“Well,” he thought, “there's no one to stop me now unless it's Prof. Anderson...”
To Poole's relief, the physician thought it an excellent idea, and he was also pleased to find that every one of the Towers had its own Aviary, up at the one tenth gee level.
Within a few days he was being measured for his wings, not in the least like the elegant versions worn by the performers of Swan Lake. Instead of feathers there was a flexible membrane, and when he grasped the hand-holds attached to the supporting ribs, Poole realized that he must look much more like a bat than a bird. However his “Move over, Dracula!” was completely wasted on his instructor, who was apparently unacquainted with vampires.
For his first lessons he was restrained by a light harness, so that he did not move anywhere while he was taught the basic strokes – and, most important of all, learned control and stability. Like many acquired skills, it was not quite as easy as it looked.
He felt ridiculous in this safety-harness – how could anyone injure themselves at a tenth of a gravity! – and was glad that he needed only a few lessons; doubtless his astronaut training helped. He was, the Wingmaster told him, the best pupil he had ever taught: but perhaps he said that to all of them.
After a dozen free-flights in a chamber forty meters on a side, criss-crossed with various obstacles which he easily avoided, Poole was given the all-clear for his first solo – and felt nineteen years old again, about to take off in the Flagstaff Aero Club's antique Cessna.
The unexciting name “The Aviary” had not prepared him for the venue of this maiden flight. Though it seemed even more enormous than the space holding the forests and gardens down at the lunar-gee level, it was almost the same size, since it too occupied an entire floor of the gently tapering Tower. A circular void, half a kilometer high and over four kilometers wide, it appeared truly enormous, as there were no features on which the eye could rest. Because the walls were a uniform pale blue, they contributed to the impression of infinite space.
Poole had not really believed the Wingmaster's boast, “You can have any scenery you like”, and intended to throw him what he was sure was an impossible challenge. But on this first flight, at the dizzy altitude of fifty meters, there were no visual distractions, Of course, a fall from the equivalent altitude of five meters in the ten-fold greater Earth gravity could break one's neck; however, even minor bruises were unlikely here, as the entire floor was covered with a network of flexible cables The whole chamber was a giant trampoline; one could, thought Poole, have a lot of fun here – even without wings.
With firm, downward strokes, Poole lifted himself into the air. In almost no time, it seemed that he was a hundred meters in the air, and still rising.
“Slow down” said the Wingmaster, “I can't keep up with you,”
Poole straightened out, then attempted a slow roll. He felt light-headed as well as light-bodied (less than ten kilograms!) and wondered if the concentration of oxygen had been increased.
This was wonderful – quite different from zero gravity, as it posed more of a physical challenge. The nearest thing to it was scuba diving: he wished there were birds here, to emulate the equally colorful coral fish who had so often accompanied him over tropical reefs.
One by one, the Wingmaster put him through a series of maneuvers – rolls, loops, upside-down flying, hovering.
Finally he said: “Nothing more I can teach you. Now let's enjoy the view.”
Just for a moment, Poole almost lost control – as he was probably expected to do. For, without the slightest warning, he was surrounded by snow-capped mountains, and was flying down a narrow pass, only meters from some unpleasantly jagged rocks.
Of course, this could not be real: those mountains were as insubstantial as clouds, and he could fly right through them if he wished. Nevertheless, he veered away from the cliff face (there was an eagle's nest on one of its ledges, holding two eggs which he felt he could touch if he came closer) and headed for more open space.
The mountains vanished; suddenly, it was night. And then the stars came out – not the miserable few thousand in the impoverished skies of Earth, but legions beyond counting. And not only stars, but the spiral whirlpools of distant galaxies, the teeming, close-packed sun-swarms of globular clusters.
There was no possible way this could be real, even if he had been magically transported to some world where such skies existed. For those galaxies were receding even as he watched; stars were fading, exploding, being born in stellar nurseries of glowing fire-mist. Every second, a million years must be passing...
The overwhelming spectacle disappeared as quickly as it had come: he was back in the empty sky, alone except for his instructor, in the featureless blue cylinder of the Aviary.
“I think that's enough for one day,” said the Wingmaster, hovering a few meters above Poole. “What scenery would you like, the next time you come here?”
Poole did not hesitate. With a smile, he answered the question.
11. Here be Dragons
He would never have believed it possible, even with the technology of this day and age. How many terabytes – petabytes – was there a large enough word? – of information must have been accumulated over the centuries, and in what sort of storage medium? Better not think about it, and follow Indra's advice: “Forget you're an engineer – and enjoy yourself.”
He was certainly enjoying himself now, though his pleasure was mixed with an almost overwhelming sense of nostalgia. For he was flying, or so it seemed, at an altitude of about two kilometers, above the spectacular and unforgotten landscape of his youth. Of course, the perspective was false, since the Aviary was only half a kilometer high, but the illusion was perfect.
