Mer-Cycle

by Piers Anthony

  Where could Eleph have gotten it? Not from a regular shop! Perhaps not from Earth at all. From another alternate?

  Was he riding a machine from another universe?

  That intrigued Don deviously. His mind seemed to be racing right along with his pedals, and he moved at quite respectable velocity. What would it be like to visit an alternate world?

  “Don.”

  He jumped. His radio had recharged, and Melanie was paging him. How could he have forgotten her?

  “Here, Mel. Sorry I damped out. Someone fired a torpedo at the sub, and it had to drop and play dead. I lost the maps, but I’m on my way now. It’ll be close, but I think I can still intercept Pacifa.”

  “Oh, Don, I’m so relieved! I was afraid—”

  “So was I, for some moments there. But I squeaked through. It’s wonderful to have your company!”

  “I’ll stay with you all the way. Maybe I can help you by checking our maps, if you get lost.”

  “That will be nice.”

  Then he saw light. How could that be, this deep? Was it a beam from a sub, and if so, which one?

  Then he saw it more clearly. “Glowcloud!” he cried.

  But it was not Glowcloud. It was a monster, so large that he could see only a small section of any given tentacle at one time in the haze of water. The thing had to be a hundred feet long!

  “Are you sure?” Melanie asked. “You’re a long way from here.”

  Don snapped off his headlamp and swerved aside, hoping the squid had not noticed him. Glowcloud he knew and could get along with, he was even company of a sort. “You’re right; it’s another squid, a huge one. I’m steering clear.”

  But the giant mollusk’s curiosity had been aroused. It changed colors in rapid sequence and put forth the great tentacles to investigate. Don could see them because they glowed in the gloom. He pedaled desperately, trying to avoid their snakelike approach. If one snagged on the balloon—

  The bicycle dropped into a hole, and Don took a spill as he came to a stop. His arms bashed into rock, and he pulled up his legs to disengage them from the bicycle. He pushed off, as he had from the dropping sub—and plummeted into the blackness, finding no ground.

  He flung out his arms, catching hold of a smooth rim of rock, breaking his fall. But the slope was convex, providing no purchase, and his hands slid down. He dropped upright into an aperture like a well.

  He landed hard. It had felt like a drop of ten feet, his hands scraping all the way, and his right foot had twisted as he landed. Now the pain was starting. He was in real trouble.

  Actually, the squid had been no threat. He should not have reacted so precipitously. Had the balloon snagged on a tentacle, it might have alarmed the squid as much as Don. Now, through his folly of riding blind, he had gotten himself into a hole, literally.

  He tried to climb out, but the sides were almost slick. He felt the breeze of flowing water; this was another small freshwater spring, and the constant current had worn off all the rough edges, reaming out the vertical tunnel. Below him, by the feel, it curved and continued on down. No escape that way!

  “Don! What’s happening?” Melanie called from above.

  Don looked up to see the faint glow of the passing squid, obscured by something over the hole. The bicycle! It must have straddled the aperture—about six feet out of reach. The rope was on it, looped and securely fastened. He could not haul himself up.

  “I’m in a hole!” he called back. “I can’t reach the bike. The radio will fade out in a moment.”

  “Oh, Don!” she cried despairingly. Her voice was already fading.

  A tentacle reached down, searching for him. Don ducked away, avoiding it—and ran out of breath. He was standing at the fringe of the oxygenation field, and had to count himself lucky that the straight section of the hole had been no deeper. He could have suffocated immediately.

  He swept his hand through the groping tentacle. “It’s your fault, sucker!” he said angrily.

  He tried to climb again, this time bracing his feet against the opposite wall. Pain flared in his right ankle, forcing him to desist. That injury was worse than he had thought.

  The balloon tugged at its string, borne upward by the current. Of course! he could blow up the balloon and let it haul him up out of here. It would take time, but it was sure. And if the squid annoyed him thereafter, he could let the balloon go as a decoy, leading the monster in a futile chase upward.

