Alan Dean Foster - Impossible Places

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Impossible Places

by Alan Dean Foster

Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may

have been reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed” and neither the author nor the

publisher may have received payment for it.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming edition of Drowning World by Alan Dean

Foster. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the

forthcoming edition.

A Del Rey Book

Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New

York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Futurecrimes.

Zone.

Eat Just One.

Pregnant by Elvis.

“The Boy Who Was a Sea,” copyright C 1997 by Thranx, Inc.; first appeared in Destination

Unknown.

Files.

“Pein bek Longpela Telimpon,” copyright C 1999 by Thranx, Inc.; first appeared in Future

Crime.

Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rev colophon is a trademark of Random House,

Inc.

www.delreydigital.com

ISBN 0-345-45041-8

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: September 2002

OPM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To the memory of Raphael A. Lafferty,

The elf from Oklahoma,

Who could do things with words that most

writers can only do with dreams.

May he rest in comfort.

Contents

Introduction

“Lay Your Head on My Pilose”

“Diesel Dream”

“Lethal Perspective”

“Laying Veneer”

“Betcha Can’t Eat Just One”

“Fitting Time”

“We Three Kings”

“NASA Sending Addicts to Mars!”

“Empowered”

“The Kiss”

“The Impossible Place”

“The Boy Who Was a Sea”

“Undying Iron”

“The Question”

“The Kindness of Strangers”

“Pein bek Longpela Telimpon”

“Suzy Q”

“The Little Bits That Count”

“Sideshow”

Introduction

Every professional needs a workout. Basketball players shoot free throws and jump shots. Golfers

retire to the driving range to practice their swing. Lawyers argue in front of mirrors; actors perform in

summer stock; artists work with pencil and pastel in sketchbooks. Landscapers fill flowerpots; swimmers

do lap after lap; gem cutters try different cuts with flawed stones.

Writers write short stories.

Except—sometimes the longest drive comes not on the course, but on the driving range. Occasionally

the finest piece of art leaps out not from the finished oil on canvas, but from the sketchbook. Now and

then, the most expansive, the most beautiful flower blossoms are not in the elaborate garden, but in the

simple pot.

Writers write short stories.

There are all kinds of freedom attendant to composing shorts. Most obviously, a good deal less time is

involved. For professionals, that’s more than a little important. Then too, the creative freedom that is

inherent in and so important to the writing of fantasy and science fiction is magnified in reverse. The

shorter the story, the greater the freedom. It’s easier for artists to let themselves go in an afternoon than

over a period lasting four or five or six months, or a year or two. Doesn’t matter if you’re writing, or

painting, or composing music. Time is precious to us all.

So we can let ourselves relax, and have fun in ways that we can’t with a novel. We can play, and

spout, and polemicize, and gibber, and even make funny faces if we want to. Because no editor is going

to ask for thousands of words of revision, and if the tale doesn’t sell, no one in the family is likely to

starve as a consequence of it. In the ’30s and ’40s and ’50s it was different. But today the novel reigns

supreme. Tomorrow it may be the on-line interactive story, or the video game.

No matter, though; there will always be a place for story. Especially for the fast-paced tale, the quick

yet brilliant idea, the build-up to a belly laugh. The literary bonbon that is also a bon mot. That’s why I

wrote the stories contained in this collection, which only go to prove a favorite aphorism.

Eat dessert first.

Alan Dean Foster

Prescott, Arizona

Lay Your Head on My Pilose

The deep Amazon is a wondrous and fearful place. I’m not talking about Iquitos or Manaus—

big cities that tourists fly into and out of in less than a week. I’m talking about the rain forest

primeval, where every step looks the same as the next, where giant lianas and buttress roots and

fallen trees rise out of the leaf litter to trip you up at every step and where the sweat pours off

your body in tiny rivers even if you stand still and don’t move a muscle.

Those whose visits to such places are restricted to watching National Geographic or the

Discovery Channel might be forgiven for thinking that in such jungles it’s the big predators who

rule; the jaguars and harpy eagles and anacondas. Don’t you believe it. It’s the insects who are

the kings of the green domain. The insects, the arthropods, and the even smaller parasites.

