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inted to the many white patches on the map east of the river Indus. They were like gaping holes in the landscape.
“This is a nice prospect!” groaned Sorrel. “What will the professor think when we don’t show up at the monastery on time?”
“It’s all my fault,” murmured Ben, folding up the map. “If you hadn’t gone looking for me, you might have reached it by now.”
“Yes, and you’d be bird food, remember,” Sorrel pointed out.
“Lie down and get some sleep,” said Firedrake from the darkest corner of the cave. He had curled up in a ball, muzzle on the tip of his tail, eyes tightly closed. Flying in the sunlight was more exhausting than three nights of flight in a row. Even his anxiety about their route couldn’t keep his eyelids open.
“Yes, good idea,” murmured Ben, stretching out on the cool floor of the cave with his head on his backpack. Twigleg lay down beside him, using the boy’s hand as a pillow.
Only Sorrel remained on her paws, undecided and snuffling. “Can’t you smell that?” she asked.
“Smell what?” muttered Firedrake drowsily. “Mushrooms?”
“No, I smell fire.”
“So what?” Ben opened one eye. “There are sites of old campfires all over this cave, you can see there are. It seems to be a popular place for people to take shelter.”
Sorrel shook her head. “And some of them aren’t all that old,” she said. “This one, for instance.” She pushed the charred branches apart with her paw. “It’s from two days ago at the most, and that one over there is still quite fresh. Only a few hours old.”
“All right, you’d better keep watch, then,” sighed Firedrake sleepily. “And wake me up if anyone comes.” Then he was asleep.
“A few hours old. Are you sure?” Ben rubbed the drowsiness from his eyes and sat up.
Twigleg leaned against his arm, yawning. “Which fire do you mean, fur-face?” he asked.
“This one, of course!” Sorrel pointed to a tiny heap of ashes.
“Good heavens,” groaned Ben, lying down once more. “That could only have been a campfire for a worm, Sorrel.” He rolled over on his side, and the next moment he was as fast asleep as Firedrake.
“Campfire for a worm — huh!” Crossly Sorrel picked up her backpack and went to sit at the mouth of the cave.
Twigleg followed her. “I can’t sleep, either,” he said. “I’ve slept enough recently to last me the next hundred years.” He sat down beside Sorrel. “Are you seriously worried about that campfire?”
“I’m keeping my eyes and ears open, anyway,” growled Sorrel, taking the professor’s bag of dried mushrooms out of her backpack.
Cautiously Twigleg stepped out of the cave. The wide valley was bright in the midday sun, and there was not a sound to be heard.
“It must look like this on the moon,” said the homunculus.
“The moon?” Sorrel nibbled a puffball. “I imagine the moon quite differently. Damp and misty. All cold.”
“Ahh.” Twigleg looked around thoughtfully.
“I just hope the fire has nothing to do with sand-elves,” muttered Sorrel. “But no, that’s out of the question — sand-elves never light fires. How about trolls, though? Are there any mountain trolls about your size?”
“Not that I know of.” Twigleg caught a passing fly and popped it into his mouth behind a politely raised hand.
Then, suddenly, Sorrel put a warning finger to her lips. She threw her backpack into the cave behind her, grabbed Twigleg, and hid behind the rocks with him.
Twigleg heard a quiet humming sound, then a loud rattle, and a small, dusty airplane taxied to a halt at the mouth of the cave. It was bright green and covered from nose to tail with black paw prints. Each wing bore a sign that seemed curiously familiar to Sorrel.
The cockpit opened with a jerk, and out climbed a gray rat. She was so fat that in her flying suit she looked like a sausage bursting out of its skin.
“Nice landing!” Sorrel and Twigleg heard her comment. “Flawless! You’re an ace airwoman, Lola Graytail, that’s what you are.”
The rat turned her back to the cave and took several rolls of paper, some poles, and a telescope out of the plane. “Where did I put that book?” she muttered. “Oh, thunder and lightning, where is the dratted thing?”
