Wet and cold they saw a bleared gray dawn come and for a time the rain stopped, though clouds fleeted past on the wind almost within hand’s-reach overhead. Climbing upon their trolleys they set handkerchiefs of sail and scudded along the monoline with wheels whirring.

  For two hours the line led along the ridge, and the wind pressed up and over the mountain like a water-spill. The vegetation, low shrubs with tattered blue-green streamers of leaves, whipped and flapped below. To the left was a dark valley full of gray mist, to the right the clouds hid the panorama, but when they broke and parted, a pleasant broken country could be seen—hills, forests, small lakes, and several times they glimpsed great stone castles.

  Clodleberg looked back at Glystra, swept his hand over the land to the right. “The Galatudanian Valley, with the Hibernian March below. A land of dukes and knights and barons, stealing each other’s daughters and robbing one another . . . Dangerous country to walk afoot.”

  The wind increased, buffeted the travellers until tears flew from their eyes, and a fine driven spume stung their cheeks. Heeling far to the side, the trolley skimmed southeast at sixty miles an hour, and they might have travelled faster had not Clodleberg constantly luffed wind from his sails.

  For an hour they wheeled along the line, swaying and jerking, and then Clodleberg rose in his seat, signalled to furl sail.

  The trolleys costed to a platform from which a line led at a right angle to their course, down into the valley. The far anchor was invisible; all that could be seen was the gradually diminishing swoop of the white cable.

  Nancy peered down the line, drew back with a shiver.

  Clodleberg grinned. “This is the easy direction. Coming back, a person must make a two-day portage from the valley floor.”

  “Do we slide down—out there?” asked Nancy in a hushed voice.

  Clodleberg nodded, enjoying the trepidation which the prospect of the drop aroused in his charges.

  “We’ll kill ourselves going so fast; it’s so—steep!”

  “The wind presses on you, brakes your fall. There’s nothing to it. Follow me. . . .”

  He turned his trolley down the slanting line, and in an instant was a far dwindling shape vibrating down the wind.

  Glystra stirred himself. “I guess I’m next. ...”

  It was like stepping out into nothing, like diving headfirst over a cliff. . . The first mile was almost free fall. The wind buffeted, cloud-wisps whipped past, the land below was an indeterminate blur.

  Overhead the wheel sang into high pitch, though it carried almost no weight. The white line stretched out ahead, always curving slightly up, away, out of vision.

  Glystra became aware that the whirr of the wheel was decreasing in pitch; the line was flattening out, the ground below was rising to meet him.

  Across a green and yellow forest he rolled and he glimpsed below a settlement of log cabins, with a dozen children in white smocks staring up ... Then they were gone and the forest was dark and deep below. Flying insects darted up past his eyes, and then ahead he saw a platform hung in the top of a giant tree, and here waited Clodleberg.

  Glystra stiffly climbed to the platform. Clodleberg was watching him with a crafty smile. “How did you like the swoop?”

  “I’d like to move at that speed for three weeks. We’d be at the Enclave.”

  The line began to quiver and sing. Looking back up, Glystra saw the freight-carrier with Corbus, Motta and Wailie.

  “We might as well start off,” said Clodleberg. “Otherwise the platform will be over-crowded.” He tested the wind, shook his head. “Poor, a poor reach. We’ll have to trim our sails closeby; the wind blows almost down the line . . . However fair winds cannot be ours forever—and I believe the line veers presently to the east, and we’ll make better time.”

  They set off, close-hauled, sailing so near into the eye of the wind that the leach of the sail flapped constantly. The line ran from tree-top to tree-top, and sometimes black-green foliage brushed Glystra’s feet . . . Clodleberg had doused his sail, was beckoning him urgently.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  Silence, signalled Clodleberg. He pointed ahead. Glystra trundled his trolley forward, up against Clodleberg’s. “What’s wrong?”

  Clodleberg was fixedly watching something on the ground, through a gap in the foliage. “This is a dangerous part of the line . . . Bands of soldiers, starving forest people, bandits . . . Sometimes they wait till a trolley is over a high space, then cut the line, killing the traveller. ...”