  He hauled the package in and opened it. He exhaled with vigor, inflating the balloon. Of course there was no real lift yet, as his breath was mere water in the real world. He had to wait for the carbon dioxide to phase through.

  Gradually the balloon shrank—but no bubble formed. He gave it another lungful, and another. Still nothing. The gas was going somewhere, but not into the balloon of the other phase. Was there a leak?

  But he should be able to feel little bubbles escaping, in that case. There were none. What was wrong?

  “I’m a fool!” he exclaimed as another tentacle felt through him. “Carbon dioxide is compressible! At this pressure, it must liquefy!”

  His emergency lifting balloon was useless in deep water. He couldn’t even use it as a decoy.

  Don swept his hand through the tentacle again, furiously. This time the member withdrew.

  Then the weight of despair bore down on him. Don sank down—but gasped for air and had to stand again, his ankle hurting. He couldn’t even give up gracefully!

  The squid was gone and his radio was dead and he was alone. He felt dizzy; the steady current was washing his oxygen up and away, even as that current renewed the supply.

  It wasn’t only his mission that was drifting away while he languished here; it was his own life. He had no food or water on him. It was on the bicycle. In time he would grow too tired or sleepy to stand, and then he would suffocate. Unless he chose to end it sooner by diving down into the airless lower tunnel.

  He thought of Melanie. They had been on the verge of such joy, having discovered each other. Now their love would be lost, along with the world. Damn!

  And the story of the Minoan ship—would that be told, now? Splendid knew it, but Pacifa’s report might get the mer-colony wiped out too. Everything he cared about—and he did care about Splendid and her people—was doomed. Somehow these things seemed almost worse than the destruction of the world, because they were more immediate.

  He woke, and realized after the fact that he could sleep standing up. But his ankle was swollen and hurting, and he was increasingly thirsty.

  What was one ankle, compared to life? All he had to do was grit his teeth and brake against that wall and shove himself up and out.

  He tried it. Pain overwhelmed him, and he fell hard. He gasped again for oxygen, struggling upright on one foot.

  He could not do it. Perhaps eventually he would have what it took. Eleph certainly did. The kind of physical determination that took no note of pain or frailty. Don admired it enormously, but he was made of different and inferior stuff. He could not just walk into that amount of agony, though his world hung in the balance. He would pass out from the pain first, and be lost. And with him, the world. When the meteor came, and the world was not ready.

  Build not on the flank of the bull …

  Good advice! But add this to it: trust not in a weakling, lest he fall in a hole and not climb out.

  Eleph had done everything he could. He had phased through to this world with his limited equipment, and set up the mission and almost made it work. But for the bad break of Gaspar’s suspicion, he would have persuaded them, and they would be on the way to saving the world. Now he depended on Don, and Don was failing him.

  For that matter, the Minoan scholar Pi-ja-se-me had done everything he could, and also failed because of the inadequacy of others. So at last he had resigned himself to his fate and left his message for the future.

  If only he could get out of this hole and ride to intercept Pacifa! Yet at this stage, even that was a lost
hope. He had lost hours here, and it had already been a close thing; he was probably already too late. Even if not, how could he ride well, with his right ankle unable to sustain any significant weight? And if he could ride, by maybe fixing some kind of splint to brace his ankle and staying on a level route—how could he find that route, without his maps?

  Well, maybe he had a map, in the form of his depth meter. The thousand fathom contour was a reasonably straight line passing north of the entire Greater Antilles chain, only recurving well up the channel. He could cut due south to intercept it, then stay right on it, and his route would be level all the way, by definition. Any mindless lout could follow that route, ankle or no.

  Maybe it wasn’t lost quite yet. Pacifa, expecting no pursuit, might not be rushing; she didn’t want to blunder carelessly into any holes either. So he might yet catch her at his slower pace. Certainly it was worth trying. If she turned on her radio to check with Gaspar, he might tell her to wait for Don. So it remained possible to save the world, barely. Except for one thing.