It’s the small creatures with the many legs and the sucking mouthparts who rule the rain forest,

and it’s they of whom visitors should most properly be terrified…

From the moment his tired survey of the town was interrupted by the glory of her passage, Carlos

knew he had to have her. Not with haste and indifference, as was usual with his women, but for all time.

For thirty years he had resisted any thought of a permanent liaison with a member of the opposite sex.

His relationships hitherto had consisted of intense moments of courtship and consummation that flared hot

as burning magnesium before expiring in the chill wash of boredom.

No longer. He had seen the mooring to which he intended to anchor his vessel. He could only hope

that she was mortal.

There were those in Puerto Maldonado who knew her. Her name was Nina. She was six feet tall, a

sultry genetic frisson of Spanish and Indian. The storekeeper said she was by nature quiet and reserved,

but Carlos knew better. Nothing that looked like that, no woman with a face of supernal beauty and a

body that cruised the cracked sidewalks like quicksilver, was by nature “quiet and reserved.” Repressed,

perhaps.

Their love would be monumental; a wild, hysterical paean to the hot selva. He would devote himself to

her and she to him. Bards would speak of their love for generations. That she was presently unaware of

his existence was a trifle easily remedied. She would not be able to resist him, nor would she want to.

What woman could?

There was only one possible problem. Awkward, but not insoluble.

His name was Max, and he was her husband.

Carlos loved South America. One could sample all the delights a country had to offer and move on,

working one’s way around the continent at leisure, always keeping a comfortable step ahead of the local

police. So long as depredations were kept modest, the attentions of Interpol could be avoided. They

were the only ones who concerned Carlos. The local cops he treated with disdain, knowing he could

always cross the next border if he was unlucky enough to draw their attention. This happened but rarely,

as he was careful enough to keep his illegalities modest. Carlos firmly believed that the world only owed

him a living, not a fortune.

As for the people he hurt: the shopkeepers he stole from and the women and girls whose emotions he

toyed with, well, sheep existed to be fleeced. He saw himself as an instructor, touring the continent,

imparting valuable lessons at minimal cost. The merchants would eventually make up their modest losses;

the women he left sadder but wiser would find lovers foolish enough to commit their lives to them. But

none would forget him.

He’d had a few narrow escapes, but he was careful and calculating and had spent hardly any time in

jail.

Now for the first time he was lost, because he had seen Nina.

Nina. Too small a name for so much woman. She deserved a title, a crown: poetical discourse. La

Vista de la Señora hermosa de la montana y la mar y la selva que-mara. The vision of the beautiful

lady of the mountains and the sea and the burning jungle. My lady, he corrected himself. Too beautiful by

far for a fat, hirsute old geezer like Max who probably couldn’t even get it up on a regular basis. He was

overweight, and despite the fact that he was smooth on top, the hairiest man Carlos had ever seen. Lying

with him must be like making love to an ape. How could she stand such a thing? She was desperately in

need of a rescue, whether she knew it or not, and he was the man to execute it.

They ran a small lodge, a way station really, up the Alta Madre de Dios, catering to the occasional

parties of tourists and scientists and photographers who came to gaze with snooty self-importance at the

jungle. Gringos and Europeans, mostly. Carlos could but shake his head at their antics. Only fools would

pay for the dubious privilege of standing in the midday heat while looking for bugs and lizards and the

creatures that stumbled through the trees. Such things were to be avoided. Or killed, or skinned, or sold.

They also grew food to sell to the expeditions. And a little tea, more by way of experiment than profit.

But it could not be denied that the foreigners came and went and left behind dollars and deutsche marks

and pounds. Real money, not the debased currencies of America Sur. Max saved, and made small

improvements to the lodge, and saved still more.

Nina would have been enough. That there might also be money to be had up the Alta Madre de Dios

helped to push Carlos over the edge.

Like a good general scouting the plain of battle he began tentatively, hesitantly. He adopted one of his

many postures; that of the simple, servile, God-fearing hard worker, needful only of a dry place to sleep

and an honest job to put his hands to. Suspicious but overworked Max, always sweating and puffing and

mopping at his balding head, analyzed this uninvited supplicant before bestowing upon him a reluctant

benediction in the form of a month’s trial. It was always hard to find good workers for the station

because it lay several days’ travel by boat from town, and strong young men quickly grew tired of the

isolation. Not only did this stranger both speak and write, he knew some English as well. That was most

useful for dealing with visitors.

