Mer-Cycle

by Piers Anthony

  Don basked in the warm tent and ate his hot food. Yes, the selection of personnel was starting to make sense. A man did not live by archaeology alone; he required the minimum comforts of life. Pacifa had provided them, and at this moment he would not have traded her for anyone. Not even her shapely daughter, even if his stutter did not exist.

  That reminded him of Melanie. He was sitting beside her in the tent, hip to hip, but it was as if she were far away. “You’ve been quiet. How are you doing?”

  She turned her face to him and smiled. “You are interested?”

  It became as if the two of them were alone. “Yes.”

  “I was imagining myself on land. While we were riding, and now.”

  “While we were plunging to the dismal depths, risking our very lives?” he demanded facetiously. One thing her revelation of her condition had done for him was to distance her enough emotionally to make her approachable socially. This was not a paradox so much as an eddy-current; he could talk with a woman who was not a romantic prospect, just as he could talk with a man who was not a rival. “What if something had happened?”

  Gaspar half-smiled and lay back comfortably. Pacifa had eaten her serving quickly and was quietly cleaning up. Eleph seemed to be falling asleep. It was Don’s conversation to carry, if he chose.

  “What could I have done if it had?” Melanie asked reasonably. “I’d be better off far away.”

  He played the game, beginning to enjoy it. “Where did you go? To the beach again?”

  “No, this time I rode around town.”

  “Around town!” he exclaimed, evoking a small smile from Pacifa. “In the daytime? Didn’t people see you?”

  “No. At least, not exactly.”

  He was beginning to see it himself: her riding her bike as he had at the outset, on land. “This is a secret mission. If you—”

  “I couldn’t stand being alone anymore!” she cried with the edge of hysteria.

  Don felt a wash of sympathy. He saw Gaspar nod, and Pacifa paused for a moment. But still they stayed out of it, letting Don talk to Melanie alone, as it were.

  He had never held a dialogue like this before, and was afraid he would muff it. At the same time, he was profoundly grateful for it. He would try to calm her down, not merely because it might help her, but because it felt good to be trying to help her. This was on one level a flight of fancy, an escape from the emotional pressure of this fatigue and mystery in a strange dark, cold place. But on another it was personal truth.

  “I can’t blame you,” he said. “This whole project is weird. What did you see?”

  Her eyes were closed now, and she seemed to be truly in her vision or memory. “I rode right along the downtown streets.” Now she sounded almost breathless, as if she were active instead of passive. “Beside the cars, through crowds of people, in the middle of the day. I obeyed all the traffic signals and gave pedestrians the right of way. It was all so ordinary I nearly cried.”

  “Like the beach,” he said. “When you walked on the sand and saw the seagulls in the wind. I didn’t have the nerve to go out among people. After being phased out, I mean.” Or before, really, he realized. He had always been a stranger, as much when in the city as when in his home neighborhood.

  “I guess so, pretty much,” she agreed. “But then I got so hungry for some kind of interaction I—”

  Because she too had always been alone: without family support, and with that stark lack of hair making her a freak—

  He brought himself up short. “Yes,” he said gently. “It’s hard to be alone.” He was discovering that no artifice was needed, just identification.

  “I started breaking the rules,” she confessed. “I’m basically a social creature. I—I rode right through people, to see what they’d do. And—”

  This was getting too real. Don was afraid to ask, but afraid not to. Was this truly invention, or had she done this while waiting for the rendezvous? “And—?”

  “And they never even noticed. Any more than the sea did. No contact.”

  “Not even the bones?”

  “I—I didn’t know about that, then. There was a—but I don’t want to talk about that. It’s too much like violation. I meant there was no personality contact. They just shrugged and apologized and went on. They—they never realized what it was.”

  “Never realized they had had a ghost on a bicycle ride through them? How could they miss it?”