  Glystra saw movement through the leaves, a shifting of white and gray. Clodleberg climbed from the trolley into the branches of the tree, let himself cautiously down a few feet. Glystra watched him quietly. Behind came the quiver of the next trolley. Glystra signalled it to a halt.

  Clodleberg was motioning to him. Glystra left his trolley, climbed to the crotch where Clodleberg stood. Through a gap in the leaves he could see the floor of the forest. Behind a low orange bush crouched three boys about ten years old. Bows and arrows ready, they watched the line like cats at a mousehole.

  “Here’s where they get their early training,” whispered Clodleberg. “When they grow larger they go to raiding the towns of the March and all the Galatudanian Valley.” He quietly nocked a quarrel into his cross-bow.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Glystra.

  “Kill the biggest . . . I’ll be saving the lives of many innocent people.”

  Glystra struck up his arm; the bolt shattered a branch over the head of the would-be assassins. Glystra saw their white faces, big dark eyes, open frightened mouths; then they were off, scurrying like rabbits.

  “Why did you do that?” asked Clodleberg heatedly. “Those same skulkers may murder me on my way back to Swamp City.”

  Glystra could find no words at first. Then he muttered, “Sorry ... I suppose you’re right. But if this were Earth, or any of the System planets, they’d be at their schooling.”

  A shaft of pure brilliance plunged down through the sky— Big Planet sunlight. The rain-washed colors of the forest shone with a glowing clarity never seen on Earth: black-greens, reds, yellows, ochers, buffs, the lime-green of low hangworts, the russet of bundle-bush. The wind blew high, blew low, the clouds flew back across the mountains; they sailed in a fresh sunny breeze.

  The monoline dropped down out of the forest, stretched across a river-valley, over a swift river which Clodleberg named the Thelma. They made a fifty foot portage up the opposite bank, and set off once more across a land of peaceful farms and stone houses, undistinguished except for the fact that each house carried on its gable an intricate tangle of brambles and spiny leaves.

  Glystra called to Clodleberg. “What on earth are those bristling thorn-patches?”

  “Those are the ghost-catchers,” said Clodleberg easily. “This section of country abounds with ghosts; there’s a ghost for every house, sometimes more; and since they always give a quick jump which takes them to the roof where they can walk back and forth, the traps discourage them sadly . . . The very home of ghosts is this Mankelly Parish, and witches too. . . .”

  Glystra thought that no matter how ordinary and uneventful a Big Planet landscape might appear, it was still—Big Planet.

  The monoline paralleled a rutted earthen road, and three times the caravan, swinging along briskly with the breeze on the beam, passed big red farm-wains with six-foot wooden wheels, squeaking and groaning like scalded pigs. They were loaded with red melon-bulbs, bundles of orange vine, baskets of green okra. The lads who walked barefoot alongside goading the longnecked zipangotes wore tall conical hats with veils of white cloth about their faces.

  “To fool the ghosts?” Glystra asked Clodleberg.

  “To fool the ghosts.”

  Afternoon wore on; the country became verdant and the ground supported every kind of pleasant growth. The farming region fell behind; they seemed to be traversing a great parkland.

  Clodleberg pointed ahead. “See there, that white aquafer? There is your first glimpse of Kirstendale, the finest city of the Galatudanian Valley. ...”

  11. Every Man a Millionaire!

  For several minutes little enough of Kirstendale could be seen: splashes of white through the trees, a pair of stone causeways. The trolleys sailed across a pasture of red-green grass, the trees parted, and there was the city, rising from a grassy plain with blue mountains in the background.

  It was the largest and most elaborate settlement the Earthmen had seen on Big Planet, but it was never a city which might have existed on Earth. It reminded Glystra of the cloud-borne castles in fairy-story illustrations.

  The line took a sudden turn and they came upon a scene of gay activity, carnival color.