Max watched him carefully, as Carlos suspected he would. So he threw himself into his work,

objecting to nothing, not even the cleaning and treating of the cesspool or the scraping of the bottom of

the three boats that the lodge used for transportation, accepting all assignments with alacrity and a

grateful smile. The only others who worked for Max were Indians from the small village across the river.

Carlos ignored them and they him, each perfectly content with their lot.

For weeks he was careful to avoid even looking in Nina’s direction, lest Max might catch him. He was

friendly, and helpful, and drew praise from the foreigners who came to stay their night or two at the

lodge. Max was pleased. His contentment made room for gradual relaxation and, eventually, for a certain

amount of trust. Three months after Carlos had been hired, Max tested him by giving him the task of

depositing money in the bank at Puerto Maldonado. Carlos guarded the cash as though it were his own.

A month later, Max appointed him foreman.

Even then he averted his eyes at Nina’s passing, especially when they were alone together. He knew

she was curious about him, perhaps even intrigued, but he was careful. This was a great undertaking, and

he was a patient man.

Once, he bumped up against her in the kitchen. Apologizing profusely, he retreated while averting his

gaze, stumbling clumsily into hanging pots and the back counter. She smiled at his confusion. It was good

that she could not see his eyes, because the contact had inflamed him beyond measure, and he knew that

if he lifted his gaze to her face it would burn right through her.

Each week, each day, he let himself edge closer to her. A tiny slip here, a slight accidental touch there.

He trembled when he suspected she might be responding.

There came a night filled with rain like nails and a suffocating blackness. The lodge was empty of

tourists and scientists. Max’s progress back from town would be slowed. The Indians were all across the

river, sheltering in their village.

It began with inconsequential conversation intended to pass the time and ended with them making love

on the big bed in the back building, after they shook the loose hair off the sheets. It was more than he

could have hoped for, all he had been dreaming of during the endless months of screaming anticipation.

She exploded atop him, her screams rising even above the hammering rain, her long legs threatening to

break his ribs.

When it was over, they talked.

She had been born of noble blood and poverty. Max was older than she would have chosen, but she

had enjoyed little say in the matter. As a husband he was kind but boring, pleasant but inattentive.

He would not take her with him to town because someone had to remain behind to oversee the lodge

or the Indians would steal everything. Nor did he trust anyone to do business for him in Maldonado. He

had discovered her in Lima, had made arrangements with her parents, and had brought her back with

him. Ever since, she had been slowly going mad in the jungle, here at the foothills of the Andes. She had

no future and no hope.

Carlos knew better.

He did not hesitate, and the enormity of his intent at first frightened her despite her anguish. Gradually

he won her over.

They would have to be careful. No one, not even the Indians, could be allowed to suspect. They

would have to wait for the right day, the right moment. Afterward, they would be free. They would sell

the lodge, take the savings, and he would show her places she had hardly dreamed of. Rio, Buenos

Aires, Caracas—the great and bright cities of the southern continent.

They had to content themselves with sly teasing and furtive meetings upon Max’s return. They touched

and caressed and made love behind his back. Trusting, he did not see, nor did he hear the laughter. Not

only was he a cuckold, he was deaf and blind. Carlos’s resolve stiffened. The man was pathetic. He

would be better off out of his misery.

“I think he suspects,” Nina confided to him one afternoon out among the tea leaves. They were

supposed to be inspecting the bushes, and Carlos had insisted on inspecting something else instead. Nina

had agreed readily to the change of itinerary, laughing and giggling. Only afterward did she express

concern.

“You are crazy, love. He sees nothing.”

She shook her head dubiously. “He says nothing. That does not mean he does not see. I can tell.”

“Has he said anything?”

“No,” she admitted. “But he is different.”

“He hasn’t said anything to me.”

“He wouldn’t. That is not his way. But I can feel a difference.”

He touched her, and she closed her eyes and inhaled sensuously. “When you do that I cannot

concentrate. I am worried, my darling.”

“I will help you forget your worries.”

It was growing harder to restrain himself, to act sensibly and carefully as he always had. But he

managed. Somehow he managed. Then, when accumulated frustration threatened to explode inside him,

Providence intervened.