  Don Kestle, genius world saver, who couldn’t lift his posterior from a hole in the ground to save his life, let alone the world.

  He drifted into a daze. Insufficient oxygen, or maybe nitrogen narcosis, because it was almost pleasant. He really didn’t know anything about either condition. This was what it felt like to die.

  “So it has come to this at last for you too,” Pi-ja-se-me said.

  Don was not surprised to find the Cretan scholar with him, or to hear him speaking intelligibly. “Yes. But I am neither as bold nor resourceful as you. I simply fell in a hole.”

  “We all fall, eventually. Are you hallucinating? I did, at the end.”

  “I must be. But I can think of no person I would rather meet in a hallucination than you.”

  “Thank you, Don-kes-tle. Have you prayed to your God?”

  “No. I don’t believe in that sort of miracle. If I can’t figure out how to save myself, then maybe I deserve to die.”

  “I agree. The Gods care nothing for our convenience. But is there a way to save yourself?”

  “Well, if the sides of this hole weren’t so smooth, I could climb out. Or if I had something to stand on, I could reach or jump to catch hold of my bike. Or if someone found me, and let down a rope I could use. It is really a simple thing, getting out.”

  “That glove you used to handle the mermaid—could that help?”

  Don brought out the balloon. “If I had something to grab with it, yes. But I don’t.” He jammed it back into his pocket.

  “I am sorry, my friend. I would help you if I could, but words are all I have.”

  “I would help you too, Pi-ja, if I could. Let me shake your hand.”

  The man looked confused. “Do what?”

  “It is a simple clasping of right hands. By this we signal our appreciation of each other, and our agreement.”

  Pi-ja nodded. He extended his hand. Don took it.

  Then Don thought of something else. “There were female things by your tablets, jewelry, but you mentioned no woman on the ship.”

  “Of course. They were mementos of my lovely concubine. She had her odd ways, and was jealous, but I loved her, and I kept the things she gave me always close. They were a comfort in my time alone.”

  Such an obvious explanation! Why hadn’t he thought of it himself?

  He was awakened again by a tentacle passing through his face. He had lost another two hours, according to the glowing hands of his watch. Not that it mattered, since he couldn’t go anywhere anyway. Old long-arms was back again, making a second round investigation after several hours. Damned mollusk curiosity!

  The tip of the tentacle hung up momentarily on the useless balloon wadded into Don’s pocket.

  Don-kes! The glove!

  Don snatched the limp rubber out and cupped it in the palm of his hand. Then he clapped that hand to the dangling tentacle, squeezing tightly. He put his other hand over the first, locking it in place.

  The squid felt it. The giant limb yanked up—and Don hung on, coming up with it.

  His head cracked into the bicycle. Involuntarily he let go—and grabbed the crossbar of the bike. His feet dropped, but he had hold of what he needed.

  He saw the startled squid jetting high and away, flashing colors. “Get lost, monster!” he called after it. “Thanks for the lift!”

  He heaved up his feet, getting them onto the bike. He fought his way to the side, crawling to land. Then he pulled the bike after him.

  He mounted it and pushed off. His right foot hurt, but he could pedal with his left. Inertia kept him moving. So it was possible. But it would be better with a splint, so he could use both feet.

  But you are free. Perhaps your concubine can help.

  “Melanie,” he said, as the radio recharged. “I’m out.”

  “Oh, Don! I was so worried! All this time with no word from you—”

  “But my right ankle is hurt. I have to fix that before I can go on. I don’t suppose Pacifa has opened radio contact?”

  “No, nothing from her.”

  He came to a stop and dismounted. Pacifa would have been expert at this, but he was clumsy. How was a splint made? Or could he just somehow fasten something to his knee, to push at the pedal? He had to be quick about it, whatever it was.

  There was another light. “Go away, squid,” he said.

