The Universe Twister (16 page)

Somehow he had expected to encounter some sort of warning before reaching the desert—a saloon with a sign reading "Last Chance Charlie's," or something of the sort, where he could buy some supplies for the long ride still ahead. Instead, here he was, already worn out from an unaccustomed night in the saddle—the book hadn't mentioned blisters on the thighs—facing the desert.

And he was getting hungry again. He jogged on, thinking of food. Taffy, now; that was nourishing, compact, durable. O'Leary felt the glands at the side of his jaws ache at the thought. Beautiful, tawny, delicious taffy. Funny how he'd never really gotten enough taffy. Back in Colby Corners you could buy it in any desired amount at Schrumph's Confectionary, but somehow he'd always felt a little foolish walking in and asking for it. That was one thing he'd correct as soon as he got back—he'd lay in a larger stock of taffy and eat it whenever he felt like it.

He squinted across the hazy flat ahead, concentrating on the idea of saddlebags well stocked with good, mouth-watering, nourishing food. All he had to do was dismount, open them up, and there it would be. Concentrated rations that wouldn't suffer from the desert heat, enough to last him for—oh, say, a week.

There was a tiny jar—the familiar sense of a slipped gear in the cosmic machinery. O'Leary smiled. OK, he was set now. He'd ride on a mile or so into the desert, just to give himself a clear view of the trail behind so that no one could sneak up on him, and then he'd enjoy a long-delayed meal.

* * *

It was hot out here. O'Leary twisted, riding in a semi-sidesaddle position to ease the pain in his seat. The early sun was beating on his back, reflecting into his eyes from every projecting rock and desert plant. Too bad he hadn't thought to equip himself with a pair of Ray-Bans—and a hat would have helped, too; a wide-brimmed cowboy model. He reined in, turned in the saddle and looked back, squinting into the sun. Aside from his own trail of hoofprints and the settling dust of his passage, no sign of human life marred the expanse of dusty sand. It was as though the world ended a mile or two behind, where the low plateau met the dazzle of the morning sky. Not a very choice spot for a picnic, but the pangs were getting bothersome.

He swung stiffly down from the saddle, unbuckled the strap securing the flap on the left-hand saddlebag, groped inside and brought out a cardboard box. A bright wrapper showed a plate of golden-brown goodies.
Aunt Hooty's Best Salt Water Taffy
, O'Leary read delightedly. Well, that would make a fine dessert but, first, the more staple portions of the feast. He dropped it back in, came out with a familiar-shaped tin.
Sailo Sam's Salt Water Sardines
, the purple print announced, and beneath in small red letters: Finest Pure Taffy Confections. The next container was a square box containing
Old-Fashioned Taffy, a Treat for Young and Old
. O'Leary swallowed hard, dropped the box, probed for another; came up with a dozen eggs—chocolate-covered, taffy inside.

The other saddle bag produced a five-pound tin of taffy—a large gob of taffy artfully shaped to resemble a small ham, three square cans of
Old Style Taffy Like Mother Used to Make
, a flat plug of
Country Taffy—Pulled by Contented Clods
, and a handful of loose taffies wrapped in cellophane lettered
Taffy Kisses: Sweet as a Lover's Lips
.

O'Leary looked over the loot ruefully. Not what you'd call a balanced diet; still, it could have been worse. After all, he
did
like taffy. He sat down in the shade of the horse and started in.

It was worse after that, riding on in the later morning sun. His soreness stiffened into pain that made him wince at every jolt of the animal's hoofs. His mouth puckered with the cloying taste of candy, his stomach feeling as though a dollop of warm mud had been dropped into it. His fingers were sticky with taffy, and the corners of his mouth were gummed with it. Ye Gods! Why hadn't he dwelt on the idea of ham sandwiches or fried chicken, or even good old Tend-R Nood-L! And it would have been clever of him to have supplied himself with a canteen while he had the chance.

Well, he was committed to the venture, ill-prepared though he was. There was no turning back now; the cops would be out in force after the fiasco in the alley. Nicodaeus had shown his colors; he could reduce the tally of his friends here in Artesia from one to zero. Still, when he came riding back with Adoranne before him, all would be forgiven. That part of the trip would be a little more fun than this. She'd have to sit snuggled up close, of course, and naturally he'd have to have at least one arm around her—to steady her. Her golden hair would nestle just under his chin, and he'd ride slowly, so as not to fatigue her Highness. It would take all day, and maybe they'd have to spend a night, rolled up in a blanket—if he had a blanket—by a little campfire, miles from anywhere . . .

But right now it was hot, dusty, itchy and exceedingly uncomfortable. Ahead, the line of peaks showed as a sawtoothed ridge, angling in from the left, marching on without a break to the horizon. Keep going until he reached the pass, the fellow had said back in the alley—not that he could depend on his directions. But there was nothing to do now but keep going and hope for the best.

