By the magic of Miral, Princess of Bluewater, Jules Kincaid was transferred to the realm he had created; he was actually
in Bluewater!
Their enemies, the Idge, had developed submarines to cross the sea and attack Miral's people. That was one surprise; the real shock came when Jules found out the Idge had a new ruler -- his hero, Jules Verne!
That night when Jules Kincaid lay down to sleep, he made a mistake; he started thinking about what had happened.
He was -- unless (that old sf/fantasy cliché invariably trotted out to be discarded) he was utterly insane -- in the world of Bluewater, a world he had created in fiction. He had seen and met Miral -- yeah, he'd actually seen her, talked to her, stood beside her, breathed in the natural perfumes of her body! -- and Rittle and Scurch, in full color, living and breathing.
It was impossible!
It was impossible, yet here he was, in the middle of a story he hadn't written -- possibly in a story written by a friend but arguably in a story that may have only been suggested by his story. Whatever, it was taking place in a land Jules had written much about. But this definitely wasn't a plot out of his mind.
So how could all this have happened?
How did the revelation that god (God? An infinite power? Whatever you care to call it) truly exists manage to bring all this about?
Kincaid thought about it. After the first announcement, rumors and actual supernatural occurrences reinforced everyone's beliefs. Rumors he could understand, but what brought about the real visitations, the actual appearances of different religious figures?
Belief.
Many religions had, as part of their tenet, the theme that all things were possible thru faith, thru belief in their god. Science had pooh-poohed the idea that people could, just by thinking about it, cause things to happen. Levitation, for instance, had to be impossible because there was not enough power in the brain to combat even the weak power of gravity.
But what if it wasn't just brainpower? What if the brain, thru its ability to comprehend the possibility that something greater than itself might exist and its realization that this source of power could be appealed to, was capable of focusing the key of faith to unlock this source of infinite power? Then the big announcement reinforced the belief of a good portion of humanity that miracles were possible, and--
Everything was possible.
The next day Miral accompanied Jules Kincaid to the shore. Small waves gently stroked the beach like the fingers of an imaginative lover. "You can farsee over Bluewater, can't you?" he asked.
“Only to the horizon," she replied. "I cannot see to the land of Idge, if that is what you are wanting to know."
He shook my head. "I was thinking more of the breathing tubes from the underwater craft -- would you be able to spot them with your farseeing as they cut thru the water?"
“I can and have," she said with a nod. "We catapulted rocks at them and they retreated. But I cannot patrol the entire coast, and certainly not day in and day out -- there are other things that I must do."
“Yes, of course," he agreed. Jules was silent then while contemplating their situation. Miral stared out at the sea, waiting patiently. "Iron!" he exclaimed at last. "There's plenty of iron, isn't there?"
“Yes, we have much iron," she admitted. "Do you-- Have you worked out a plan of action?"
“Yes. Yes!" he said. "We need lots and lots of small pieces of iron. You will use your magic to magnetize them. Then we'll sink those pieces, three of four feet apart, all along the shore. A strong line will attach each of them to a floating device with a bell on it. When the undersea craft of the Idge come near, the magnetized iron will be attracted to the anchor on their ship, and once attached the movement of their ship will cause the bell on the floatation device to ring. You will set farhearing spells all along the coast to alert your troops whenever those bells begin to ring. They can then come to the shore to fend off the Idge raiding parties -- and, if there are a number of ships, use catapults against them."
Miral looked more confused than enthusiastic about my plan. "What is this 'magnetize' you speak of?"
“My fault," he apologized. "I forgot there's no electricity or use of magnetic energy here."
Kincaid explained polarity to her and how the iron molecules had to be arranged to create magnetism.
“Interesting," she said. "But the iron will lose its magnetism -- the Bluewater stops all magic, even mine, remember?" She gave Jules a look that doubted his sanity since (it seemed to say) he, of all people, should remember the effects of Bluewater.
But Kincaid shook his head and laughed at her objection. "Yes, all very true -- but magnetism, you see, is not magic. Iron will retain magnetism, once it's been charged, even below the water line. Magic might be used to cause it to become magnetized, but not even bluewater will easily remove the charge. It's a matter of science, Miral."
When she still seemed a bit confused, he added, "It's like momentum -- if you use your magic to lift and throw a rock out to sea, the actual magic you've used is negated as soon as the rock gets over Bluewater. But it won't just drop straight down, since the scientifically recognized force of momentum will carry the rock on and the scientifically recognized force of gravity will eventually bring it down into Bluewater. An elemental form of science, but still science."
“Fascinatingly like magic, this 'science'," she said with a smile.
He reflected her smile. “In my world," he explained, "magic is considered by many to've been the forerunner of science. Alchemists tried to create gold, which so far as I know they never managed to do, but they also kept records of their attempts and effectively began what we call the scientific method. Anyway, since we know standard magic won't work beneath Bluewater, let's give science a try. We'll see how well it works here."
"Wait!" Miral suddenly commanded, holding up a hand and standing still. The sea breeze ruffled her hair. "I think -- Yes! An undersea vessel nears! I see the wake of the tubes over there." She pointed out to sea, to my right. "It is almost two miles away. Aiming for the village of Enat, I would say."
“Do you have catapults there?" he asked.
She shook her head no. "Many rocks, but no catapult. Nonetheless, there is one down the coast not that far away which I can move with my magic."
“Do it!" Kincaid said.
Miral turned gracefully and faced away, toward the catapult's location, he guessed.
She closed her eyes, extended her right arm and moved it slowly upwards. Her muscles were tense as she lifted her arm, as if physical power were also required. Her hand pointed to the sky, and then she slowly, with great effort, lowered it and pointed the opposite direction.
After her hand came down, she collapsed.
“Miral!" Jules kneeled beside her and lifted her head. "It was too much strain! You've overextended yourself."
"Help me to the water," she said weakly, for all that her blue eyes were smiling at him. "That's all I need. Then I can farspeak to the village and tell them how to prepare for this battle."
He gently helped her to her feet. She slipped out of her gown, put an arm around his shoulder and he put his around her waist. Together, they waded into the blue water. When they were knee-deep, she lowered herself to sit in its renewing embrace. Paying no attention to his wet shoes and wet slacks, Jules stayed with her.
He could literally see the effect of the water. She squared her shoulders and a smile came to her lips as she began to glow with energy. Putting one hand under her hair, she leaned her head back and let the blue liquid flow over her face. Then she sat up again and got lithely to her feet.
“There," she said, still smiling. "You see? That wasn't hard, was it? But you are wet as well!" She looked down at his legs, her face showing concern.
“I don't melt," he told her, reflecting her earlier humor. "Are you ready to return to shore now?"
She took a deep breath and spread her arms to the sky. "Ready and willing," she said. Still, she took his arm as they waded back.
Out of the water, she stood straight and tall and faced Enat, the village where she'd just transported the catapult. She closed her eyes and Jules Kincaid could 'hear' her farspeaking: People of Enat. You now have a catapult just a short distance from your walls. Carry stones to it and be prepared to fire them. Our enemy has one of their undersea vessels approaching. I will be there soon.
He picked up her filmy gown and handed it to her. She opened her fabulous eyes and used them to look upon him.
"It is not that I am an exhibitionist," she explained, "but even this marvelous material interferes with the effect of bluewater on my body."
Kincaid smiled. “Do you hear me complaining?"
"We must go," she said. "I have not recovered sufficient strength as yet to transport us so we shall have to walk -- quickly."
They did walk quickly, but managed to do it hand in hand.
The people of Enat were around the catapult when they arrived. Piles of stones had been gathered. All of them flocked around Miral, with happy greetings of, "Princess!" or "Princess Miral!" filling the air. It was a chant, a paean of happiness, but relief was also clearly in their voices; their princess had come, so they were as good as saved -- now everything would be all right.
