"Haven't I always said so?" said Pismire.

"Well, I want to find out more! And I want to go now, because if I leave it, I'll never go. I want to see all the things you told me about!" Snibril said. "The Chairleg. The Hearth. The Edge."

"Let me know what they're like, then," said Pismire. "I only read about 'em."

Snibril stopped. "But when I was little, you told me all sorts of stories about the Carpet! You mean they weren't true?"

"Oh, they were true. Otherwise they wouldn't have been written down." Pismire shrugged. "Always wanted to travel, myself. Never had the time, somehow. If you can, you know, ever find the time to jot down a few notes ... "

"Right. Hah. Yes. I will. If I find time. Well, then ... Goodbye?"

"Goodbye."

"And say goodbye to-"

"I will."

"You know how it is."

"Probably. Goodbye. Come back and tell us about it, some time."

This last word was a shout, for Snibril had urged Roland forward. When he was no more than a speck on the road he turned and waved again.

Pismire walked slowly back to the argument.

Snibril stopped again, a little way from Ware, and breathed deeply, of the Carpet air.

He felt a little sad. But there would always be somewhere to return to, somewhere. He smiled, and patted Roland's neck. Then, with rising hope and streaming hair, he urged the white horse into a gallop and they disappeared among the crowding hairs.