You follow the she-mouse into an empty room, square with a black-white checkerboard floor.
“Oh great, another dead-end,” you remark sarcastically.
The mouse stops you both on a rough plank of carved wood placed before the first squares of the checkerboard.
“Shh... We must concentrate,” she whispers, “There are traps everywhere.”
You open your mouth to ask for details, but close it quickly; it’s all too complicated for you to comprehend. Besides, the mouse is now leading a complex swerving path across several squares, her long tail dragging rhythmically.
After a second, she turns and waves a fluffy paw at you.
“Come on, this way. Follow me exactly.”
And so, indeed, you set off, taking one step on each square (where, for the mouse it equals two), in the pattern that the she-mouse sets out for you. Soon you have reached the other side of the room, where you eventually notice a dark mouse-hole in the wall.
“You don’t expect me to go through that?” You exclaim.
The mouse indicates three ruby-red tiles on the end of the checkerboard in front of you. They have white marble numerals embossed in them: 1, 2, 3.
You raise your eyebrows.
“One, two, or three,” she explains, “Stand on one of these tiles and you’ll be able to follow me through the mouse-house. But which one?”
“One will make you smaller, and one will make you taller. And the other? Who knows?”
It’s a child’s game and the mouse is lost in her own rhyme- she won’t be of any assistant.
One will make you smaller, and one will make you taller. And the other? Who knows?
Which tile do you pick?