Miral, smiling, accepted their welcome, and then held up her hands. "My people!" she said. "Calm! Listen to me!"
Quiet was not instantaneous, but the voices did stop, and movement lessened, then all eyes were on Miral. They paid no attention to Jules, simply accepting him as Miral's companion. That was to the good; he had no desire to detract from her leadership.
“Teamwork, my people!" she said. "Who amongst you have operated a catapult before?"
Three hands went up.
“Good! Akuph, Tep and Sjari, stand beside the machine." (Of course, it stood to reason that Miral would know all their names.) She went on, "You will take turns, one for three shots, then the next, and so on. Draw straws to determine the order in which you will work." That was intelligent of Miral; that way, none could brag she'd chosen them first.
In minutes, she had everything organized, including three spotters on high ridges to watch for signs.
“I wish I had farseeing abilities," Jules told Miral. "Then I could help keep watch as well."
Miral was all amusement. "But you do," she said. "Try. Just focus it."
Did he? He looked out at the blue water, squinting in an attempt to focus, and--
Yes! He did! He could see the small twin wavelets, miles offshore. Miral must have either given or lent him the power. Good!
The preparations were just in time. "There!" Miral said, and Jules looked.
“Where?"
“Look closer to shore," she said. "The breathing tubes, you see there, and the a small wake they're leaving?"
Then he saw the ship was starting to surface. They were only a couple of thousand feet out.
“Oh! No! Our catapult cannot not reach that far," Miral said to him. "And I cannot use magic over Bluewater."
“But you can!" he said.
She again gave Kincaid that sorrowful look of disbelief at his idiocy, but before she could say anything he added, "Your catapult is at least a hundred feet away from the waterline. If they aim as straight up as possible--"
“Yes!" she said, catching on immediately. "It is that 'momentum' you spoke of before! I need only use my magic to give the rock a powerful shove just before it is over bluewater!"
Quickly she turned to Akuph, who had drawn first duty, and said, "Have several men tilt the catapult so it will shoot as high as possible!"
Without questioning his princess (altho doubt flickered across his face) Akuph directed several of the stronger men to the front of the catapult platform.
“Crank, load and launch!" Miral commanded.
Two men turned the crank to pull the catapult's lever back, while two others stood by with a heavy rock. When the cradle was down, they put the rock in it and Akuph launched the missile as directed.
Miral watched as it rose in the air and then at the last second she clasped her hands into fists, closed her eyes and--
--the rising stone suddenly shot straight out to sea. Using farseeing, Jules watch its trajectory, and saw it splash down into blue water, at least a hundred feet ahead of the submersible.
“How do I correct my aim?" Miral asked him above the cheers of her people who had also witnessed the tremendous splash the stone had made.
“As your farseeing follows the stone up," Kincaid suggested, "look from the stone's point of view towards the breathing tubes. Look beyond the tubes, to allow for the dropping of the stone, then give it your magical push."
Intelligent as Miral was, trajectory was not something that had previously been within her ken -- but she seemed to understand the basics immediately. "Crank, load and launch another!" she commanded.
This stone did much as the previous one had, except that this one landed just a few yards beyond the breathing tubes.
"I'll need to adjust the aim of my, um, trajectory," Miral murmured, frowning with concentration. Again, she shouted out, "Crank, load and launch!"
Using his own farseeing, Jules saw that the breathing tubes had disappeared and the craft, which had only barely started to come up, was now returning beneath the surface. In an attempt to escape, the Idge were going deeper. But the third stone landed exactly where the tubes had been only seconds before and a great whoosh of air exploded from the surface a few seconds after the stone hit.
“Bullseye!" Jules shouted. "A direct hit!"
The crowd cheered.
“Into boats, quickly!" Miral ordered. "Use your broadsails to speed you. Save any who survive!"
The boats of Bluewater were, for the most part, simply large canoes. As the wind always blew seaward, the sails would definitely increase their speed outward.
“But they are Idge, milady!" one of the men was bold enough to say.
"Yes. They are Idge. But when did that make us savages?" she returned sternly and looked at him. “Put up your sails, as I instructed, so that you will move quickly. Save any Idge that you can."
Contrite, the man nodded. "Yes, milady Miral. Of course." He and several others got into canoes and headed out to sea.
Their large canoes were light and the offshore breeze made them swift, but they encountered no survivors.
Afterward, Miral gathered her people again and asked them to find pieces of metal. After she had magnetized them, as Kincaid had explained to her how to do, she instructed them on how they could make the warning system that would alert them all if another submersible craft came near their shores.
Then there was a feast of celebration.
Miral sat thru it all calmly, smiling at her subjects, but Kincaid could tell she was tired. The entire catapult operation had, again, brought her close to exhaustion.
Once, Miral pulled him away from the others and said softly, "I can see your concern for me reflected in your eyes and I would say to you, Jules Kin-- Jules -- do not be so concerned on my behalf. I cannot submerse myself in bluewater in front of my people -- but rest assured that I shall do so tonight when we return."
She did -- but Jules saw to it that this was much more than a recharging of her magic. He had held her hand when they left Enat and when they were out of sight of the village, he put my arm around her waist.
"Miral, this may seem sudden and totally out of place, but-- I want to go into the water with you."
Miral knew what he meant by that, that he could not mean anything else by it since he had in effect created it as the Bluewater custom. She turned those marvelous blue eyes on him and understanding, acceptance -- and love! -- was reflected in them. "Yes. Oh, yes -- I accept, Jules Kincaid; I gladly accept!"
As a moon rose, they waded into the water hand-in-hand and performed the Bluewater ritual of marriage.
It was just past dawn when, still hand-in-hand, they approached the ridge that led to her village. The ridge became a rocky cliff, with a couple of hundred feet of sand between it and the blue water. Wooden steps led up the cliff.
Even tho it was early, word had spread of their return. A crowd had gathered at the top. As they mounted the stairs together, Jules Kincaid saw Rittle bouncing at the edge of the crowd. He also caught a glimpse of Scurch, but only a glimpse -- as Scurch saw them, understanding clouded his brow and he quickly disappeared from sight.
Understanding that Miral and Jules were married.
He foresaw problems with Scurch.
After the joyous crowd had settled, Miral and Kincaid had their wedding breakfast. He wasn't certain how to bring up the matter of Scurch to her, but she made it easy.
“Friend Scurch does not approve of our joining," Miral said with concern in her eyes, after finishing a bite of biscuit. "I saw his _expression when he realized. I fear he does not like the fact that you will now be sharing my attention to that degree."
Jules nodded. "I'll have a talk with him."
A villager told him that he had seen Scurch walking into the woods. There was a path Kincaid found there which he followed, never dreaming (as many other authors have said) of what was about to happen.
“Hello, Jules Kincaid," Scurch said, stepping suddenly from behind a large tree trunk. "I was headed for my place on the beach. Will you walk with me?"
In his desire to clear things up between them, Jules of course agreed.
At this side of the village, the cliff sloped down to the blue water. The two men did not speak as they followed the sandy path down to the beach. Scurch gave Kincaid no opening, so he still wasn't sure just what he should say to help Scurch deal with what had happened between Miral and himself.
When they finally reached the beach, Scurch led Kincaid to a lean-to, a shelter made of straight branches slanting up from the sand, with a cover made of thatched grasses. It opened onto bluewater. From a pile of twigs, Scurch chose a few and squatted, started a small campfire. He put a metal rack over the open flame.
"Could you hand me that clay pot, back under there?" Scurch asked politely enough.
‘Under there' was to the back of the shelter, where Jules saw the pot, as well as a rough wooden shelf on which there were small colored containers and some cups and plates.
“All the comforts of home," he remarked, handing Scurch the pot he had asked for. Jules squatted beside him.