He circled Meteor Crater, remembering how he had scrambled up its sides during his earlier astronaut training. How incredible that anyone could ever have doubted its origin, and the accuracy of its name! Yet well into the twentieth century, distinguished geologists had argued that it was volcanic: not until the coming of the Space Age was it – reluctantly – accepted that all planets were still under continual bombardment.
Poole was quite sure that his comfortable cruising speed was nearer twenty than two hundred kilometers an hour, yet he had been allowed to reach Flagstaff in less than fifteen minutes. And there were the whitely-gleaming domes of the Lowell Observatory, which he had visited so often as a boy, and whose friendly staff had undoubtedly been responsible for his choice of career. He had sometimes wondered what his profession might have been, had he not been born in Arizona, near the very spot where the most long-enduring and influential of Martian fantasies had been created. Perhaps it was imagination, but Poole thought he could just see Lowell's unique tomb, close to the great telescope, which had fuelled his dreams.
From what year, and what season, had this image been captured? He guessed it had come from the spy satellites which had watched over the world of the early twenty first century. It could not be much later than his own time, for the layout of the city was just as he remembered. Perhaps if he went low enough he would even see himself...
But he knew that was absurd; he had already discovered that this was the nearest he could get. If he flew any closer, the image would start to breakup, revealing its basic pixels. It was better to keep his distance, and not destroy the beautiful illusion.
And there – it was incredible! – was the little park where he had played with his junior and high-school friends. The City Fathers were always arguing about its maintenance, as the water supply became more and more critical. Well, at least it had survived to this time – whenever that might be.
And then another memory brought tears to his eyes. Along those narrow paths, whenever he could get home from Houston or the Moon, he had walked with his beloved Rhodesian Ridgeback, throwing sticks for him to retrieve, as man and dog had done from time immemorial.
Poole had hoped, with all his heart, that Rikki would still be there to greet him when he returned from Jupiter, and had left him in the c
are of his younger brother Martin. He almost lost control, and sank several meters before regaining stability, as he once more faced the bitter truth that both Rikki and Martin had been dust for centuries.
When he could see properly again, he noticed that the dark band of the Grand Canyon was just visible on the far horizon. He was debating whether to head for it – he was growing a little tired – when he became aware that he was not alone in the sky. Something else was approaching, and it was certainly not a human flyer. Although it was difficult to judge distances here, it seemed much too large for that.
Well, he thought, I'm not particularly surprised to meet a pterodactyl here – indeed, it's just the sort of thing I'd expect. I hope it's friendly – or that I can outfly it if it isn't. Oh, no!
A pterodactyl was not a bad guess: maybe eight points out of ten. What was approaching him now, with slow flaps of its great leathery wings, was a dragon straight out of Fairyland. And, to complete the picture, there was a beautiful lady riding on its back. At least, Poole assumed she was beautiful. The traditional image was rather spoiled by one trifling detail: much of her face was concealed by a large pair of aviator's goggles that might have come straight from the open cockpit of a World War I biplane.
Poole hovered in mid-air, like a swimmer treading water, until the oncoming monster came close enough for him to hear the flapping of its great wings. Even when it was less than twenty meters away, he could not decide whether it was a machine or a bio-construct: probably both.
And then he forgot about the dragon, for the rider removed her goggles.
The trouble with clichés, some philosopher remarked, probably with a yawn, is that they are so boringly true.
But “love at first sight” is never boring.
Danil could provide no information, but then Poole had not expected any from him. His ubiquitous escort – he certainly would not pass muster as a classic valet – seemed so limited in his functions that Poole sometimes wondered if he was mentally handicapped, unlikely though that seemed. He understood the functioning of all the household appliances, carried out simple orders with speed and efficiency, and knew his way about the Tower. But that was all; it was impossible to have an intelligent conversation with him, and any polite queries about his family were met with a look of blank incomprehension. Poole had even wondered if he too was a bio-robot.
Indra, however, gave him the answer he needed right away.
“Oh, you've met the Dragon Lady!”
“Is that what you call her? What's her real name – and can you get me her Ident? We were hardly in a position to touch palms.”
“Of course – no problemo.”
“Where did you pick up that?”
Indra looked uncharacteristically confused.
“I've no idea – some old book or movie. Is it a good figure of speech?”
“Not if you're over fifteen.”
“I'll try to remember. Now tell me what happened – unless you want to make me jealous.”
They were now such good friends that they could discuss any subject with perfect frankness. Indeed, they had laughingly lamented their total lack of romantic interest in each other – though Indra had once commented, “I guess that if we were both marooned on a desert asteroid, with no hope of rescue, we could come to some arrangement.”
“First, you tell me who she is.”
“Her name's Aurora McAuley; among many other things, she's President of the Society for Creative Anachronisms. And if you thought Draco was impressive, wait until you see some of their other – ah – creations. Like Moby Dick – and a whole zooful of dinosaurs Mother Nature never thought of.”
This is too good to be true, thought Poole.
I am the biggest anachronism on Planet Earth.
