Poole was quite sure that his comfortable cruising speed was nearer twenty than two hundred kilometres an hour, yet he had been allowed to reach Flagstaff in less than fifteen minutes. And there were the whitely-gleaming domes of the Lowell Observatory, which he had visited so often as a boy, and whose friendly staff had undoubtedly been responsible for his choice of career. He had sometimes wondered what his profession might have been, had he not been born in Arizona, near the very spot where the most long-enduring and influential of Martian fantasies had been created. Perhaps it was imagination, but Poole thought he could just see Lowell’s unique tomb, close to the great telescope, which had fuelled his dreams.
From what year, and what season, had this image been captured? He guessed it had come from the spy satellites which had watched over the world of the early twentyfirst century. It could not be much later than his own time, for the layout of the city was just as he remembered. Perhaps if he went low enough he would even see himself…
But he knew that was absurd; he had already discovered that this was the nearest he could get. If he flew any closer, the image would start to breakup, revealing its basic pixels. It was better to keep his distance, and not destroy the beautiful illusion.
And there – it was incredible! – was the little park where he had played with his junior and high-school friends. The City Fathers were always arguing about its maintenance, as the water supply became more and more critical. Well, at least it had survived to this time – whenever that might be.
And then another memory brought tears to his eyes. Along those narrow paths, whenever he could get home from Houston or the Moon, he had walked with his beloved Rhodesian Ridgeback, throwing sticks for him to retrieve, as man and dog had done from time immemorial.
Poole had hoped, with all his heart, that Rikki would still be there to greet him when he returned from Jupiter, and had left him in the care of his younger brother Martin. He almost lost control, and sank several metres before regaining stability, as he once more faced the bitter truth that both Rikki and Martin had been dust for centuries.
When he could see properly again, he noticed that the dark band of the Grand Canyon was just visible on the far horizon. He was debating whether to head for it – he was growing a little tired – when he became aware that he was not alone in the sky. Something else was approaching, and it was certainly not a human flyer. Although it was difficult to judge distances here, it seemed much too large for that.
Well, he thought, I’m not particularly surprised to meet a pterodactyl here – indeed, it’s just the sort of thing I’d expect. I hope it’s friendly – or that I can outfly it if it isn’t. Oh, no!
A pterodactyl was not a bad guess: maybe eight points out of ten. What was approaching him now, with slow flaps of its great leathery wings, was a dragon straight out of Fairyland. And, to complete the picture, there was a beautiful lady riding on its back. At least, Poole assumed she was beautiful. The traditional image was rather spoiled by one trifling detail: much of her face was concealed by a large pair of aviator’s goggles that might have come straight from the open cockpit of a World War I biplane.
Poole hovered in mid-air, like a swimmer treading water, until the oncoming monster came close enough for him to hear the flapping of its great wings. Even when it was less than twenty metres away, he could not decide whether it was a machine or a bio-construct: probably both.
And then he forgot about the dragon, for the rider removed her goggles.
The trouble with cliche�s, some philosopher remarked, probably with a yawn, is that they are so boringly true.
But ‘love at first sight’ is never boring.
Danil could provide no information, but then Poole had not expected any from him. His ubiquitous escort – he certainly would not pass muster as a classic valet – seemed so limited in his functions that Poole sometimes wondered if he was mentally handicapped, unlikely though that seemed. He understood the functioning of all the household appliances, carried out simple orders with speed and efficiency, and knew his way about the Tower. But that was all; it was impossible to have an intelligent conversation with him, and any polite queries about his family were met with a look of blank incomprehension. Poole had even wondered if he too was a bio-robot.
Indra, however, gave him the answer he needed right away.
‘Oh, you’ve met the Dragon Lady!’
‘Is that what you call her? What’s her real name – and can you get me her Ident? We were hardly in a position to touch palms.’
‘Of course – no problemo.’
‘Where did you pick up that?’
Indra looked uncharacteristically confused.
‘I’ve no idea – some old book or movie. Is it a good figure of speech?’
‘Not if you’re over fifteen.’
‘I’ll try to remember. Now tell me what happened – unless you want to make me jealous.’
They were now such good friends that they could discuss any subject with perfect frankness. Indeed, they had laughingly lamented their total lack of romantic interest in each other – though Indra had once commented, ‘I guess that if we were both marooned on a desert asteroid, with no hope of rescue, we could come to some arrangement.’
‘First, you tell me who she is.’
‘Her name’s Aurora McAuley; among many other things, she’s President of the Society for Creative Anachronisms. And if you thought Draco was impressive, wait until you see some of their other – ah – creations. Like Moby Dick – and a whole zooful of dinosaurs Mother Nature never thought of.’
This is too good to be true, thought Poole.
I am the biggest anachronism on Planet Earth.
12
Frustration
Until now, he had almost forgotten that conversation with the Space Agency psychologist.
‘You may be gone from Earth for at least three years. If you like, I can give you a harmless anaphrodisiac implant that will last out the mission. I promise we’ll more than make it up, when you get home.’
‘No thanks,’ Poole had answered, trying to keep his face straight when he continued, ‘I think I can handle it.’
Nevertheless, he had become suspicious after the third or fourth week – and so had Dave Bowman.
‘I’ve noticed it too,’ Dave said ‘I bet those damn doctors put something in our diet…’
Whatever that something was – if indeed it had ever existed – it was certainly long past its shelf-life. Until now, Poole had been too busy to get involved in any emotional entanglements, and had politely turned down generous offers from several young (and not so young) ladies. He was not sure whether it was his physique or his fame that appealed to them: perhaps it was nothing more than simple curiosity about a man who, for all they knew, might be an ancestor from twenty or thirty generations in the past.
To Poole’s delight, Mistress McAuley’s Ident conveyed the information that she was currently between lovers, and he wasted no further time in contacting her. Within twenty-four hours he was pillion-riding, with his arms enjoyably around her waist. He had also learned why aviator’s goggles were a good idea, for Draco was entirely robotic, and could easily cruise at a hundred klicks. Poole doubted if any real dragons had ever attained such speeds.
He was not surprised that the ever-changing landscapes below them were straight out of legend. Ali Baba had waved angrily at them, as they overtook his flying carpet, shouting ‘Can’t you see where you’re going!’ Yet he must be a long way from Baghdad, because the dreaming spires over which they now circled could only be Oxford.
Aurora confirmed his guess as she pointed down: ‘That’s the pub – the inn – where Lewis and Tolkien used to meet their friends, the Inklings. And look at the river – that boat just coming out from the bridge – do you see the two little girls and the clergyman in it?’
‘Yes,’ he shouted back against the gentle sussuration of Draco’s slipstream. ‘And I suppose one of them is Alice.’
Aurora turned and smiled at him over her shoulder: she seemed genuinely delighted.
‘Quite correct: she’s an accurate replica, based on the Reverend’s photos. I was afraid you wouldn’t know. So many people stopped reading soon after your time.’
Poole felt a glow of satisfaction.
I believe I’ve passed another test, he told himself smugly. Riding on Draco must have been the first. How many more, I wonder? Fighting with broadswords?
But there were no more, and the answer to the immemorial ‘Your place or mine?’ was – Poole’s.