“I come here to relax and meditate," Scurch told him, picking up a canteen that sat beside one of the branches holding up the shelter. He poured water into the bowl and placed it on the metal rack to heat. "Would you kindly hand me that red container?" He indicated the shelf on which the contained sat with a nod of his head.
His manner remained polite enough, but studiedly reserved. Not yet certain of what to say or expect, Jules did as asked and got Scurch the red container. Quiet continued, as the water heated. "There are cups, also," Scurch said, nodding again at the shelf. "We will each need one."
“Tea?" Kincaid asked, handing him the cups.
Scurch nodded.
There was a palpable tension in his bearing. Jules thought perhaps he understood why and supposed this little ceremony might be Scurch's way of formally stepping aside so that Jules and Miral I could continue to grow together thru their marriage.
"Tea is good for conversation," Jules said. "Warm tea always has such a relaxing effect." Not the cleverest thing to say, perhaps, but he hoped it would have its own calming effect. He also hoped that, by granting and implicitly acknowledging the dignity of Scurch's private little ceremony here, it would demonstrate to Jules did not despise or in any way look down on what Scurch must surely regard as a noble act on his part.
When he judged the water's temperature was sufficient to produce tea, Scurch lifted the clay pot by its handle. Jules knew it had to be very hot to touch but that Scurch had used his ungloved hand to pick it up. Pouring each cup half full, he nodded back at the shelf. "The yellow container, too."
Like the red one, the small yellow container held a dried leafy substance.
"A blended tea," Jules remarked as he handed it to Scurch.
He nodded.
After he was finished with the preparation, Scurch placed a cup on the sand in front of Kincaid, then squatted again, putting his own cup in front of himself. "The leaves will settle in a moment," he said. At last, he looked straight at Jules -- a defiant look, it seemed. "I fear it is not as civilized a way to make tea as you are accustomed to."
Not wanting to cause offense, Kincaid simply shrugged. "Tea is tea, no matter how you make it."
Scurch looked out over the blue water. As always, the wind was blowing seaward, and there were small whitecaps. "The land of the Idge is over there, in that direction," he said. Then he looked at the cup in front of Jules and proclaimed, "I believe it is ready, now."
Kincaid lifted his cup; it was quite warm, but certainly not as hot as the pot must have been. He looked at its contents and saw no leaves floating on the surface. Carefully, he brought the cup to his mouth and took a tentative sip. It was astringent, but soothing as well. He felt himself relaxing.
"Good tea," he pronounced, nodding at Scurch. "Do you not intend to join me?"
In response, Scurch nearly emptied his cup. Then he took a deep breath, put the cup down, and looked at Jules.
"You and Princess Miral. . . ." Scurch let the words trail off, looking at Kincaid questioningly.
Jules, ready to talk, said, “We are married. But, as I'm sure I need not tell you, this does not take her away from you, Scurch -- she's still your princess."
Scurch looked at the cup in Kincaid's hand, nodded, smiled. "Drink," he said.
Jules obliged him and this time took a bigger sip. "She's still the Princess of Bluewater," he went on. "Our marriage has not changed that."
“But it has, Jules Kincaid! It has!" Scurch said in bitter denial. "Before you, I was the closest to her. Not now! Now, there will never be. . . ." This time his words trailed off because he couldn't make himself actually give voice to the direction they were leading to.
“You wanted her to yourself, Scurch," Jules said calmly -- not accusingly. "But you always knew it was not to be, didn't you?"
By this point Jules was beginning to feel relaxed. Quite relaxed, in fact; now that it was out in the open and they were talking, the tension seemed to leave him, even as Scurch seemingly became more agitated.
“Because you didn't choose to write it that way!" Scurch flared. "You wrote my princess for you!" Scurch got to his feet and glared down at him. "Well, you won't have her, Jules Kincaid! You will never have her!"
Jules looked up at Scurch. That is, he tried to look up at Scurch -- but his head wouldn't move! He was still very -- very! -- relaxed. But he was no longer calm. "What . . . was in that tea?" he asked.
"Dried sea-nettle root!" Scurch said smugly. "That was in the red container -- I put nothing but tea from the yellow container in my cup!"
Sea-nettle root! That was what Miral used to keep prisoners under control. They could talk while under its influence, but they only moved when directed to. And as directed to.
My fault, ironically, Jules thot. I came up with the idea of sea-nettle root, in one of my Bluewater episodes, as a humane way for Miral's people to handle prisoners.
“Why?" Kincaid managed to ask Scurch. "What are you trying to accomplish here?"
“Stand up, Jules Kincaid," he said without answering the question. "Come with me."
With no conscious volition of his own, Jules Kincaid did as he was told. Scurch led him to the beach, where a boat had been pulled ashore.
"Pull the boat into the water," he ordered. Having no choice, Jules did so. When the boat was partly into the water, Scurch instructed, "Put up the sail now."
As with most of the boats, it was rigged for a mast to be attached close to the bow. The mast, sail furled around it, lay on the bottom of the boat, one end propped up by the one seat toward the rear. Jules put the mast in place.
"Rig the sail," Scurch ordered, his voice calmly refusing to express his anger, and Kincaid did so. "Now, push the boat further out, but with the stern still ashore."
It was done.
"The only thing I regret is that this boat belongs to an honest fisherman. He will be most distressed when he finds it missing," Scurch said. “Now hand me that coil of rope in the bow." Taking a knife from his belt, he cut a length of rope. "Put your hands behind you."
Putting his hands behind him, Kincaid asked again, "Why are you doing this, Scurch?"
Scurch chuckled and shook his head. "Jules Kincaid, you are unbelievable! How could you, of all people, ask me that? You made me who I am. You defined my nature. You made me love Miral and you made me just barely hero enough to be worthy of her -- and yet you deemed that our love should never be fulfilled! It was oh so much better for your stories -- and your precious readers' vicarious emotions -- that my love for Miral should not only go unrequited but that I should never even be able to speak to her about it!"
"All true enough, I supposed," Jules said. "But you still haven't really answered my question. Why are you doing this, Scurch?"
“Because I want to be rid of you, Jules Kincaid. I will not kill you," he went on, tying Kincaid's wrists together. “Not that I couldn't! You've given me plenty of reason to hate you, so the fact that you're my creator wouldn't keep me from doing that! No, it is Miral who keeps me from killing you outright. If I took your life, she would know it -- of that I am certain. I cannot tell her how much I love her but I could not bear the agony of the look she would have for me if she knew that I had taken your life. She will not know what I am doing now. She will only know that you are gone!"
Scurch finished binding his wrists and stood back. "Sit down, in the bottom of the boat."
Jules sat. It was not comfortable -- not that the seat itself would have been made for comfort, either.
Scurch raised the sail, then lashed it down when the wind billowed it out. Grunting, he pushed the small craft until it was floating. "Go now -- go to the Idge, Jules Kincaid!" he said with grim satisfaction.
The offshore wind pushed the sail and Jules Kincaid was headed out into bluewater.
In minutes, the light craft was well out to sea. He pulled at his bonds, but Scurch had him tightly secured. All right, hero, Jules found himself thinking sarcastically, now what?
He decided on sleep. He was fatigued from the day's efforts; he would need all his wits about me when he reached the land of the Idge. The effects of the herbal barbiturate would last for hours. Why not rest?
When Jules Kincaid awoke, his mind was clear and he had full control of his body -- for whatever good that was going to do him! Ahead were cliffs that had to be Idge property; behind Jules there was only blue water. He had no firm idea how long he had slept, except that the sun was lowering.
Did I ever establish the length of a day on Bluewater?, he wondered idly. Not that I recall. Not that it matters -- I'm nearing Idge territory and I'm in a boat with my hands bound firmly behind me. Even if I were a magician, that wouldn't do. And I'm no magician!
Earlier, he had noticed a wooden box under the one seat in the boat. It seemed to be fastened there. Could there be a knife in it? Surely a fisherman would carry a knife!