  “Well, I guess in a crowd you get banged quite a bit anyway, so you don’t notice things. Maybe you don’t want to. And all the world’s a crowd, today. They never really looked at me.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “No it isn’t,” she said sadly. “When I thought about it, just now, I realized that it was no different from the rest of my life. Being alone, no matter how big the crowd, no matter how different I think I am, no one notices. The mind, the personality, I mean. All they notice is the other.”

  Now Pacifa spoke. “What other?”

  For answer, Melanie swept her hands up and dragged off her wig. “Just a little physical interaction,” she continued. “Like that gruesome meshing of bones, but no awareness of what’s inside, what’s beyond the label, beyond the …” There were tears now, flowing from the doll’s eyes in the doll’s bare skull.

  “Oh, my,” Pacifa murmured.

  Melanie seemed oblivious. “It reminds me of a song that was popular before my time. I had it on a record. ‘Nobody loves me ’cause nobody knows me.’ It was called ‘Single Girl.’” She hummed the tune.

  She was feeling sorry for herself. But Don could not deny she had reason. Those who blithely disparaged the state tended to be unfeeling louts, he felt. He had not liked his own lonely first section of this mission, and that had been for less than a day. Melanie had been isolated longer, waiting. But for her, as it was for him, this was only an episode in a life of similar isolation.

  What could he tell her? Her problem was real, and it would be hypocritical to pretend that it wasn’t. Don found himself tongue-tied, when he least wanted to be.

  “May I?” Pacifa inquired.

  Don looked at her. She came to kneel before Melanie. Melanie’s eyes opened. “What?”

  “I am one of those who does not know you,” Pacifa said. “How could I? I am new to this group. But perhaps I know your type.”

  “My type?”

  “And you do not know me. But this much can be rectified. I can tell you in a few minutes what is relevant.”

  “N-now wait—” Don started.

  Gaspar lifted a hand, signaling peace. Don took the hint and was quiet.

  “We are all of us alone, I think,” Pacifa said. “That seems to have been a requirement for this mission, which is not the most comfortable thought. It may mean that we’re expendable. But it could mean instead that we are fragments capable of uniting into a kind of family. Then none of us would be alone.”

  Melanie’s eyes widened, but she did not speak.

  “About me,” Pacifa continued. “I oversimplified. I could not have sent my daughter here. I was once part of a reasonably typical family. My husband was fifteen years older than I and a good man. But he did not take care of himself. He smoked—too much, drank—too much, ate fatty foods, did not exercise, and had a high-stress job. He led, in general, the conventional unhealthy lifestyle, and it took him out with a heart attack at age sixty. I had taken a job which absorbed my attention, and somehow had not seen his demise coming. My daughter was beautiful, but she ran off with an alcoholic who finally beat her to death. That I saw coming, but she wouldn’t listen. Had I my life to live over, I would address both situations in time and save my family. But I was wise way too late. I disavowed it all, their parts and mine, and focused thereafter on a totally healthy lifestyle, maintaining economic and emotional independence. Yet satisfaction eluded me. I signed up for this mission in the hope that it would offer me not only a challenge but—” She paused.

  “I understand,” Melanie murmu
red.

  “You are in a way like my daughter. I realize that this is artificial, and there are no quick fixes—”

  Melanie lifted her arms. The two embraced, awkwardly but tightly.

  Don closed his eyes. Why couldn’t he have done something like that?

  CHAPTER 6

  MYSTERY

  Proxy 5–12–5–16–8: Attention.

  Acknowledging.

  Status?

  Group is complete and melding is proceeding. There should be further progress as they encounter the next group challenge.

  When will they learn the mission?

  When melding is complete.

  Do they know that one of them is an agent of a local government?

  The others do not know.

  Or that you are a member of their group?

  They do not know.

  You run the risk of destroying the group and with it the mission, when they learn.

  Yes. I hope the risk is less than that of the direct approach.

  We hope so too. A world is at stake.

  As they progressed, the differences between bicycles became more obvious. Gaspar was in the best physical condition of the men, being muscular and accustomed to strenuous activity. Yet he seemed to tire the most rapidly. Pacifa, a woman in her fifties, was indefatigable. Don and Eleph and Melanie fell in between, with a slight advantage going to Eleph. It had to be the bicycles.

