Piers Anthony - Mercycle

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file:///F|/rah/Piers%20Anthony/Anthony,%20Piers%20-%20Mercycle.txt

CHAPTER 1

DON

Proxy 5-12-5-16-8: Attention.

Acknowledging.

Status?

Four locals have been recruited and equipped. They are

waiting for the signal to commence.

They are ignorant of their mission?

They believe they have missions, but none know the true

one. They have been given a cover story relevant to their

interests. By the time they realize that the cover story is

irrelevant, they should be ready for the truth.

Contraindications ?

One is an agent of a local government.

Why is this allowed?

The recruitment brought the response of this person. It

seemed worth trying. That one can be eliminated if neces-

sary. Such involvement might prove to be advantageous.

With the fate of a world at stake?

We do not know what will be most effective. It is no more

risky than the exclusion of such persons might be.

It remains a gamble.

Any course is a gamble.

True. Proceed.

2 Piers Anthony

Acknowledged. I will start the first one through the

phasing tunnel.

Don Kestle pedaled down the road, watching nervously

for life. It was early dawn, and the sparrows were twittering

in the Australian Pines as they waited for the picnickers, but

nothing human was visible.

Now was the time. He shifted down to second, muttering

as the chain caught between gear-sprockets and spun

without effect. He still wasn't used to this multiple-speed

bicycle, and it seemed to be more trouble than it was worth.

He fiddled with the lever, and finally it caught.

He bucked the bike over the bank and into the unkempt

grass, moving as rapidly as he could. He winced as he saw

his thin tires going over formidable spreads of sandspur,

though he knew the stuff was harmless to him and his

equipment. That was because, as he understood it, he wasn't

really here.

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Soon he hit the fine white dry sand. He braked, remem-

bering this time to use the hand levers instead of embar-

rassing himself by pedaling backwards, and dismounted

automatically. Actually it was quite possible to ride over the

sand, for it could not toss this bike—but anyone who

happened to see him doing that might suspect that some-

thing was funny. A bicycle tire normally lost traction and

support, skewing badly in such a situation.

In a moment the beach opened out to the sea: typical

palm-studded Florida coastline. Seagulls were already air-

borne, raucously calling out. A sign warned NO SWIM-

MING, for there were treacherous tidal currents here. That

was why Don had selected this spot and this time to make

his cycling debut; it was least likely to harbor prying eyes.

He had been given a place and a time to be there; his exact

schedule was his own business.

MERCYCLE 3

The tide was out. Don walked his bicycle across the

beach until he reached the packed sand near the small

breaking waves. Myriad tiny shells formed a long low

hump, and he realized that early-rising collectors could

appear at any moment. Why hadn't he thought of that

before? Yet when else could he enter the water, clothed and

on a bicycle, by daylight? He simply had to risk it.

Beyond the shell ridge, the sand was wet and smooth. He

looked carefully, both ways, as if crossing a busy intersec-

tion. Was he hoping that there would be someone, so that he

would have to call it off?

No, he wanted to do it, Don reassured himself. In any

event, his timing was such that he could not spare the hours

an alternate approach would require. He had chosen dawn at

this beach, and now he was committed. He had been commit-

ted all along. It was just that—well, a bit hard to believe. Here

he was, a healthy impetuous fair-complexioned beginning

archaeologist with a bicycle—and a remarkable opportunity.

What could he do except grasp it, though he hardly compre-

hended it?

Don remounted and pushed down hard, driving his

machine forward into the flexing ocean. The waves surged

through the wheels, offering no more resistance than air. He

moved on, feeling the liquid against his legs as the force of

gentle wind. He didn't really need more power, but he

shifted into first anyway, bolstering his confidence. It

remained hard to believe that he was doing this.

The bottom dropped, and abruptly he was coasting down

into deeper water. Too fast for his taste. Now he did

backpedal, futilely. There was no coaster brake on this

machine!

The water rose up to his thighs, then his chest, then his

neck. Still he coasted down. In another instant it was up

4 Piers Anthony

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across his face, and then it closed over his head. Don did not

slow or float; he just kept going in.

He could see beneath, now. There was a rocky formation

here, perhaps formed of shell. He would have investigated

the local marine terrain more carefully, if only he had had

time. But the whole thing had been set up so rapidly that he

had barely had time to buy his bike before going through the

tunnel. Now here he—

He realized that he was holding his breath. He forced

himself to breathe, surprised in spite of himself that he still

could do it. He had tested it by plunging his head into a tub

of water, but somehow the surging sea water had restored

his doubt. He applied his handbrakes.

The bicycle glided to a halt. Don braced it upright by

spreading his legs, and rested in place for a moment with his

eyes closed. This way he could breathe freely, for he

couldn't see the surrounding water.

Don found himself cowering. He knew he was not

physically courageous, but this seemed to be an overreac-

tion. In a moment he realized why: it was the noise.

He had somehow imagined that the underwater realm was

silent. Instead it was noisier than the land. Some was

staccato sound, some was whistling, and some was like the

crackling of a hot frying pan. Grunts, clicks, flutters,

swishes, honks, rattling chains, cackling hens, childish

laughter, jackhammers, growls, knocking, whining, groan-

ing, mouse squeaks—it all merged into a semi-melodious

cacophony. He had no idea what was responsible for the

assault, but was sure that it couldn't all be inanimate. The

nearest commercial enterprise was twenty miles away!

Could fish talk? Probably he would soon find out. It

would be no more fantastic than the other recent develop-

ments of his life.

