David Brin - The Practice Effect

It must have been one of the most powerful felthesh trances in Tatir history. The pixolet slumped exhausted on his lap, breathing hard and staring about in disbelief. Dennis was still tentative enough in his control of the glider not to be willing to turn around, but he’d be willing to wager Arth and Linnora were in similar shape.

His dream still lingered at the fringes of Dennis’s mind. He could almost smell, again, the gasoline and oil, and feel humming metal.

If the dream had gone on, no doubt he would have met more of the heroes of aviation, called up by his unconscious to provide a focus for the intense practice trance. But it had lasted long enough, and it left him with a vague feeling of pride. Such men and women were the heritage of Earth. By pluck and ingenuity they had carved miracles out of reality— the hard way.

Dennis leaned out over the side to look. The updraft was petering out. It wouldn’t take them back to the level of the mountain road they had fallen from. He would have to find another place to land within gliding range.

There was a plateau nearby, a spur jutting eastward out from the mountains. Cautiously, Dennis leaned left and sent their craft into a gentle bank. He had seen a flat spot on the mesa. It would have to do. Beyond that was only a tumbled plain of boulders as far as the eye could see.

Still, they couldn’t stay up here forever.

Dennis wished there was some way to get the robot up in the cockpit with them. He didn’t want it damaged in the landing. But it would just have to take its chances. He called down for the machine to prepare as best it could.

The precaution was probably unnecessary, he realized. The rugged little thing could well be the only one of them to survive their encounter with the ground.

He used up some height gliding far out over the plain. It took a while to reach a position along what he hoped was a gently appropriate glide path, then bank around and begin his approach. It had to be just right, because they weren’t going to get another chance.

While he got ready, he spared a moment to glance back at the others. Arth was soaked in sweat but gave the thumbs-up sign. Linnora simply looked exalted >as if she could ask no more than to have experienced what they had just gone through. She leaned forward slightly and pressed her cheek against his. Dennis smiled hopefully and turned back to make ready for the landing.

“All right, everybody. We’re going in!”

The “flat spot” that rushed up at them was actually a sandy bank with at least a ten-degree slope from left to right, only a dozen meters from the plateau’s northern rim. A crosswind came from twenty degrees left of the nose. Dennis steadied the balance so the wings compensated as well as possible. He felt Linnora’s hands grip rightly around his chest. At the last moment he brought up his knees and braced himself.

The fabric wings luffed slightly as the glider swooped in like an albatross and touched down gently on the soft sand. One wingtip briefly touched ground, slewing them around slightly as they jounced along the embankment. Gravel flew up behind them as Arth put all his weight into the brakes and the robot’s treads spun furiously.

Dust was everywhere! Blinded, Dennis steered entirely by instinct.

At last they rolled to a stop. When the sand had settled and tears had washed some of the dry powder from his eyes, Dennis looked out to see that the glider had halted close to the edge of the mesa. Another jumbled drop of about fifty meters lay only six feet away.

One by one—first Arth, then Linnora, and finally Dennis— they loosened their straps and stepped out. Barely able to keep to their feet, they stumbled to a thin patch of grass under the sparse trees.

Then Arth and Linnora fell to the ground, dizzily, and laughed. This time Dennis collapsed with them and joined in.

Several minutes later, the pixolet raised its head from the well of the craft. It still twitched and shook, from fright and from the power of the trance it had been forced to take part in. For a long while it simply stared at the crazy humans.

Finally, as the sun settled behind the western peaks, it sniffed disgustedly and dropped back down beside the gently humming robot to fall instantly to sleep.

In spite of their leisurely pace, Bernald Brady was saddle-sore well before the stout character in the red robes called a halt for the night.

It was the first time Brady had ever ridden a horse. If ever he got a chance to decline further invitations, he was certain it would also be his last. He dismounted clumsily. A guard came over arid loosened his bound hands, motioning him to hobble over and sit beneath a tall tree by the campsite.

Soon there was a fire, and the smell of trail cooking wafted through the air.

One of the soldiers scooped a thick dollop of stew and came over to hand Brady a beautiful, feather-light ceramic bowl. The Earthman ate as he marveled at the bowl. He had never seen anything like it before. It helped him justify the theory he had come up with.

Although his “captors” played a good game at this business of acting like primitives, they couldn’t hide their true nature. Things like this beautiful, high-tech bowl gave their game away.

These people clearly came from an advanced culture. One look at the road, and the wonderful self-lubricating sleds, told him that. There was only one explanation for what was going on here.

Obviously Nuel had spent the last three months living among the locals. And all that time he had been plotting, knowing that if he only waited long enough Flaster would surely send him, Brady, over to try one more time to fix the zievatron. In all that time Nuel had no doubt ingratiated himself with these people, perhaps promising them rich trading rights with Earth! In return, all they would have to do would be to help him pull one great big practical joke!

It sounded like Nuel’s way of setting up priorities!

No doubt members of an advanced civilization would have plenty of leisure time on their hands. Brady had witnessed “midaevalists” on Earth, who liked to ride horses and play with old-fashioned weapons. Nuel must have hired a troupe of history-nuts like those to help him pull a fast one on the next guy to come through the zievatron!

These fellows played pretty rough. They had really put a scare into him for a while, especially when the fat boy kept questioning him about every piece of his gear.

Brady sniffed. That had been carrying it too far! Imagine, people who could make swords out of gemstones being perplexed over his rifle and his porta-microwave!

Oh, these people knew Nuel, all right. Whenever he mentioned the fellow’s name the big “priest” got a funny look on his face. The “soldiers” clearly knew exactly who he meant, though they never admitted a word.

Yeah, Brady nodded, by now convinced, They were all in it together. Nuel was having his revenge on him for switching those chips on the replacement circuit boards.

Well enough was enough! It was going to stop here! The game had gotten altogether too rough. His hands were chafing and he had been battered and bruised…Brady decided it was time to stand up for his rights. With his jaw set he put down the now-empty bowl and started to get up.

At that moment one of the “soldiers” screamed.

Brady blinked as he saw one of the men stagger about the campsite with an arrow protruding through his throat. Suddenly, everyone else was diving for cover!

This was carrying realism just a bit too far! Brady watched the stricken soldier gurgle and die, choking on his own blood.

He swallowed and had the uneasy feeling that maybe his theory might need some amending.

He heard someone shout, “Guerillas! Sneakin’ aroun’ behind our lines!”