12. Frustration
Until now, he had almost forgotten that conversation with the Space Agency psychologist.
“You may be gone from Earth for at least three years. If you like, I can give you a harmless anaphrodisiac implant that will last out the mission. I promise we'll more than make it up, when you get home.”
“No thanks,” Poole had answered, trying to keep his face straight when he continued, “I think I can handle it.”
Nevertheless, he had become suspicious after the third or fourth week – and so had Dave Bowman.
“I've noticed it too,” Dave said “I bet those damn doctors put something in our diet...”
Whatever that something was – if indeed it had ever existed – it was certainly long past its shelf-life. Until now, Poole had been too busy to get involved in any emotional entanglements, and had politely turned down generous offers from several young (and not so young) ladies. He was not sure whether it was his physique or his fame that appealed to them: perhaps it was nothing more than simple curiosity about a man who, for all they knew, might be an ancestor from twenty or thirty generations in the past.
To Poole's delight, Mistress McAuley's Ident conveyed the information that she was currently between lovers, and he wasted no further time in contacting her. Within twenty-four hours he was pillion-riding, with his arms enjoyably around her waist. He had also learned why aviator's goggles were a good idea, for Draco was entirely robotic, and could easily cruise at a hundred klicks. Poole doubted if any real dragons had ever attained such speeds.
He was not surprised that the ever-changing landscapes below them were straight out of legend. Ali Baba had waved angrily at them, as they overtook his flying carpet, shouting “Can't you see where you're going!” Yet he must be a long way from Baghdad, because the dreaming spires over which they now circled could only be Oxford.
Aurora confirmed his guess as she pointed down: “That's the pub – the inn – where Lewis and Tolkien used to meet their friends, the Inklings. And look at the river – that boat just coming out from the bridge – do you see the two little girls and the clergyman in it?”
“Yes,” he shouted back against the gentle sussuration of Draco's slipstream. “And I suppose one of them is Alice.”
Aurora turned and smiled at him over her shoulder: she seemed genuinely delighted.
“Quite correct: she's an accurate replica, based on the Reverend's photos. I was afraid you wouldn't know. So many people stopped reading soon after your time.”
Poole felt a glow of satisfaction.
I believe I've passed another test, he told himself smugly. Riding on Draco must have been the first. How many more, I wonder? Fighting with broadswords?
But there were no more, and the answer to the immemorial “Your place or mine?” was – Poole's.
The next morning, shaken and mortified, he contacted Professor Anderson.
“Everything was going splendidly,” he lamented, “when she suddenly became hysterical and pushed me away. I was afraid I'd hurt her somehow–
“Then she called the roomlight – we'd been in darkness – and jumped out of bed. I guess I was just staring like a fool...” He laughed ruefully. “She was certainly worth staring at.”
“I'm sure of it. Go on.”
“After a few minutes she relaxed and said something I'll never be able to forget.”
Anderson waited patiently for Poole to compose himself. “She said: 'I'm really sorry, Frank. We could have had a good time. But I didn't know that you'd been – mutilated'.”
The professor looked baffled, but only for a moment. “Oh – I understand. I'm sorry too, Frank – perhaps I should have warned you. In my thirty years of practice, I've only seen half a dozen cases – all for valid medical reasons, which certainly didn't apply to you...”
“Circumcision made a lot of sense in primitive times – and even in your century – as a defence against some unpleasant – even fatal – diseases in backward countries with poor hygiene. But otherwise there was absolutely no excuse for it – and several arguments against, as you've just discovered!”
“I checked the records after I'd examined you the first time, and found that by mid twenty-first century there had been so
many malpractice suits that the American Medical Association had been forced to ban it. The arguments among the contemporary doctors are very entertaining.”
“I'm sure they are,” said Poole morosely.
“In some countries it continued for another century: then some unknown genius coined a slogan – please excuse the vulgarity – 'God designed us: circumcision is blasphemy'. That more or less ended the practice. But if you want, it would be easy to arrange a transplant – you wouldn't be making medical history, by any means.”
“I don't think it would work. Afraid I'd start laughing every time.”
“That's the spirit – you're already getting over it.”
Somewhat to his surprise, Poole realized that Anderson's prognosis was correct. He even found himself already laughing.
“Now what, Frank?”
“Aurora's 'Society for Creative Anachronisms'. I'd hoped it would improve my chances. Just my luck to have found one anachronism she doesn't appreciate.”
13. Stranger in a Strange Time
Indra was not quite as sympathetic as he had hoped: perhaps, after all, there was some sexual jealousy in their relationship. And – much more serious – what they wryly labelled the Dragon Debacle led to their first real argument.
It began innocently enough, when Indra complained:
“People are always asking me why I've devoted my life to such a horrible period of history, and it's not much of an answer to say that there were even worse ones.”
“Then why are you interested in my century?”
“Because it marks the transition between barbarism and civilization.”
“Thank you. Just call me Conan.”