“Listen,” said Grizquetr, breaking in. “This island is the wuru!”
“What do you mean?” said Green.
“While I was clinging to the edge of the island I thought I’d hang down over it and see if there was any place there to hide. There wasn’t, because the underside of the island is one smooth sheet. I know, because I could see in the moonlight clear to the other side. It was smooth, smooth, like a slab of iron.
“And that’s not all! You know how the grass on the plains hereabouts has been tall, uncut? Well, the grass just ahead of the edge was uncut. But the grass underneath the island was being cut off. Rather, it was vanishing! The top of the grass was just disappearing into air! Only a lawn of grass about an inch high was left!”
“Then this island is one big lawnmower,” said Green. “More than just interesting. But we’ll have to investigate that later. Right now…”
And he walked toward the little hut by the cave mouth. As he approached it several large house cats streaked out of the doorway. A moment later Green came out. He grinned broadly.
“The priestess has passed out. The place smells like a brewery. The cats are in their cups, too. All drinking from bowls set on the ground for them, staggering around, yowling, fighting. If they don’t wake her up, nothing can.”
“I have heard that these old priestesses are often drunkards,” said Amra. “They lead a lonely life because they’re taboo, and nobody even goes near them except during certain religious customs. They have only their bottle and their cats to keep them company.”
“Ah,” said Miran, “you are thinking of the Tale of Samdroo, the Tailor Who Turned Sailor. Yes, that is supposed to be a story to entertain children, but I’m beginning to think there is a great deal to it. Remember, the story describes just such a hill and just such a cave. It is said that every roaming island has just such a place. And…”
“You talk too much,” broke in Aga harshly. “Let’s get on into the cave.”
Green could appreciate what Aga’s comment meant. Miran had lost face because he’d allowed his vessel to be wrecked and his Clansmen murdered en masse. To Aga and the other women he was no longer Captain Miran, the rich patriarch. He was Miran, the shipwrecked sailor. A fat old sailor. Just that. Nothing more.
He could have redeemed himself if he had committed suicide. But his eagerness to live had resulted in his placing himself on an even lower level in their estimation.
Miran must have realized this, for he did not reply. Instead he stood to one side.
Green walked thirty paces into the cave, then looked back over his shoulder. The entrance was still visible, an arch outlined in the bright moonshine.
Someone coughed. Green was about to caution them to keep quiet, when he felt his nostrils tickling and had to fight to down a loud sneeze himself.
“Dust.”
“Good,” said Green. “Maybe they never come down here.”
Suddenly the tunnel turned at right angles, to the left. The little light that penetrated from the entrance disappeared in total blackness. The party halted.
“What if there are traps set for intruders?” wailed Inzax.
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Green growled. “We’ll go in the dark until we come to another turn. Then we’ll light up a torch or two. The natives won’t be able to see the glow.”
He walked ahead feeling the wall with his left hand. Suddenly he stopped. Amra humped into him.
“What is it?” she asked anxiously.
“The rock wall has now become metal. Feel here.”
He guided her hand.
“You’re right,” she whispered. “There’s a definite seam, and I can tell the difference between the two!”
“The floor’s metal, too,” added Soon. “My feet are bare, and I can feel it. What’s more, the dust is all gone.”
Green went ahead, and after thirty more paces he came to another ninety-degree turn, to the right. The walls and floor were composed of the smooth, cool metal. After making sure that the entire party was around the corner, he told a woman carrying some torches taken from a long house to light one. Its bright flare showed the group staring round-eyed at the large chamber in which they stood.