  What is that? There was never a ship like that!

  Then he realized that it wasn’t squid glow. It was artificial light. A submarine!

  Ah, now I have the concept from your mind. What a strange world you have, Don-kes-tle!

  Had the Chinese sub come to take him the rest of the way? In that case, the mission had been saved.

  But as the think loomed closer, he saw the markings on its tower. It was American!

  Ordinarily this would have been good news, but right now it was bad news. The Chinese sub understood his situation, but the American sub did not. It might think he was some kind of enemy agent. Better to let it pass without noticing him. It had no reason to suspect his presence here; it was only the luck of his fall into the hole that had prevented him from being far away.

  Your friend may be your enemy?

  “What’s happening, Don?” Melanie asked.

  A beam of light speared out from the sub, orienting on the sound. It must have heard his prior dialogue, and come to investigate; now it had him pinpointed. In a moment the light illuminated him, making him avert his gaze from its brilliance. Beyond, the sub settled slowly to the ground, and into it, as nearly as he could tell. The sea-floor here was evidently a bit lower than in the phase world, or mushier because of the sediment. He hadn’t noticed, but since he automatically attuned to what was in the phase world, now, that wasn’t surprising.

  Pointless to try to hide, now. “American sub,” he said. “Probably the one that fired the torpedo. It must be casting around for the other, to be sure it’s dead.”

  “But they mustn’t fight!” Melanie exclaimed.

  “I’ll try to talk to it.” He waved into the blinding light. “Hi! My name is Don Kestle and I’m American!”

  The light dropped to cover his feet. There was a metallic squawk. Then a bubble formed on the front deck and something poked out of it. Don couldn’t make out any further detail because of the light.

  Beware!

  Something shot through the water at him. It was past him before he realized what it was: a harpoon. A spear with a line attached. This was evidently a dual-purpose sub, with torpedoes and fish-spearing equipment. It would normally be used to nab specimens for study: when the fired spear lodged, the line pulled it and the fish back.

  “They’re firing spears at me!” he told Melanie.

  Either the sub wasn’t equipped to receive and interpret his words, or it didn’t believe him. It thought him a hallucination or strange creature, and it was going to spear him, pull him in, and examine him. That shoot-first mentality was in evidence again.

 
; “What’s the matter with them?” she demanded.

  “I guess they don’t understand men riding bicycles on the floor of the ocean.”

  He could not be hurt by the spears, but this wasn’t helping him communicate. How could he get the sub to stop and listen, as the Chinese sub did?

  You must surprise it.

  Don threw himself to the side as a second harpoon was fired. He wasn’t quite fast enough, and it passed through his shoulder.

  “That does it!” he said. He picked up his bike, got on it, winced as his right foot hit the pedal, and started moving. He got up speed, then turned to charge the submarine. He rode right into it.

  Then he was passing through its nether portion. Because it was sitting several feet lower than his phase surface, he was passing through its second level of compartments. In fact he seemed to be traversing the crew’s quarters.

  Amazing! Can you talk to them?

  Maybe this was what he needed! He turned off his radio, so that there would not be confusion. “Hey, fellows!” he cried, stopping his bike and gesturing.

  There were several crewmen there. Their eyes bugged as they saw him among them. “What the hell is this?” one burly sailor demanded, jumping off his bunk.

  “I’m Don Kestle,” Don said quickly. “I’m sort of like a—a hologram. You can’t touch me. But I need your help.”

  “Get the Officer of the Day!” the man said over his shoulder. Then he came to lay his hand on Don’s shoulder. It passed through. “You’re a damned ghost!”

  Then what am I?

  “A hologram,” Don repeated. “I’m not really here. But listen to me! I need a lift to Florida, or—” But he knew it would be no good trying to tell them about the end of the world. He got off the bike, waiting.

  In what must have been record time, an officer appeared. “It’s the same manifestation that was outside!” he exclaimed.