  A game was in progress. On the field were fifty men and women in garments of remarkable complexity and elegance: silks, satins, velvets, coarse tasselled weaves— tucked, flared, gored, bedecked, be-ribboned, covered with tinsel and lace. The field was laid off into squares by lines of colored grasses, cropped and tended with the nicest precision, and each player occupied a single square. Sheets of silk hung at each side from a row of moored balloons. Each sheet glowed a different color: peach-tan, orange-russet, blue, sea-green, rippling, shining in the breeze. A myriad of small colored balls were in use, balls which half-floated, almost as light as air. The players caught balls in a manner which seemed to depend on the color of the ball, the color of the player’s head-ribbon and the square where the player stood. Balls filled the air, little sunlit jewels, and sometimes a player would catch three balls at once and toss them away with great dexterity. When a ball landed in one of the silken curtains, a score was counted to the great jubilation of certain players and spectators who cried, “Ohe, ohe, ohe!”

  Several hundred men and women watched the game from the sidelines. They were dressed in the same extravagant fashion, and in addition wore headgear of fantastic complexity, confections most ingeniously designed and assembled. One young man displayed a shell like an overturned boat, striped in bright green and scarlet. Balls of fluorescent blue clung here and there to the fabric, and tapes of golden taupe fluttered below. A great puff of bright purple veil rose from the top, and imbedded in this veil were globes of red, green, blue, yellow, shining like Christmas tree ornaments ... A young woman—very beautiful, Glystra thought, supple as a kitten, with sleek yellow hair and long yellow eyes—wore first a cloche-helmet of soft leather from which rose a tall antenna, and this antenna radiated prongs tipped with spangles of live fire—vermilion, scintillant green, molten gold. . . . Another—another—another: baroque, unique, incredible

  The monoline circled the field. The players and spectators glanced up casually, returned to their game with interest for nothing but the multiple flight of the colored balls.

  Glystra noticed an attendant rolling a cart arrayed with pink and white pastries. “Pianza—look what he’s wearing ...”

  Pianza snorted in surprise and amusement. “It’s a tuxedo. Dinner jacket. Black tie. Stripe down the trousers, patent leather shoes. Wonderful.”

  Out on the field a ball fell into the billowing russet-gold curtain, rolled softly to the ground. There was joyous applause from the spectators.

  Glystra slacked his sails, his trolley coasted quietly along the line. The freight-flat behind, with Pianza and Bishop, overtook him. Glystra spoke over his shoulder, “Bishop, what does the Almanac say about Kirstendale? Anything interesting?”

  Bishop came up to stand at the forward end of the flat, under the lead wheel. He looked in frowning reflection toward the looping walls. “Seems as if there’s a mystery of sorts—‘the Kirstendale Paradox,’ that’s what they called it. It starts to come back to me. A syndicate of millionaires established the town to beat System taxes. A whole colony came out with their servants—twenty or thirty families. Apparently—well,” he waved his hand. “There’s the result.”

  The monoline veered once more, the breeze fell astern. Sails spread out like butterfly wings, the caravan plunged through an arch into the city, coasted up to a landing.

  Three quiet men in dark livery came foward, wordlessly removed the packs from the trolley, put them into carts with high spoked wheels. Glystra started to remonstrate, but catching Clodleberg’s eye, desisted. “What’s happening?”

  “They assume that you are wealthy,” said Clodleberg, “from the trolleys and the women.”

  “Humph,” grunted Glystra. “Am I supposed to tip them?”

  “Do what?”

  “Give them money.”

  Clodleberg blinked, still perplexed.

  “Money. Metal.”

  “Ah, metal!” Clodleberg twisted his natty mustache. “That is as you wish.”

  The head porter approached, a tall solemn-faced man with carefully shaved cheeks, long sideburns terminating in a little puff of whiskers: a man comporting himself with immense dignity.

  Glystra handed him three small iron washers. “For you and your men.”

  “Thank you, sir ... And where will you have your luggage sent?”

  Glystra shrugged. “What are the choices?”

  “Well, there’s the Grand Savoyard and the Metropole And the Ritz-Carlton—all excellent, all equally expensive.”

  “How expensive?”

  The head porter blinked, raised his black eyebrows the faintest trifle. “Perhaps an ounce a week . . . The Traveller’s Inn and the Fairmont are likewise expensive, but something quieter. . . .”

  “What is a good inn of moderate rates?”

  The head porter clicked his heels. “I recommend the Hunt Club. This way, sir, to the carriage.”