He wriggled about and shifted until he could see into the box. Yes! A knife! Scurch, then, hadn't bothered to search the boat before securing it for his purpose.
With more wriggling and twisting, Jules managed to turn his body to the box and fumble around with his hands until he located first the box and then the knife. Gingerly, he ran his fingers along its blade.
A scaling knife!
A scaling knife with a purposefully jagged edge, made to encourage a fish's scales to separate themselves from the fish's body – but it felt rusty. Extremely rusty!
In a way, he continued to blame himself. It was never a good idea for The Hero to have an easy way out of a predicament – all authors know that. Must keep the suspense up.
But this wasn't a story -- it was his life!
Maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe, under the rust, this knife was still sharp. Sharp enough. Yes, it had to be! He could eventually gnaw the ropes thru with the jagged edges, but the cliffs were nearing. It had to have sharp edges.
It took several tries, but he eventually got the knife's blade between the bindings and started sawing it back and forth.
He felt the woven strands begin to fall against his wrists. Yes, it was sharp – and the faster he was able to move the knife, the sharper it seemed to get. In only minutes, the entire rope fell away, and his hands were at last free!
He looked at the knife. The sawing at the ropes had scored away the rust, and he saw shiny sharp teeth on the blade.
. . .But it still was just shy of ‘the nick of time'; his time was running out, he could even hear the waves washing against the cliffs ahead. Jules couldn't be more than a few hundred feet away, at best, and his little boat was making better time than he would have liked.
In the bow of the boat he found the anchor, but here at the base of the cliffs he knew the water was too deep for the anchor to reach bottom. Jules scanned the cliffs. To his right, there was a strange clutter of different colored materials scattered down the cliff, some attached to wood rods. Some of the material was in the water, and the waves were washing it against the rock.
Ahead, there was no break, no opening to slip the boat into. There was no beach, just jagged rocks. The cliff itself wasn't flat, but seemed composed of columns of different heights, with a stone wall behind them. Some of the columns had domed tops, some flat, some like giant steps going up the side of the cliff. The boat was headed for a cluster of rocks at the base of a shorter column.
A plan began to form in his mind. Quickly, Jules Kincaid picked up the anchor -- after making certain that the rope attached to it was also attached to the boat. The anchor didn't weigh more than five pounds; the only way it could have held a boat in place would have been on a sandy bottom, because it had four prongs spread out at the bottom.
As the cliff neared, Jules held the anchor rope in his hand, with the weight dangling about three feet from his fingers. Bracing his feet, he started swinging the rope, with the anchor going round and round. When he judged the distance to be right, he let go, aiming for the top of the short column.
The anchor landed on top, seemed to catch – and then disappointingly slid back down into the water!
Even as it started to slide, Jules began pulling in the rope. Quickly! He only had time for one more try.
This time, the anchor lodged between two outcroppings above the column. He yanked once, and it held. There was no time for fancy testing -- the boat was about to crash into the cliffside. Pulling the rope as tightly to remove as much slack as he could, Jules Kincaid jumped.
He was only about ten feet away from the column. He swung toward the cliff, legs lifted to miss the water, and then he felt his feet slam against it and bent his knees to absorb the jolt. Hurriedly, he started ‘walking' up the column – leaning back, his feet against the stone, pulling myself up hand over hand as his feet moved upward on the harsh rock face, a grueling foot at a time.
When he reached the top of the column, he was blessing the fact that he had gotten lots of rest -- because, even after the rest, he was puffing as he pulled himself up the last few inches. Sitting down on a large rock, he considered the next step. His boat had smashed and sank behind him; he'd heard the crash but had been too absorbed in what he was doing to look down at it, and now only the sail was afloat. The anchor and the rope attached to it were at his disposal. Seeing no use for the anchor, Jules untied it from the rope and dropped it on the sail below.
It sank, taking the sail with it. Good! Now there was little evidence of his arrival. Any scraps that surfaced could be confused with the other stuff he'd seen scattered up and down the cliff.
Even as Jules wondered what the other wreckage was, he got an answer; a motion in the sky above and to his right caught his attention. Kincaid looked up to see something like a large kite tumble from the sky and crash into the side of the cliff. Some of the material caught on an outcrop; the rest tore away and slid down to the waters below.
Jules Verne was teaching the Idge to make flying machines!
. . .Well, ‘machines' was a little too sophisticated; Kincaid would guess they were something more like hang-gliders. With the wind always blowing from Bluewater, a well-trained pilot would be able to attain sufficient altitude to glide down on Bluewater's unsuspecting populace! But -- what became of the pilot, if that was the case?
The only answer he could come up with to that was that the pilot had most likely jumped ship before the glider went over the edge.
Submarines!
Hang-gliders!
Kincaid had his work cut out for him. Without at all intending to do so, it seemed that Scurch had picked the perfect time to send him to the land of the Idge.
Fortunately, one of Jules Kincaid’s hobbies back on Earth had been rock-climbing -- until his fame got in the way. Now he needed to use all his skills to make it up the face of the cliff -- without pitons. It was a long, arduous climb; find a crack to slip his fingers into, find a place for a foot, then pull and grunt and inch his way up. At times, it was more sideways than up and, more than once, he had to back down and try another approach by coming at things from another angle.
But, groaning and puffing, at last he made it to the top. He flopped down on the rocky clifftop to rest -- only to hear the voices of approaching Idge!
A quick survey of the area showed only a clump of bushes in which to hide. A small clump. Damn, he found himself thinking passionately as he hurriedly tried to conceal himself among the bushes, sure wish I could be invisible for the next few minutes! Not that he feared the Idge -- he'd always kept himself in good physical condition and while he wasn't a black belt, he'd learned enough karate in the past eight years that he was relatively certain that he could take all three of them out before they could draw their swords -- but he desperately wanted to enter the Idge city quietly and a loud battle here would be the death of that.
The Idge passed within ten feet of him and yet, despite the sparseness of his cover, they were apparently so engrossed in the conversation they were having that, to Kincaid's surprise and relief, they raised no alarm. He could hardly believe his luck.
Jules nonetheless waited a couple of minutes, partly to be certain they were safely away and also to give himself time to figure out which way led to their city. Are these three going to the city or coming from it? He decided they were probably going to rather than coming from; no guarantees, of course, but it seemed likely that they'd been part of the group testing the glider, and if that was the case, then they'd have to go to the city to give their report to their civilian superiors.
He moved quickly in the direction they had gone, being as careful as he could to make little noise. He caught up with the sound of their voices and then with them; then it was just a matter of letting them stay far enough ahead and moving from cover to cover behind them. In another ten minutes, after several twists and turns to avoid more rocky outcrops, he saw that he'd been right about the direction they were heading: The city was dead ahead.
He continued to shadow the three Idge with caution. Will their military be keeping a lookout at the city? Will I have to figure out how to pass through a guarded gate or climb over a wall without being seen?
No.
As they neared the city, it was clear that the Idge relied on the width of Bluewater as their protection. Their city was made up of many buildings, some small, some large. In the outskirts, there were scattered houses with Idge children outside playing in the yards. No attempt at protection for the place -- but, also, little cover for Jules to use on his approach. Among the Idge, he would stand out like a giant.
When he reached the last of what he considered reasonable cover, he stopped. His only hope for the cover he would need to move further into the city was the setting sun. Soon night would be upon them and he would have to hope there was little street illumination in the city ahead. He waited in the cluster of trees away from the trail and used the time to examine the layout as much as he could. Then, before he was even aware of the need for rest, both physical and mental exhaustion overtook him and he fell asleep.
When he woke, the twin moons were chasing each over overhead. It was still dark, but Kincaid judged by the position of the moons that dawn could not be too far off. There were no lights in the nearby homes, everyone there presumably being asleep, and even the thicker cluster of buildings ahead which he identified as the city of the Idge was only spottily illuminated -- except for the tallest building. It was five stories high and could hold hundreds of Idge citizens.