It was to be a routine trip downriver. The rain had been continuous for days, as it usually was at that

time of year. Though there were few travelers to accommodate, the lodge still needed certain supplies.

Max had tried to choose a day when the weather looked as though it might break temporarily to begin

the journey to Maldonado, but the rain was insistent.

The two Indians who usually accompanied them were off hunting, and no one knew when they might

return. In a fit of irritability, Max announced that he and Carlos would go alone, the Indians be damned.

Carlos could barely contain himself.

It would be so easy. He’d been so worried, so concerned, and it was going to be so easy. He waited

until they were well downriver from the lodge and village, far from any possible human sight or

understanding. Then he turned slowly from his seat in the front of the long dugout.

Through the steady downpour he saw Max. The older man’s hand rested on the tiller of the outboard,

its waspish drone the only sound that rose above the steady splatter of rain on dugout and river. His gaze

dropped to the tiny pistol Carlos held in his fingers, the pistol Carlos had bought long ago in Quito and

had kept hidden in his pack ever since.

Max was strangely calm. “I didn’t know you had a gun. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Carlos was angry that he was trembling slightly. “You don’t know anything, old man. Not that it

matters.”

“No. I guess it doesn’t. I don’t suppose it would change your mind if I just told you to take Nina and

go?”

Carlos hesitated. He did not want to talk, but he couldn’t help himself. “You know?”

“I didn’t for certain. Not until this moment. Now I do. Take her and go.”

Carlos steadied his hands. “The money.”

Max’s eyebrows lifted slightly beneath the gray rain slicker. Then he slumped. “You know everything,

don’t you? Tell me: did she resist for very long?”

Carlos’s lips split in a feral smile. “Not even a little.” He enjoyed the expression this produced on the

dead man’s face.

“I see,” Max said tightly. “I’ve suspected the two of you for some time. Stupid of me to hope it was

otherwise.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I mean it. You can take her, and the money.”

“I do not trust you.”

For the first time Max looked him straight in the eyes. “You’re not the type to trust anyone, are you,

Carlos?”

The gunman shook his head slowly. “I’ve lived too long.”

“Yes, you have.” Whereupon Max lunged at him, letting the tiller swing free.

The unguided prop swung wildly with the current, sending the dugout careening to port. It surprised

Carlos and sent him flying sideways. He was half over the gunwale with Max almost atop him before he

had a chance to react. The old man was much faster than Carlos had given him credit for, too quick, a

devil. Carlos fired wildly, unable to aim, unable to point the little gun.

Max stopped, his powerful fat fingers inches from Carlos’s throat. He straightened slowly, the rain

pouring off him in tiny cascades, and stared downriver, searching perhaps for the destination he would

not reach. A red bubble appeared in the center of his forehead. It burst on his brow, spilling off his nose

and lips, thickened and slowed by the dense hair that protruded from beneath the shirt collar where he

was forced to stop his daily shaving, diluted by the ceaseless rain.

He toppled slowly over the side.

Breathing hard and fast, Carlos scrambled to a kneeling position and watched the body recede astern.

Spitting out rain, he worked his way to the back of the boat and took control of the tiller. The dugout

swung around, pounded back upstream. There was a boiling in the water that did not arise from a

submerged stone. The blood had drawn piranhas, as Carlos had known it would.

He circled the spot until the river relaxed. There was nothing to be seen. It was quiet save for the

yammer of the engine and the ceaseless rain. He tossed the little pistol into the deep water, then headed

for shore. When he was within easy swimming distance he rocked the boat until it overturned, then let it

go. From shore he watched it splinter against the first rocks. Exhilarated, he turned and started into the

jungle, heading back the way he’d come.

Almost, he had been surprised. Almost. Now it was finished. Nina was his, and he Nina’s. Max was a

harmless memory in the bellies of many fish. Carlos thought of the hot, smooth body awaiting him, and of

the money, more than he’d ever dreamed of having. Both now his to play with. Together they would flee

this horrible place, take a boat across the border into Bolivia, thence fly to Santiago. He harbored no

regrets over what he had done. To gain Paradise a man must be willing to make concessions.

She was waiting for him, tense, sitting on the couch in the greeting room of the little lodge. Her eyes

implored him as she rose.

He grinned, a drenched wolf entering its den. “It’s over. Done.”