  Don watched, working it out. Gaspar had a one-speed machine without fixtures, apart from those attached for the phase trip. Up hills he panted; down hills he used the coaster brake. When the way was steep, he had to walk because he could not put out his feet to steady himself in emergencies in the way the others could—not without sacrificing his necessary braking power. Thus his muscle was inefficiently employed, and it cost him.

  Melanie had three speeds, and they seemed to help her a lot. She was young and trim; her lack of weight surely helped her keep the pace, because it took less work to haul that weight upslope. But she was structured in the fashion of a woman, not a man, and simply lacked the muscle mass to do a lot.

  Don himself had five speeds. Ordinarily he remained in third or fourth gear, but on a sustained climb he shifted down to second. A smooth decline allowed him to speed along in fifth. The range seemed quite suitable, and he had no complaints, though he certainly felt a day’s travel. He was hardening to it, as they all were, but he did wish the sea floor was both smoother and more level.

  Eleph, who was of Pacifa’s generation, had all of thirty six speeds. He seemed to use only a few—no more than Don did, perhaps—but he could choose them precisely, and could take advantage of the best ratio for any situation. Those turned-down handlebars looked awkward, but they caused the man to assume an efficient riding position: head down, body hunched so as to reduce wind (water) resistance and allow the most effective use of the leg muscles. The whole body was positioned in line with the thrust of the pedals: therein might lie the real key. Don tried to imitate the position, though his higher handlebars forced his elbows out awkwardly, and it did seem to help.

  Pacifa’s bicycle had only ten speeds, and the same turned-down handlebars. She was no more muscular than Melanie, and a generation older. Yet she moved effortlessly, it seemed. What advantage did she have over Eleph?

  The differences seemed small. Pacifa wore gloves, not the dressy kind or heavy protective ones, but a kind of open webbing with the fingers cut off. They seemed useless, a pointless affectation. Until he noticed how sweaty his hands became on the hard rubber grips. Her gloves removed the palms from the rubber—actually she had black tape wrapped around the bars instead, for some reason—just enough to ensure ventilation, and they also provided friction. That could count for a lot, after eight or ten hours of arm-muscle twitchings. She had loops over her toes, fastening them to the pedals. This looked clumsy and dangerous at first; what if she took an unexpected spill? But Don soon saw that the straps did for her feet what the gloves did for her hands. Furthermore, she could actually pull-up on the pedals as well as push-down, using different muscles while increasing power. As if that weren’t enough, her shoes were cleated, and seemed to have metal-reinforced soles to protect her feet from battering. Don’s own feet felt as if someone had been hammering on them, the soreness extending right into the bone.

  Even so, it didn’t seem to account for her stamina. She was in good physical health, but so was Gaspar. She wasn’t muscular, yet she seemed to have the endurance of a woman twenty years younger. Don resolved to talk to her about it at the next opportunity.

  When that chance came, he was surprised. “Ankling,” she said. “Cadence.”

  “What-ling?”

  “Ankling. That’s half my secret. You men just push on the balls of your feet; I use my ankles. Like this.” She positioned one foot in the stirrup. “At the top of the stroke, my toe points up. As I complete the stroke, it angles down, until at the bottom—”

  “But that makes your ankle do all the work of pedaling, instead of the large muscles,” Don protested.

  “No, the entire body participates. Ankling merely increases the effectiveness of the stroke, letting me use every muscle to advantage. You can’t put the whole load on one part of the leg and expect it to stand up.”

  Don tried it. “Seems awkward.”

  “For you, the first time, yes. But so is a baby’s first meal with a spoon. Here, let me raise your saddle; you can’t operate effectively unless your bike is adjusted to your leg-length.”

  She loosened a bolt with her wrench and raised the seat about an inch and a half.

  “I can barely reach the pedals now!” Don protested, trying it.