  He led them to a landau mounted on four elliptical springs of laminated golden wood. There were no zipan-gotes hitched to the front, in fact the carriage appeared innocent of motive power.

  The head porter swung open the door with a flourish. Cloyville, in the lead, hesitated, looked quizzically back over his shoulder. “A joke? After we get in, do you walk away and leave us sitting here?”

  “No indeed, sir, by no means.”

  Cloyville gingerly climbed up the two steps, lowered himself into the soft seat. The rest of the party followed.

  The head porter closed the door with exquisite finesse, signalled. Four men in tight black uniforms stepped forward; each clipped a strap to the front of the carriage, tossed it over his shoulder, and the carriage was underway. Wooden planking rumbled below the wheels, the hangar-like buildings were behind, they drove over granite flags through the heart of the city.

  Kirstendale had been laid out with an eye to striking vistas. It was a city clean as new paper, bright with polished stone and glass, gay with flowers. Towers rose everywhere, each circled by a staircase which spiralled up to meet the onion-shaped bulb of the dwelling.

  They approached a cylindrical building in the middle of the city, large as a gas-storage tank. A lush growth of blue-green vine with maroon trumpet-flowers, rows of large windows gave a sense of lightness and elegance to an otherwise heavy building.

  The carriage passed under a marquee roofed with stained glass, and the Big Planet sunlight, passing through, puddled the flags with gorgeous color. A sign on the marquee read, “Hotel Metropole.”

  “Hm,” said Cloyville. “Looks like a nice place . . . After the—well, inconvenience of the journey, I could stand a week or two in the lap of luxury.”

  But the carriage continued around the building, presently passed another marquee. This was draped in rich saffron satin, fringed with royal red tassels. A sign read “Grand Savoyard.”

  Next they passed a portico of somewhat classical dignity: columns, Ionic capitals and entablature. Chiselled letters read “Ritz-Carlton,” and again Cloyville looked wistfully over his shoulder as the carriage swept by. “We’ll probably end up on a flop-house on the skid-road.”

  They passed a vaguely Oriental entrance: carved dark wood, a slab of the same wood supporting tall green urns. The sign read, “The Traveller’s Inn.”

  The carriage continued another hundred feet and stopped under an awning of green, red and white striped canvas. A bold black and white sign announced “The Hunt Club.”

  A doorman stepped forward, helped them to the pavement, then ran ahead, opened the door.

  The party of travellers passed through a short corridor pasted with green baize, decorated with black and white landscapes, entered a large central lobby.

  Directly opposite, across the lobby, a corridor led outside. Through the door shone the many-colored radiance of stained-glass in the sunlight.

  Glystra looked around the walls. At intervals other corridors led off like spokes from a hub, all evidently leading to the outside.

  Glystra stopped short. Grinning he turned to Pianza. “The Metropole, the Grand Savoyard, the Ritz-Carlton, the Traveller’s Inn, the Hunt Club—they’re all the same.”

  Clodleberg made an urgent motion. “Quiet. This is very real to the Kirsters. You will offend them.”

  “But—”

  Clodleberg said hurriedly, “I should have informed you; the entrance you chose places you on the social scale. The accommodations are identical, but it is considered smarter and more fashionable to enter through the Metropole.”

  Glystra nodded. “I understand completely. We’ll be careful.”

  The doorman led them across the lobby to a circular desk with a polished wood counter. Rods wound with spirals of colored cloth rising from the edge of the counter supported a parasol-shaped top. A central pier continued up three feet, then extended in a ten foot pole of pitted black wood. Around the pole, veering in and out, flew ten thousand fireflies—swooping, circling, settling on the pitted wood of the pole, flying out again in a swift current, ten, twenty, fifty feet from the pole.

  The doorman took them to that section of the desk marked off by the Hunt Club colors. Glystra turned around, counted heads, like the father of a troublesome family. Cloyville, ruddy and flushed, was talking to a tired Pianza; Corbus and Bishop stood with Wailie and Motta, the girls excited, vastly impressed; Nancy stood pale and rather tense by his right elbow, Clodleberg at his left. Nine in all.