Jack Vance - Big Planet

Clodleberg rode the first trolley, Glystra followed, then came a pair of three-wheel freight carriers loaded with packs—food, spare clothing, the metal which represented their wealth, Bishop’s vitamins, Cloyville’s camping gear, odds and ends from the Beaujolain packs. The first of the freight-carriers was manned by Corbus, Motta and Wailie; the second by Nancy, Pianza and Bishop. Cloyville in a one-man trolley brought up the rear.

As he examined the vehicle he rode in, Glystra well understood Wittelhatch’s reluctance to part with it, even temporarily. The wood was shaped and fitted with painstaking precision, and performed as well as any metal machine from the shops of Earth.

The big wheel was laminated from ten separate strips, glued, grooved and polished. Spokes of hardened withe supported the central hub, whose bearings were wrought from a greasy black hardwood. The seat support was a natural tree-crook, connecting to a slatted floor below. Propulsion was achieved by sails, set to a lateen boom. The halyards, outhauls and sheets led to a cleat-board in front of the seat. Within reach was a double hand-crank, offset like the pedals of a bicycle; turning the crank would drive the trolley up any slight slope at the end of a long suspension which momentum and the pressure of the sails were unable to negotiate.

At noon the land changed. Hills heaved up and it became necessary to make portages, which involved carrying the trolleys and all the baggage up to a higher level of line.

At the end of the day they slept in a vacant cottage near one of the portages and the next morning set off through the mountains—the Wicksill Range, according to Clodle-berg. The line swooped far across valleys, from ridge to ridge, with the ground sometimes two thousand feet below. The trolleys, starting out across such a valley, fell into the sag of the cable with a stomach-lifting swoop, falling almost free; then out in the middle the speed would slacken and the trolley would coast on momentum up toward the opposite ridge and presently slow almost to a stop. Then the sail would be trimmed to its fullest efficiency and the drive-crank would be put into use, and gradually the trolley would climb up to the high point.

On the evening of the third day Clodleberg said, “Tomorrow at this time we should be in Kirstendale, and you must be surprised by nothing you see.”

Glystra pressed for further information, but Clodleberg was disposed to be jocular. “No, no. You will see for yourself. Kirstendale is a city of great fascination. Possibly you may abandon your fantastic journey and settle in Kirstendale.”

“Are the people aggressive, unfriendly?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Who rules them? What is their government?”

Clodleberg raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I have never heard of a ruler in Kirstendale. Indeed, they rule themselves, if their life could be said to be governed by rule.”

Glystra changed the subject. “How many days from Kirstendale to Myrtlesee Fountain?”

“I’ve never made the trip,” said Clodleberg. “It is not entirely pleasant. At certain seasons the Rebbirs come down from the Eyrie to molest the monoline travellers, although the Dongmen of Myrtlesee are Rebbir stock and try to maintain an open avenue of communication.”

“What lies past Myrtlesee Fountain?”

Clodleberg made a gesture of disgust. “The desert. The land of fire-eating dervishes; scavengers, blood-suckers, so I’m told.”

“And after?”

“Then the Palo Malo Se Mountains and the Blarengorran Lake. From the lake the Monchevior River runs east, and you might float a considerable distance on one of the river boats—how far I am uncertain, because it flows into the obscure and unknown.”

Glystra heaved a thoughtful sigh. By the time the Monchevior River floated them out of Clodleberg’s ken, there would still be thirty-nine thousand miles to Earth Enclave.

During the night a rainstorm broke upon the mountain, and there was no escape from the roaring wind. The travellers straggled up under the lee of a boulder and huddled under their blankets while the Big Planet gale drove north.

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.”