She came to him, still unable to believe. “The truth now, beloved. There was no trouble?”

“The ape is dead. Nothing remains but bones, and the river will grind them between its rocks. By the

time the Madre de Dios merges with the Inambari there will be nothing left of him. We will speak of it as

we planned; that the boat hit a rock and went over. I swam to shore, I waited; he did not surface. There

is nothing for anyone to question. Everything is ours!” He swept her into his arms and fastened his mouth

to hers. She responded ferociously.

They were alone in the lodge, the buildings empty around them, thunder echoing their passion as she

led him toward the back building. There she flung back the thin blanket and put a knee onto the bed, her

eyes beckoning, her breasts visible behind the neck of her thin blouse. He leaned forward, only to pause

with a grimace.

“Dirty, as always.” He bent and began brushing at the sheets. She nodded and did likewise. Only

when the last of the brown, curly hairs had been swept to the floor did he join with her in the middle.

They spent all that night there and all the following morning. Then he crossed the river and paid one of

the Indians to carry downstream the message announcing the unfortunate death of Max Ventura.

They ate, and made a pretext of tidying the lodge lest the swollen river carry any unannounced tourists

to their doorstep. Then they showered, soaping each other, luxuriating in their freedom and the

cleanliness of one another, and walked out through the rain toward the back building.

Once again Carlos was first to the bedside, and once again he was compelled to hesitate. “I thought

we cleaned out the last of him yesterday.” He indicated the sheets.

Nina too saw the curving brown hairs, then shrugged and swept them onto the floor with a hand.

“There was always hair everywhere from him. Not just in the bed. In my own hair, in the clothes, on the

furniture, everywhere. It was disgusting.”

“I know. No more of that.” He brushed hard until he was sure his own side was spotless, then joined

her.

No police came the next day, or the next. It would take three or four days by motorized dugout to

reach Maldonado, a day again to come upstream to the lodge. Carlos wasn’t worried. The jungle was

dangerous, the river unforgiving, and he, Carlos, had been made foreman of this place. Why would he kill

his beloved employer? Indeed, hadn’t he risked his own life to try to save him, battling the dangerous

current and threatening whirlpools before exhaustion had forced him to shore? It was a sad time. Nina

cried manfully for the Indians who came to offer their sympathies, while Carlos hid his smile.

In the bed that night they found the hair again.

“I don’t understand.” She was uncertain as she regarded the sheets. “I swept and dusted the whole

building. We brushed these out.”

Clearly she was in no mood for lovemaking. Not while memories of him still lingered in this place and

in her thoughts. Angrily he wrenched the sheets from the bed, wadded them into a white ball, and tossed

them across the room. Hairs spilled to the floor.

“Get fresh sheets. I’ll wash these myself. No.” Carlos smiled. “I’ll burn them. We should have done

that days ago.”

She nodded, and her own smile returned. With the bed freshly remade they made love on the new

sheets, but there was a curious reluctance about her he had not noticed before. He finished satisfied, saw

she had not. Well, it would not be a problem tomorrow.

He burned the old sheets in the incinerator in the maintenance shed, the damp stink of the cremation

hanging pall-like over the grounds for hours. By nightfall the rain had cleansed the air.

That night he made a point of carrying her to the bed. Though it was woman’s work he had cooked

supper. His concern touched her. She relaxed enough to talk of all they were going to do as soon as it

was decorous enough to sell the lodge and leave. By bedtime her languid self-assurance had returned.

He tossed her naked form onto the sheets, watched her bounce slightly, and was about to join her

when she screamed and scrambled to the floor.

He lay on the bed, gazing at her in confusion. “My love, what’s wrong?”

She was staring, her black hair framing her face, and pointing at her side of the bed. Her face was

curiously cold.

“L-look.”

He turned, puzzled, and saw the hair. Not just one or two that might have floated in from a corner of

the room left undusted, but as much as ever, brown ringlets and curlicues of keratin lying stark against the

white sheets.

“Damn!” Rising, he swept sheets and blanket off the bed, went to the cupboard and removed new

ones, made the bed afresh. But it was no good. She could not relax, could not make love, and they spent

an uneasy night. Once she woke him, moaning, and he listened in the dark until she finally quieted enough

to sleep.