  “Nonsense. Any change feels strange at first, even when it’s for the better. In the long run—”

  “Maybe so. I’ll practice ankling tomorrow, if I don’t fall over. But why didn’t you tell me about it at the beginning?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about hammerhead sharks?”

  “That’s not the same.”

  “It will do.”

  “I suppose we all have to learn by experience. But at least they could have had us standardize on bicycles. Experience won’t change our problem of equipment. Poor Gaspar—”

  “There will be adaptation equipment at the first supply depot,” she said with a smile.

  “How do you know that?”

  “We women are not so amiable as you men about the finicky details. I put conditions on my participation in this venture. I knew someone would foul up on the hardware, as it seems they already have on your food.”

  “I never realized bicycles were that different,” Don said sheepishly.

  “Oh, they are. Wait till you try a lightweight tourer, instead of that milk wagon you’re on now. Ten speeds, rat-trap pedals—”

  “Rattletrap pedals!”

  “Rat-trap. Like this.” She showed one of her pedals. Don was amazed; with all his comparison of the bicycles, he had not picked up on this detail. The thing was empty. There were only two strips of metal paralleling the main bolt. It did look like the jaws of a rat trap.

  “Cuts weight, provides a better grip for the foot,” she explained. “The true racing pedals have saw-tooth edges for real friction. But I’m not racing.”

  Don would never want to race her, however, “About those ten gears. Eleph has—”

  “Thirty six speeds. Talk about overkill! Trust the military mind to squander resources. But it is a good machine, for all his ignorance. Once he learns how to use it, he’ll be all right.”

  “Why is it you have only ten speeds, instead of—”

  “Ten’s all I need. The point of gearing is not to give you different speeds, in the manner of a car, but to enable you to maintain a suitable cycling rhythm. That’s cadence. A steady turning of the crank arm at constant revolutions. Find what’s most comfortable for you—say sixty turns a minute—and stick to it. Your forward speed may vary, but not your cadence. That way you’ll last longer with less fatigue.”


  Don shook his head. “If I didn’t see you standing there all peppery while I’m beat, I’d figure it was quibbling.”

  “That’s right.” She started off to see about camping arrangements.

  “Uh, one other thing,” he said, suddenly feeling awkward. “Last night—what you did for Melanie—that was a g-generous thing.”

  “Don’t give me credit that isn’t due,” she snapped. “I did it for me.”

  “For—?”

  “Your turn will come, when you get over this nonsense about appearances.” She moved off.

  Bemused, Don went about his own business.

  They traveled a hundred miles a day, under the Gulf Stream. However warm the water might be above, it remained cold here, for they were in the region of deep-water circulation. The cold current was opposite to that of the warm one, giving them an effective tailwind. Though only a thousandth of the water temperature affected him, Don was very glad for the protective warmth of the converter unit.

  At the end of the first day of full bottom travel the depth was over six hundred fathoms. At the end of the second day it was one thousand fathoms. On the third day they reached fourteen hundred fathoms and encountered the vast sedimentary plains of the Gulf of Mexico. As far as their headlamps would show, which was not any great distance, the sea floor was flat and featureless except for spider-like brittlestars and occasional sea cucumbers. Some few glass sponges stuck up in clusters, and some fanlike sea fans. Ugly two-foot-long fish, which Gaspar identified as rat-tailed grenadiers, scouted here and there, as well as spindly-legged crustaceans. But the overall impression was that of a desert.

  A desert under water! Could this be the result of man’s pollution? Actually it was a swamp. Don imagined the muck giving way beneath the weight of the bicycles, scant as the effect might be with the phaseout. If they slowed, would the thin tires sink?

  The answer was no. The phase world’s surface was hard. Don mused again about that, without effect. The full nature of that other realm remained a mystery.

  On and on, for hours, unvarying. There was no danger here, merely boredom. Yet this region was tiny compared to the great abyssal plains of the main oceans, according to Gaspar. The Bearing Plain was supposedly about as large as the entire Gulf of Mexico.