The lights that were still on in the city's buildings were mostly flickering, yellow blotches; probably gaslights. But many of the big building’s windows glowed with greater whiteness, so it stood out even at a distance. Electric lights!, Kincaid thought. Either that or acetylene lamps. . . .Probably acetylene, he decided. Electric lights would require not only a generator but the ability to make light bulbs -- and while Jules Verne is undoubtedly brilliant, I don’t think Idge technology's quite at the level yet where they can deliver the filaments needed for light bulbs.
Brushing himself off, he headed for the heart of the city. All the buildings in the city proper were made of blocks of dried mud reinforced with straw. Some were whitewashed, some painted red. Many were one story, some two.
Entrance was simple; there were no walls thrown up to set off the cluster of larger buildings that marked the beginning of the city, there were no guards and, at this time of the early pre-dawn morning, no civilians wandering about. There were many shadows, as lights were being extinguished, usually before he reached any given building. He stayed to the shadows, sometimes pausing for several minutes to be certain there was no Idge activity stirring anywhere nearby. Then, as he approached, even the bright lights in the larger building began to go out, window by window. Even so, he was careful as he made his way thru the city and approached the big building, which faced a large courtyard.
Kincaid had been careful every time he came near a building with lighted windows; when he reached the big one, he stopped and listened; there were no sounds. Now all its lights were out. Slipping from shadow to shadow, he examined the building for entrances. Most building entrances built for the Idge were low, but facing the courtyard of this larger building was a tall and wide set of doors, grandiose compared to the other Idge structures he had seen. The wooden doors were painted white and had metal doorknobs; the other doors he'd seen had used simple leather latch-pulls.
The sun was still below the horizon but the sky was starting to get light. The nearing dawn dimly illuminated the courtyard, so Jules Kincaid was extra cautious as he approached. Wish to hell I was invisible, he found himself thinking ruefully. It would make things so much easier if the Idge just couldn't see me!
When he at last reached the door, he listened before trying the knob. There was no sound from inside, so he gently turned the knob.
Or tried to.
It was locked.
He looked around. The wide courtyard offered no suggestions. He looked up. The top floor was set back; that is, the building presented a flat face to the courtyard, but each side of the top floor was inset at least ten feet, like a small box on top of four larger boxes. A balcony extended from the top floor, doubtless a place for any Idge leader to address his followers below.
Jules Verne's probably up there, Kincaid thought. But how do I get there myself? He examined the wall. The large mud-and-straw blocks were irregular in size and shape. Above him were occasional windows, none of which had glass panes. Some of the windows were shuttered, while others were simply open. The shutters, where they existed, were several inches inside the window frame. One of the open windows, he saw, was on the second floor.
He sat down, untied his shoes, then tied the laces together and draped the shoes over his shoulder. Kincaid stood up again, reached up with his right hand to dig his fingertips into a slight opening between two blocks. He had to hurry; there was a sliver of sun brightness on the horizon behind him and the face of the building was growing lighter, the details easier to make out. He reached up with his left hand to another protrusion and then, satisfied with his grip, found purchase for his left foot and struggled upwards. Grunting, he edged on, fingers and toes grasping for irregularities. After several slips, he found himself able to peer captiously into the open window.
The morning sun, now definitely up over the horizon, revealed the room to be empty.
Pulling himself over the window ledge, Jules swung one leg over, then slid down and into the room – just as a loud klaxon sound vibrated thru the courtyard.
Drat! Did I set off some kind of alarm?, Jules wondered, freezing in place. But while he heard footsteps, both in the courtyard and outside the door, no one came into the room. Then he heard voices below and risked a peek out the window.
Idge were gathering in the courtyard, talking excitedly with each other and casting an occasional glance up in the direction of the balcony.
Some kind of assembly call, probably, he decided. Wonder if Jules Verne's about to address his followers?
Then he heard footsteps approaching the door to his room. He looked quickly about.
There were several chairs behind a large big table in the center of the room, with two more chairs in one corner. The bottoms of the chairs were solid and without legs, like boxes with a back support; they had to be, to hold the weight of an Idge. Quickly, he pulled the two corner chairs together as an improvised screen and crouched behind them just as the door opened.
“Amak was supposed to meet us here,” an Idge voice said.
“He’d better hurry,” said another voice. “The crowd’s gathering!”
“Of course!” the first Idge said. “Our illustrious leader has promised that, this time, his thing will fly!”
Was Jules mistaken or was that sarcasm in the tone of the Idge? Dissension in the ranks, perhaps?, he wondered.
He heard another Idge enter the room. “Amak sent word he’d meet us upstairs,” the newcomer said. “Come on!”
Grumbling, the first Idge said, “I wish he’d make up his mind. Let’s go!”
Jules was glad to hear that; his nose had started itching, and this would not be a good time for a sneeze! When the Idge exited, closing the door behind them, Jules rubbed his nose viciously and got to his feet -- just in time to hear a chant of: “Jules! Jules! Jules!”
It took him a startled second to realize that they were chanting for Jules Verne, not Jules Kincaid. Then he edged toward the window to see what was going on. Excited Idge were looking up, pointing (he assumed) to the balcony above. Then there was a shrill whistle, and the chanting stopped.
“My followers!” a strong baritone voice said. Baritone; definitely not the voice of an Idge; it had to be Verne. “Success is at hand! I have perfected my gliding machine. With it, you can swoop down on your enemy! The wind always blows this way across the blue water, and you can ride the wind all the way across. Behold! This is how you will fly!”
As the crowd looked up in awe, a shadow fell across them. Kincaid then saw Jules Verne, on something like a hang-glider, dive down to the crowd, then glide up as the wind lifted him . . . then the wind died down and Verne circled about to land in the midst of the roaring crowd.
Four Idge in uniform who had been at the edge of the crowd then pushed their way thru and to the celebrating Idge who had removed the glider from Verne and lifted him up on their shoulders. There was a moment of conflict as the Idge holding Verne were reluctant to release their hero. Three others were fighting over possession of the glider, which was demolished in the squabble. With harsh words and shoving, the Idge guards got Verne away from his enthusiastic followers and hustled them thru the large doors and back into the building.
Kincaid was puzzled; why had Verne been taken away? The Idge had not been threatening; they were idolizing the man. Those in uniform seemed to be Verne’s guards . . . but guarding against what? Were they protecting him? If so, from what?
Then it came to Kincaid with a sudden flash of insight. Those guards were neither protecting nor saving Verne -- they were keeping him under control! Those guards were not guards in the sheltering, but rather in the preventative sense -- they were Verne's jailors!
It all made so much sense that Kincaid wondered why it had not occurred to him before. There was, really, no good reason why someone like Jules Verne would ally himself with the Idge; he was more the type of person who would prefer Miral and her people. Kincaid didn’t know just how Verne came here, other than because Earth people had read and presumably liked his friend's bit of crossover fiction and wanted him in the story. But he was certain now that Verne was helping the Idge against his will.
That would explain all the failed gliders he had seen; Verne obviously sold them on an idea but kept putting flaws in the model until he could build one he could use himself! If the wind hadn’t failed, Jules Verne would even now be sailing across the blue water to join Miral and her people! That was the only way this made sense. Verne had started with the submersible to convince them of his sincerity -- but escape had been his plan all along!
Jules drew back from the window. It was time for planning. + + + + +
That night, Jules cautiously made his way thru the darkened hallways and up narrow stairs. Several times he had to draw back to avoid an Idge or two who were still wandering around, but none of them saw him. At last, he came to the fourth floor. As he had been doing, he carefully peeked around each corner before he stepped out. Then, when he looked around the last corner, he saw the stairs leading to the fifth floor -- guarded by another uniformed Idge.
