Closer and closer the two fliers came, and more and more Bobbin had to admit that it did look like a dragon. A huge red, flying dragon, coming along the line of peaks, coming directly toward him and his soarwagon.

Fear washed up and down the gnome’s spine, a compelling, sweating fear that was like cold fingers gripping him. Then a voice spoke to the gnome. “Who are you?” it asked, seeming to be right beside him.

Bobbin gasped and looked around, this way and that, trying to see who had spoken. The dragon was a half-mile away now, and there was no doubt in the gnome's mind that it was, indeed, a dragon. Again the voice at the gnome’s shoulder asked, “Who are you?”

“Bobbin,” Bobbin said. “I… I'm a gnome. Are you really a… But of course you are.”

“Bobbin,” the voice seemed to purr in the gnome’s ear. “Just keep coming, Bobbin. You will have no further doubts, in a moment or so.”

Whether it was Bobbin's own numb hands trembling at the control strings, or some vagrant current of air, the soarwagon chose that instant to slip right, stall, and go into a nosedive. Suddenly the gnome saw spinning mountaintops straight ahead, and somewhere behind him the air crackled with fire.

“Oh, gearslip,” he muttered.

“Aha,” the voice at his shoulder chuckled. “A fine dodge, gnome. But I can't let you live, you know.”

“Why not?” Bobbin tugged string, wrestling the plunging soarwagon out of its spin.

“Because you have seen me,” the calm dragon voice said. “That is your misfortune. None who see me must live to tell of it… not yet, anyway. You see, that could spoil the Highlord’s plan.”