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. It was coming rapidly in their direction.
Wingover stared, then saw a shadow below the thing
and realized that it wasn't on the ground. It was in the
air, flying.
It took shape, and its shape was that of a spread-
winged gull, soaring aloft on air currents.
'Ye gods," Wingover muttered. "It's that crazy gnome."
Within moments the soarwagon was abreast of
Wingover and Jilian, coming about in a wide, graceful
turn fifty feet above the trail and a few hundred yards
ahead. As it turned it settled and slowed, until it seemed
almost to hang in air, fifteen feet above the surface. In
that position it crept upslope toward them, rocking gen-
tly from side to side. When it was near, they could see the
white hair and irritable-looking face of the gnome sitting
in its basket.
He peered out at them and raised an arm to wave.
"Ho, there! It's me! Bobbin! Do you have anything to
eat?"
"We know who you are!" Wingover shouted. 'What
are you doing way out here?"
"I got caught in a crosswind!" the gnome responded. "I
don't know where I am, but I'm hungry! Do you have
food?"
"I can make you a nice sandwich!" Jilian called. "Do
you like cold roast elk?"
"Did you ever get that thing to land?" Wingover
shouted.
The gnome glared at him, fighting to control his rock-
ing craft, now just fifty feet away and no more than
twenty feet above
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