The stairs were about ten feet away. The Idge was illuminated by a dim gaslight, in a sconce on the wall beside him. The guard had a sword, and a large billyclub hanging from his belt. He wasn’t being very attentive; in fact, he had his sword point on the floor and was staring down at his sandaled toes. Hidden by the corner, Jules took the shoes that were still hanging from his shoulder. Stepping out, he slung the shoes down the hall, high in the air, past the Idge. When they landed, the guard looked in the direction of the sound. Kincaid dashed out, snatched the billyclub from the Idge’s belt, and slammed it against the bald head.
The Idge collapsed, soundlessly.
Kincaid quickly retrieved his shoes, sluing them back over his shoulder, and took the unconscious guard’s arm. Pulling his limp burden, he made his way up the stairs – reflecting, as he went, that the smaller being was at least as heavy as a normal man.
The door at the top of the stairs had a leather pull-latch. Pulling the thong, Kincaid pushed the door open, drug in the Idge, closed the door, then tried to pull the thong out.
It wouldn’t come thru the slot; the other end of the thong was wider than the latch. Kincaid pulled again, to no avail.
A hand holding a knife appeared beside Jules. “Try this,” a baritone voice said.
Jules Verne.
“Thanks,” Kincaid said and, sawing with the knife blade, cut thru the leather thong and pulled it out.
“Making it hard for them to get in,” Verne commented.
“Exactly,” Kincaid said, getting to his feet. “Again, thanks for the knife,” he said, handing it back to the famous writer. “Jules Verne, I presume,” he said.
Verne, about six feet tall and with graying hair, nodded. “And you would be Jules Kincaid,” he said.
Kincaid lifted an eyebrow. “I’m impressed,” he said. “It was easy for me to guess your identity; you’re not an Idge! But how. . .”
A smile appeared on Verne’s face. “Just as simple,” he said. “The better educated Idge are aware that they are part of a story written by Jules Kincaid. You are not wearing clothes of this world –“ Jules was wearing jeans and a polo shirt Miral had retrieved for him from his apartment “-- thus, the deduction was, as Sherlock Holmes would say, elementary.”
“I’m impressed, anyway,” Kincaid said. “You have always been my favorite author, and I am pleased you didn’t let me down.”
“Then it isn’t a coincidence we have the same first name.”
Jules Kincaid shook his head. “My first name is Julius; I changed it to Jules because of you.”
The unconscious guard groaned. “Any strong rope?” Kincaid asked Verne.
Jules Verne nodded. “Plenty, and certainly strong enough to hold an Idge.” He turned and opened a closet, then took a coil of rope from a shelf. “Here,” he said, turning back and handing it to Kincaid.
While Kincaid was tying and gagging the guard, Verne asked, “Why did you come here? Why did you assume I wouldn’t call the guards? After all,” he said, irony in his voice, “I am the leader of the Idge.”
“An unwilling leader,” Kincaid replied, testing the knots. “You tried to escape today, but the wind betrayed you.” Satisfied with his work, he got to his feet and turned to his hero. “You are not an evil man, Jules Verne; you wouldn’t willingly help these Idge. You just found yourself in a situation where you couldn’t refuse. I would guess you developed the submersibles to gain their confidence, then started planning your escape. These flying gliders of yours that failed were just successful enough to keep their faith, while you built one of your own.”
Jules Verne smiled. “I can see you could also be a good writer of deduction fiction,” he said. Then, as Jules opened the door, he asked, “What now?”
“His sword is still in the hall,” Jules explained. “That makes it obvious he didn’t just step out to take a leak. No need to advertise they have a problem, not right now. I’ll leave the door open, since I’ve removed the latch pull.”
It only took a few seconds for him to retrieve the sword and return. “Now,” he said, fastening the door, “do you have any extra gliders available?”
“Affirmative!” was the reply. “They supplied me with all the materials I needed. It only takes a minor adjustment to change the Idge pattern to one you or I can use to fly.” He turned back into the room. Kincaid looked around; the room seemed to take up most of the fifth floor, with the exception of one end which, when Verne opened the door, proved to be a supply room, filled with strips of wood, material of many colors, and unmarked jars.
Verne took in the room with a sweep of his arm. “Everything required for flight!” he said.
“Let’s get busy,” Kincaid said, heading for the room. “We need to be on our way before the Idge find out what’s happening and knock the door down. Show me what to do, and I’ll help.”
“That red pot contains a glue I made,” Verne said. “Used fish oil, flour from some local seed, a bit of water – got something that bonds this material with the wood, and it dries in five minutes. Each piece of wood is marked, as is the corresponding material, so the Idge who helped me could tell where it went. Here’s a drawing of how it goes together,” he added, taking a sheet of paper off a shelf and handing it to Kincaid.
After studying the drawing a few seconds, Kincaid nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Two hang*gliders coming up!”
“Hang-gliders?” Verne asked.
“That’s what we call something similar in my world,” Kincaid said. “It’s one of the many hobbies I’ve used to . . . .” He started to say, ‘to keep my mind off Eve,’ then thought better of it. “. . .To keep me active,” he finished, then started gathering wood and material.
Despite the simplicity of the instructions, there were several times when they just had to sit and wait while the glue dried, so it took almost an hour for them to finish. During that time, there were occasional grunts of complaint from the Idge guard, which they ignored.
“What if the wind fails again?” Verne asked.
Kincaid gave him a crooked grin. “It wouldn’t dare,” he said. “We’re in a story, you know; the heroes always escape.”
“But not easily,” Verne said.
Kincaid shrugged. “Easy or not, we’ll make it; I’m sure of that.” Well, he hoped for that; he knew the wind always blew across the water, and thought Verne’s failed escape was a fluke – but he didn’t want to let any doubts occur in his favorite author.
A problem did occur; just as they were finished with the gliders, there was a knock at the door. “Open up!” an Idge voice insisted.
“Now’s the time!” Kincaid said, urging Verne toward the balcony. Even as he said it, something heavy crashed against the door. “You first!” he said, as Verne threw the curtains open that lead to the balcony.
Verne started to object, but Kincaid said, “You’ve had experience with these things! Besides,” he added, pushing Verne, “there’s no time to argue. Go!”
As Verne slipped into the harness and mounted the balcony ledge, the door was smashed in. Verne leapt out and Kincaid, already harnessed, got onto the ledge just as several Idge rushed into the room. Seeing that Verne was successfully aloft, Kincaid took off as well. “Keep it up, wind!” he said, as the material of the glider tightened and the wind lifted him up after Verne.
“Stop!” and Idge voice demanded.
“Come back!” said another.
Kincaid risked a glance back and saw crossbows being aimed. “Veer!” he shouted to Verne. “They’re going to shoot at us!”
He saw Verne tilt to the right, so he tilted left just as some iron crossbow bolts whizzed by them.
“They’re not used to flying targets, I’ll bet,” he said.
“I’ve seen them shoot some birds that looked a lot like geese,” Verne shouted back, destroying Kincaid’s optimism. “Keep moving!” He veered again as he said it.
“Then try to get more altitude!” Kincaid shouted back, as he moved at right angles to Verne.
Several bolts came frighteningly close, but – they made it. The continuing wind helped lift them higher and higher, as a crown of Idge below – the ones on the balcony had been added to by more in the courtyard – dwindled away.
Soon they were over blue water, and sailing side by side.
“How long did it take a submersible to make the crossing?” Kincaid asked.
“Two days,” was Verne’s response.
“Two days?” Kincaid asked, incredulously.
“They were just using oars,” Verne reminded him. And then he remember that the sails brought him across in less than a day.
“Oh!” he said. “Then we’ll make it a lot quicker than that. Should be there by or before nightfall, I’d guess.” His light sailboat/canoe had the wind constantly behind it; here, the wind was helping them fly, but it was like a sailboat tacking into the wind, so it wouldn’t be as quick as he had made it.