MERCYCLE 5

He was way under the water, standing and breathing as if

it didn't exist. How had he gotten into this?

"Well, it all started about twenty three years ago when I

was b-bom,'' he said aloud, and laughed. He was not unduly

reflective, but he did stutter a bit under tension. So maybe it

wasn't really funny.

Don opened his eyes.

He was down under, all right. He could see clearly for

perhaps twenty feet. Beyond that was just bluegreen water-

color wash. Above him, eight or ten feet, was the restless

surface: little waves cruising toward ruin against the beach.

Beneath him was a green meadow of sea grass, sloping

irregularly down.

Now that he was stationary, he did not feel the water. He

waved his hands, and they met no more resistance than they

might have in air. It was warm here: about 88° Fahrenheit

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according to the indicator clipped to his bicycle. The

temperature of subtropical coastal water in summer. He

would be able to work up a sweat very quickly—unless he

chose to descend to the deeper levels where the water got

cold. He did not choose to do so, yet. Anyway, he was

largely insulated from the water's temperature, as he was

from its density. That was all part of the miracle of his

situation.

A small fish swam toward him, evidently curious about

this weird intruder. Don didn't recognize the type; he was

no expert on marine biology. In fact he didn't know much

about anything to do with the ocean. It was probably a

nondescript trash fish, the kind that survived in these

increasingly polluted waters. This one looked harmless, but

of course even the deadliest killer shark was not harmful to

him now. He was really not in the water, but in an aspect of

reality that was just about 99.9% out of phase with what he

6 Piers Anthony

saw about him. Thus the water had the effective density of

air.

In impulse, he grabbed at the fish as it nosed within reach.

His hand closed about its body—and passed through the

flesh as if it were liquid foam. The bones of his fingers

hooked into the bones of its skeleton without actually

snagging.

Don snatched his hand away. Equally startled, the fish

flexed its body and shot out of range. There had been a kind

of contact, but not one that either party cared to repeat. No

damage done, but it had been a weird experience.

It was one thing to contemplate a reality interaction of

one part in a thousand, intellectually. It was quite another to

tangle with a living skeleton.

Well, he had been warned. He couldn't stand around

gawking. He had a distance to travel. The coordinate meter

mounted beside the temperature gauge said 27°40'—82°45'.

He had fifteen hours to reach 2700'—83015/. He had been

told that a degree was sixty minutes, and a minute just about

a mile, depending on location and direction. This sounded to

his untrained ear like a mish-mash of temperature, time, and

distance muddled by an incomprehensible variable. It

seemed that he had about thirty miles west to go, and about

forty south, assuming that he had not become hopelessly

confused. The hypotenuse would be fifty miles, per the

three-four-five triangle ratio. Easy to make on a bicycle,

since it came to only three and a third miles per hour

average speed.

Of course he probably wouldn't be able to go straight.

What was his best immediate route?

He didn't want to remain in shallow water, for there

would be bathers and boaters and fishermen all along the

coast. His depth meter showed two fathoms. That would be

twelve feet from bike to surface. Entirely too little, for he

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MERCYCLE 7

must be as visible from above as those ripples were from

b<«ow. How would a boater react if he peered down and saw

a man bicycling blithely along under the water?

But deep water awed him, though he knew that pressure

was not a significant factor in this situation. Men could

withstand several atmospheres if they were careful, and he

had been told that there were no depths in the great Atlantic

Ocean capable of putting so much as two atmospheres on

him in his phased-out state. He could ignore pressure. All of

which somehow failed to ease the pressure on his worried

mind. This business just wasn't natural.

He would take a middle course. Say about a hundred feet,

or a bit shy of seventeen fathoms. He would stick to that

contour until he made his rendezvous.

Don pushed on the left pedal—somehow that was his

only comfortable starting position—and moved out. The

seagrass reached up with its long green leaves, obscuring his

view of the sloping floor. But his wheels passed through the

weeds, or the weeds through the wheels, and so did his

body. There was only a gentle stroking sensation that

affected him with an almost sexual intimacy as plant

collided with flesh. The grass might be no denser than the

water, but it was solid, not liquid, and that affected the

contact.

He didn't like it, this naked probing of his muscle and

gut, but there was nothing he could do about it. Except to

get out of this cloying patch of feelers.

At nine fathoms the grass did thin out and leave the

bottom exposed. It needed light, and the light was dimming.

Good enough. But this had a consequence for Don, too. Just

below the surface things had looked normal, for the limited

distance he could see. Now the color red was gone. It had

vanished somewhere between three and four fathoms, he

decided; he hadn't been paying proper attention. He had a

Piers Anthony

MERCYCLE

red bag on his bicycle that now looked orange-brown. The

effect was eerie and it alarmed him despite his awareness of

its cause.

"S-steady," he told himself. "The water absorbs the red

frequencies first. That's all there is to it. Next orange will

go, then yellow, then green. Finally it will be completely

dark." He found his heart pounding, and knew he had

succeeded only in bringing out another fear. He just didn't

feel safe in dark water.

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file:///F|/rah/Piers%20Anthony/Anthony,%20Piers%20-%20Mercycle.txtCHAPTER1DONProxy5-12-5-16-8:Attention.Acknowledging.Status?Fourlocalshavebeenrecruitedandequipped.Theyarewaitingforthesignaltocommence.Theyareignorantoftheirmission?Theybelievetheyhavemissions,butnoneknowthetrueone.Theyhavebeengivenac...

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Piers Anthony - Mercycle

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