The next morning she was curiously listless, her gaze vacant, and his anger turned to alarm. Her

forehead seemed hot to the touch. She tried to tell him not to call the doctor, saying that it would cost too

much money, money better spent in Rio or Caracas, but he was truly worried now and refused to listen.

He paid the village chief an exorbitant sum to send two men downstream in the lodge’s best remaining

boat, to go even at night and return with the doctor from Maldonado. He was in an agony waiting for

their return.

Meanwhile Nina grew steadily worse, unable to walk, lying in bed and sweating profusely from more

than the heat. She threw up what little food he tried to feed her. When he spoke to her she hardly reacted

at all.

Not knowing what else to do, he applied cold wet compresses to her forehead and did his best to

make her comfortable. By the fourth day he was feeling feverish himself, and by the sixth he was having

difficulty keeping his balance. But he was damned if having won everything he would give up now. He

had fought too hard, had committed what remained of his soul. Where was the goddamn doctor? He

tried to cross the river but was unable to start the remaining outboard.

That afternoon a couple of Indians approached the bank on which the lodge was built, but when they

saw him they turned and paddled furiously back the way they’d come. He yelled at them, screamed and

threatened, but they paid both threats and imprecations no heed.

Her fever grew steadily worse (there was no longer any doubt it was a fever). He tried to feed her

medicine from the lodge’s tiny pharmacy, but by this time she could keep nothing down. Her once

supple, voluptuous form had grown emaciated with shocking speed, until he had to force himself to look

at the skeletal frame beneath the sheet when he cleaned her from where she had dirtied herself.

Nor did he prove immune to whatever calamity it was that had struck so suddenly. He found himself

losing his way within the lodge, having to fumble for the sink and for dishes and clean towels. By the

eighth day he alternated between crawling and stumbling, stunned at his own weight loss and weakness.

He staggered toward the back building, spilling half the pitcher of cold water he was carrying to her.

He dropped the clean washrag but was too dizzy and tired to go back for it. Shoving the door aside, he

nearly fell twice as he stumbled over to the bed.

“Nina.” His voice was a dry croak, a rasping echo of what once had been. His swarthy machismo had

evaporated along with his strength.

He tried to pour a glass of water, but his hand was shaking so badly he couldn’t control it. The icy

liquid shocked his hand and wrist. Frustration provided enough strength for him to heave the glass against

the far wall, where it shattered melodiously. Exhausted by the effort he sank to his knees next to the bed,

his forehead falling against his forearms as he sobbed helplessly. He lifted his eyes, hardly able to gaze

upon her shrunken face anymore.

Emotions colder than the water rushed through his veins. For an instant he was fully alive, wholly

aware. His vision was sharp, his perception precise.

There was hair in the bed. Always hair in the bed, no matter how much they’d swept, how hard they’d

brushed and dusted, no matter how many times they changed the sheets. Brown, curly hair. His hair. It

was there now.

One of the hairs was crawling out of her nose.

He knelt there, the bed supporting him, unable to move, unable to turn away from the horror. As his

eyes grew wide a second hair followed the first, twisting and curling as if seeking the sunlight. He began

to twitch, his skin crawling, the bile in his stomach thickening.

A hair appeared at the corner of her beautiful right eye, twisting and bending, working its way out.

Two more slid out of her left ear and fell to the bed, lying motionless for a long moment before they too

began to curl and crawl searchingly, imbued with a horrid life of their own.

With an inarticulate cry he stumbled away from the bed, away from the disintegrating form. More hairs

joined the others, emerging from the openings of her body, from nostrils and ears, from between her once

perfect lips, falling to the sheets, brown and curling and twisting. He reached up to rub at his disbelieving

eyes, to grind away the nightmare with his own knuckles, and happened to glance at his hands. There

were at least half a dozen hairs on the back of the right one, moist and throbbing.

Screaming, he stumbled backwards, frantically wiping his hands against his dirty pants. Staggering out

of the room, he stumbled back toward the lodge. After weeks of unending rain the sun had finally

emerged. Steam rose around him as accumulated moisture was sucked skyward. The mist impeded his

vision.

Thin lines crisscrossed his line of sight. The lines were moving.

Crying, babbling, he flailed at his own eyes, delighting in the pain, digging at the hair, the omnipresent

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Alan Dean Foster - Impossible Places

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