“These harnesses are designed to help balance our weight,” Verne said. “It won’t be as if we were just hanging by our arms.”
“I noticed that,” Kincaid replied. “You’ve got a design here that’s far superior to any I’ve seen on my world – and you did it,” he added, marveling, “with no wind tunnels and no computers!”
“Wind tunnels? Computers?” Verne asked. “What are those?”
“It’s a long story,” Kincaid said. “Modern stuff. Just understand that I was giving you a great compliment.”
“Appreciated,” Jules Verne said. Then he added, “How high can we fly without running out of oxygen?”
“Never considered that in my stories. I guess it would be the same as on Earth. Anyway, if we get short of breath, we can just go to a lower altitude.” Again, he was impressed by Verne’s probing mind.
An hour later, Verne said, “I don’t belong here. That is, it has been a very interesting experience, and I’m glad we met, but – I really don’t belong here.”
At this point, there was no sign of land – behind them or ahead; nothing but blue water.
“You’re right, of course,” Kincaid agreed. “I would say that I’m sorry you were brought here, but then I would have missed the opportunity of meeting you.”
“I appreciate that, too,” Verne said. “As I said, it has been an interesting experience.”
They were silent for a while. Kincaid was trying his farvision, but still could find no land ahead. Then, after another hour or so passed, he heard Verne’s voice, at a distance, say, “Goodbye, Jules Kincaid. It has been a pleasure, meeting you.”
He looked around, and saw nothing. Then, looking up, he spotted a glider high above him; so high that Verne’s features weren’t recognizable, just a distant figure below a hang-glider. His change of view caused a shift in the hang-glider, and it took him a moment to adjust. When he had it flying smoothly again, he looked back up.
Nothing.
Jules Verne had gone back from where he had come.
The rest of the flight was tedious; just a matter of hanging on and keeping into the wind. That was the only course Jules knew of; the wind blew from Bluewater, so he had to keep going into it. Where he would land was pure speculation. Oh, his farvision would spot land in plenty of time – but would he see landmarks he recognized? Would he recognize anything other than Enat and Bluewater? What if he didn’t? How would he get home?
Oh, well, he thought, trying to cheer himself up; better than Idge, in any case!
But it brought him little cheer.
Despite the success of Jules Verne’s harness, his arms and shoulder were growing tired – and there was still no sigh of land. How prepared for battle would an army of flying Idge have been after making the crossing?
. . .Maybe that’s what Verne had in mind, Jules thought. They’d successfully fly over, but then be easy prey!
Of course, he’d never know. But he did know he was growing exceedingly tired. In desperation, he sought higher altitude – as the sun was nearing the rim of the west.
There!
At last, in the distance, he saw land! Now, was there anything he recognized. . . ? He focused sharply. Wasn’t that Enat, dead ahead? Yes! Then, to his right. . . he severed the glider that way. Yes! There was Bluewater, with the long beach leading up to the walk. He headed straight for it, sloping down. . . and the sun set.
He remembered writing about the sudden onset of blackness when the sun went down. Why had he done that? It was for a dramatic moment, and this was certainly another one!
He kept on, hoping he was remembering the correct bearing – and, the closer he got, the more uncertain he became.
And his shoulders felt like they were about to come out of their sockets.
Miral! he thought, in agony. I need you!
I am here, beloved, she answered, sounding as if she were right beside him.
Thank God! I need light! I need something to show me where to land!
I think your world calls them runway lights? Miral responded.
Yes! I don’t want to smash into houses or people! he replied, desperately.
There will be torches on the beach in just a minute, he was told.
He saw a few sparks ahead of him, and then they grew brighter, and formed a fairly straight line.
Thank you, he said. Then a thought occurred to him. You answered mighty quickly, he said. How long have you been tapping in?
Casually, she responded, For several hours; ever since you flew high enough for me to reach you.
I’ve been in agony! he thought back. I was lost, and feared I’d never find you! And you just. . . listened, doing nothing? Anger was building up.
Of course, Miral answered, infuriatingly calm. You had to do this on your own. My help would have robbed you of victory.
Kincaid’s anger had been on the verge of boiling over. Miral’s calm words threaded thru his emotions and touched a chord of reason. As quickly as it had built up, his fury evaporated. His lovely wife was right, of course. This way, he had done it himself.
Now, to concentrate on landing. When the lights had appeared, he headed down and toward them. He was coming home! . . . But, in his eagerness, he was approaching too fast! Now, they were no more than a hundred feet below, and his speed was almost the same as falling.
The wings of the glider had a certain flexibility. He lowered his feet and pulled the wings as far down as he could. . . and heard a rip! The material hadn’t been strong enough to stand the sudden strain, and was tearing. Frantically, he tried to gain the most wind-resistance he could, but he was still going down too fast. They were no more than forty feet below him, and the glider shredded.
Quickly, Kincaid shed the harness, just as --
A large balloon rose to meet him. Rittle! It had to be his doing. Kincaid spread-eagled himself to meet the balloon, and it stood the impact . . . for a second; then it burst. Again, Kincaid was falling. Another balloon appeared. It, too, reduced his speed a fraction, and then burst.
There was the ground.
Kincaid remembered to tuck and roll. He hit on his shoulder, and rolled over several times before he came to a stop.
Right at the feet of Scurch.
Many thoughts zigzagged turbulently thru Kincaid’s mind as he got to his feet but, by the time he was erect, he had decided what to do.
Brushing off his jeans, he wiped his hands together and then stuck his right hand out to Scurch. “Thank you, friend Scurch,” he said. “Your plan worked perfectly! The Idge are no longer a threat.”
Scurch’s pale eyes widened, then narrowed, and confusion reigned on his face.
“You urged me to go to the land of the Idge and remove Verne,” Kincaid said, hand still outstretched. “Being just one man, I was able to slip into their city and take care of things! Thank you. Shake!”
Hesitantly, Scurch reached out a hand, which Jules quickly grasped. Clapping Scurch on the shoulder, he turned to the crowd and said, “A big hand for Scurch! Because of him, we are rid of Jules Verne!”
As the crowd cheered, Scurch managed a grin. “Thank you,” he said – but it was obvious to Kincaid that the man was still puzzled and suspicious. Still, Jules had left no option.
Jumping up in the crowd was Rittle. Turning from Scurch, Kincaid said, “Friend Rittle! Your balloons saved my life! Thank you, too!”
The crowd parted to let a beaming Rittle come forward for his own handshake.
“What about me?” Miral, smiling, came to Jules’ side.
“My beloved!” Jules said, grinning and embracing the princess of Bluewater. Then he added, “Owww!”
Miral pulled back. “Did I step on your toes?”
Jules shook his head. “No, no; it’s just that. . . well, every muscle in my body feels like it’s on fire! I’ve never befoe flown a hang-glider all day long.”
Miral put one arm around him. “Then come with me to our home,” she said. “I have healing ointments that will fix that quickly.’
The ointments worked. In fact, they worked so well that Jules Kincaid was able to indulge in some enjoyable sexual activity afterwards.
Later, while lying beside his lovely wife, Jules had an ides.
“You were able to open a door to my world," he said to Miral. "Do you think you could open a door to the realm of the infinite power?"
“I have been considering that," she said with a nod, "and I believe that the two of us, together, can probably do it."
“Together?" he responded with surprise.
“Yes. Remember, you are my creator -- it is your mind that made Bluewater."
“Not so much 'made' as 'designed' -- and filled in and actualized with the help of millions of fans, remember," he replied, "but, okay -- what do I do?"
“Close your eyes. Visualize a door, behind which is the infinite. Think of it very strongly."
Kincaid closed his eyes. In his mind, he carefully built and detailed a huge mahogany door with a golden knob; he also visualized Miral beside me. He thought -- he knew -- that the vastness of infinity was on the other side.
“Now," Miral said, "we walk up to the door."
