized it, scrambled to his feet.
Too late! he replied, the rod in his left hand, the blade in his right. It's not dead!
An explosive hissing drowned the final rattlings of the stonefall. The orange, red and pink-bonnetted head was swaying as if disoriented, but moving steadily in his direction, too rapidly for him to escape it.
Strike at the jewel between the eyes!
He darted backward, raising the blade, knowing he would have but one chance.
As the serpent struck, so did he.
They burst into the dawn, retching and gasping, ears ringing, pulses pounding. Pol leaned forward and looked down at beaches running back to a line of lush tropical growth.
Down, Moonbird! We can barely hang on!
Moonbird dropped lower, slowing.
On the beach?
Yes. I want to bathe, to eat, to walk.
"Pol, I can't--"
"I know. Neither can I. Just another minute."
Moonbird settled gently. They slid off and lay unmoving on the sand. After a time, Pol reached out and touched Nora's hair.
"You did well," he said.
"You hung right in there, too." She patted Moonbird. "Good show." Then, "Where are we?" she asked.