In his mind's eye they approached the door side by side.
“Put your hand on the knob," Miral instructed.
Jules did so; it felt cold.
“Open it."
He turned the knob and pulled the door open.
There was purple mist that faded to reveal--
--a room that had no end. Across from them was a wall covered with endless rows of glowing colored buttons -- millions, billions, trillions of them -- buttons that stretched out to infinity. They all glowed softly and each had its own contrasting shade, shifting from primaries to pastels and back again.
Jules of course realized that there were not an infinite number of colors in the spectrum -- so what he was actually seeing was that each one seemed to have its own contrasting shade, because none of them touched any others of the same hue, even when they seemed to move to different places in the mass, and when their individual colors flickered to undergo small changes, those around them changed in shade and hue as well.
And golden threads, or filaments, came from below and in front of the wall and reached out to touch the buttons, starting with one but often going on to several others. Each time a button was touched, it flickered slightly and changed a little in color tone; after touching one, many of the threads would move on to tap a few more.
There were a number of differences between the various threads. Some were thicker than others. Some were massive -- multiple threads, twisted and entwined together. Some would move unhesitatingly from color to color, shade to shade, button to button, while others would pause between touches and then seem to search around as if trying top decide which new button to touch. And some reached out, tentatively, but never actually touched a button. One strong one went tap, tap, tap, several times, and then quickly went back to wherever it had come from.
“Seem like enough?" Miral asked.
“Enough," Jules nodded and opened his eyes.
“Well?" Miral asked. The expression reflected in her blue eyes was one of playful impishness. Miral knew that a computer announcement back on his home world had caused all this to start -- and that, while Jules Kincaid believed computers to be excellent tools, he could not be said to hold with deifying them.
“Are you sure we went to . . . ." he stopped, shaking his head. "No, never mind -- I'm sure we opened the right door. I just . . . well, I didn't expect . . . ."
“An endless wall of flashing lights?" she asked, still smiling.
Jules nodded and said uncomfortably, "A kind of infinite. . .keyboard, I’d guess. It's like some kind of . . .well, an infinite computer."
Miral said, "So your Infinite Source of Power -- the Answer To Why Things Work, the ultimate creator -- is a computer!"
“No!" Kincaid said sharply. “I'm sorry to snap at you like that -- but that computer, such as it is, is not the creator of all things! A computer is a thing which is manufactured and programmed -- an end product which itself, at some point in time, had to be created and put together. I spoke sharply because you know -- and realize that I know you know -- that I'm looking for the infinite and eternal mind which created it."
“So, even tho a mind is bound to be far more complicated than any computer ever will be, you can accept that a creative mind can be eternal but a lesser computer cannot?"
“It just doesn't make sense!" he said defensively. "All right, so I'm weak and fallible and being anthropomorphic. But no other explanation seems logical -- not to me, anyway."
Miral's smile softened. "All right -- for the time being at least, let's accept your idea," she said. She was still humoring him but he realized she was choosing not to be so obvious about it. "But, if your idea is correct, then where was -- or is -- that infinite being?"
"Well, I can't say for certain -- but I suppose even an infinite and eternal being would probably require some rest at times. For instance, the holy writings of Christianity and Islam, being based on the older Jewish version, essentially agree that God rested after creation. I'm reasonably certain similar ideas run thru other religions as well. In any event, I think that the infinite power -- for brevity's sake, we'll go back to calling it God -- created this interface device, which I guess we can call a kind of computer, to handle things while it rested. And a brief rest, for an infinite and eternal being, could amount to thousands of years for us."
“And those . . . thread-looking things?" Miral inquired.
“Prayers," Kincaid decided. "Or supplications. Requests for help or attention, if you will. Attempts to tap the infinite power. Note that while some were hesitant or uncertain, others went directly to the 'buttons' they wanted to push. Some pushed several buttons while others were so feeble they never touched the computer at all."
“And some were larger, thicker than others," Miral pointed out.
He nodded. "Those, I think, were the main ones that went right to work 'placing their order,' so to speak. Those were from beings of great conviction, faith, belief or whatever you care to call it. In all humanity, there has always been a few -- albeit a very few -- with the ability to reach out and control the computer, with the instinct to know what was required to give it directions. There were others -- those that were represented as multiple filaments entwined with each other -- which I think would have to be group supplications. But those few I referred to before might have even more power than them, simply because they would know that the power was there -- it being the one time when knowledge would be greater than faith!
“The reason I think they have to be prayers is essentially because of their differences. To the extent that those flashing buttons which we saw were interfaces to some kind of computer, the filaments which were trying to touch them (and sometimes succeeding) would, as I interpret it, most likely represent the attempts to operate it. Those attempts, it follows, would be prayers."
Miral could restrain herself no longer. The impish look returned as she said, "Prayers to the Great God Computer."
‘Knock it off!" Jules said a bit peevishly. "Just accept my . . . theory . . . since it's at least a workable premise . . . that the infinite power we're calling God created this interface to be able to rest after the labors involved in creation. In fact, the things that've been happening of late could, if I’m right, be due to a glitch in the computer! The sudden welling of belief and faith might have caused a malfunction."
“So your wise and infinitely powerful God created a fallible device?" The impish look had toned down, but was still there, and Jules frankly appreciated her restraint -- quite a bit had been dumped on him to work out and he needed breathing room to adjust to it all.
“That announcement by science -- which, granted, non-scientists immediately reinterpreted and so, effectively, misinterpreted -- might have been something even God would not have planned for. I mean, keep in mind that, with some notable exceptions, science has generally been in the agnostic to atheistic range of thought -- so it's not usually something people go to as a source of religious verification. Throw in the variable of human free will -- the thing that makes even us superior to computers, since it's what lets us go beyond our programming -- and we arrive at the unforeseeableness, if you will, of our present situation."
Jules took a deep breath before continuing, "Don't get me wrong -- I keep saying 'God' because it's the simplest way to talk about it and using mostly Christian terms because, having been raised a Christian, I'm more familiar with them."
Miral paused, then said, “If the strength of prayers depends on belief, then at this point you should be able to send a very strong prayer -- since, after what we just saw, there can be no question that you truly believe!"
He nodded. "After that, as I indicated, it's not just belief, but knowledge!"
And yet, he realized there was some hesitancy still him. Was it just reluctance to accept that a computer was running the universe? Yes, he had seen it -- well, visualized it -- but....
“Then there is the solution to your problem," Miral declared. "In your certainty, based on knowledge, you an simply pray for all the other gods to go away!"
“That thought has crossed my mind," Kincaid said. "However, I don't think it would be enough. Frankly, I doubt that the solution could be that simple."
"Simple?"
"Yeah. Keep in mind, Muslims are called to prayer several times a day, many of them are quite strong in their beliefs, and I think many of their prayers routinely contain a phrase to the effect that there is no God but God; if they can't 'pray' the other gods away, I doubt that I could do it simply by adding my own prayers to theirs. No, I think we're going to need a world majority, at the very least, which means -- at a minimum -- bringing in the Christians and the Muslims."
She seemed to consider that. "And just how do you think you might be able to accomplish that?"
"Well," he replied, "the Muslims are already a given. So I have to do what Christ did, with the help of Paul -- not that I'm a big fan of Paul's particular slant on things, but he was the publicity agent, the disciple who did the most to spread the word after Christ's death. I have to send a strong message to all people that there is only one God, so they will -- both consciously and subconsciously -- reject any other gods." I shook my head ruefully and added, "There I go again, Christianizing things! But you know what I mean. I have to do it in such a dramatic way that the message will go on for generation after generation."
A look of worry darkened Miral's face. "But Christ had to die to make his point!"
“Well, I certainly hope I can figure a way to spread the word without dying. But," he added with simple determination, “if that's what it really takes. . . ."
“We will try to work out a solution that won't call for that," Miral said, squeezing his hand.