The sun was low over the mountains to the west, a ball of dusty red in a sky of gaudy purple and pink, against which a clump of skinny palm trees stood out in stark silhouette. O'Leary rode the last few yards to the oasis and reined in under the parched trees. The horse moved impatiently under him, stepped on past a low, half-fallen wall, dropped his head to a dark pool, and drank thirstily. O'Leary eased an aching leg over the saddle and lowered himself to the ground. He felt, he decided, like an Egyptian mummy buried astride his favorite charger, and just now unearthed by nosy archaeologists. He hobbled to a spot on the bank of the pond, got awkwardly to his knees and plunged his head under the surface. The water was warm, a little brackish and not without a liberal sprinkling of foreign particles, but these trifles detracted hardly at all from the exquisite pleasure of the moment. He scrubbed his face, soaked his hair, swallowed a few gulps, then rose and tugged the horse away from the water.

"Can't have you foundering, old boy, whatever that is," he told the patient beast. "Too bad you can't enjoy taffy—or can you?" He rooted in the bag and unwrapped a Taffy Kiss; the horse nuzzled it from his palm.

"Bad for your teeth," O'Leary warned. "Still, since it's all there is, old fellow, it'll have to do."

He turned to the rolled bundle behind the saddle, unstrapped it, found that it consisted of a thin blanket with holes and a weather-beaten tent with four battered pegs and a jointed pole; the Red Bull's equipage left much to be desired. Fifteen minutes later, with the patched canvas erected and a final taffy eaten, O'Leary crawled inside, shaped a hollow in the sand for his hip, curled up on his side and was instantly asleep.

He awoke with a sudden sense of the ground sinking under him, a blip! as though a giant bubble had burst, followed by an abrupt silence broken only by a distant carrump! and the lonely
skriii
of a bird. O'Leary's eyes snapped open.

He was sitting alone on a tiny island with one palm tree in the center of a vast ocean.

From the top of the tree—a stunted specimen with half a dozen listless fronds bunched at the top of a skinny trunk—O'Leary gazed out to sea. Beyond the white breakers that ploughed across the bright green of the shoal to hiss on the flat beach, deep blue water stretched unbroken to the far horizon. A few small petrel-like birds wheeled and called, dropping to scoop up tidbits as the waves slid back from the shelf of sugar-white sand. Three or four small white clouds cruised high up in the sunny sky. It was a perfect spot for a quiet vacation, O'Leary conceded—wherever it was—though rather barren. His stomach gave a painful spasm as he thought of real food.

He slid to the ground, slumped against the trunk of the tree. This was a new form of disaster. Just when he'd though he had a few of the rules figured out—
zip!
Everything had gone to pieces. How had he gotten to
this
ridiculous place? He certainly hadn't wished himself here—he'd never even given a thought to inhabiting a desert isle as a population of one.

And, of course, his efforts to shift the scene back to the oasis and his horse failed. Somehow, he couldn't seem to keep his mind on the subject while his stomach was shooting out distress signals. Just when he needed his dreaming abilities most, they deserted him. He thought of Adoranne, her cool blue eyes, the curl of her golden hair, the entrancing swell of her girlish figure. He got to his feet, paced ten feet, reached the water's edge, paced back. Adoranne had given him a hanky and was doubtless expecting him to come charging to her rescue—and here he sat, marooned on this loony island. Damn!

Never mind. Pacing and chewing the inside of his lip wasn't going to help. This was a time to think constructively. He put his hands to his hollow stomach; the pangs interfered with his mental processes. He couldn't even think about escape until he'd had some food! The palm tree wouldn't help: it was devoid of coconuts. He eyed the water's edge. There might be fish there . . .

O'Leary took a deep breath, concentrated, pictured a box of matches, a package of fish hooks, and a salt shaker. Surely, that wouldn't overtax his power, a modest little hope like that . . . There was a silent thump. Quickly, O'Leary checked his capacious pockets, brought out from one a book of matches labeled
The Alcazar Roof Garden: Dancing Nitely
, and a miniature container of Morton's salt with a perforated plastic top; the other produced a paper containing half a dozen straight pins.

"The Huck Finn bit, yet," he muttered, bending one of the pins into a rude hook. He remembered then that he had neglected to evoke a length of line to go with the hooks. That, however, could be easily remedied. He picked a thread loose from the inside of the beaded vest, unraveled four yards of tough nylon line. For bait . . . hmmmm . . . a cluster of the tiny pearls from his vest ought to attract some attention.

He looped the thread to the hook, pulled off his boots, waded out a few yards into the warm surf. A school of tiny fish darted past in the transparent crest of a breaking wave; a large blue crab waved ready claws at him and scuttled away sideways leaving a trail of cloudy sand. He cast his line out, picturing a two-pound trout cruising just below the surface . . .

Nearly two hours later O'Leary licked his fingers and lay back with a sigh of content to plan his next move. It had taken three tries to land his fish—the pins, he discovered, tended to straighten out at the first good tug. The sharp-edged rock had been a clumsy instrument for cleaning his catch but as a skillet, it had served well enough, laid in the driftwood fire that still glowed in the hollow he had scooped in the sand. All things considered, it hadn't been a bad meal, for something improvised in a hurry.

And now the time had come to think constructively about getting off the island. It would help if he knew where he was; it didn't seem to be any part of Artesia—and it certainly didn't look like Colby Corners. Suppose he tried to transfer back home now, and wound up in the humdrum world of foundries and boarding houses? Suppose Artesia, once lost, could never be regained?

But time was precious. Already the sun was sinking toward the orange horizon; another day nearly gone.

He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and focused his thoughts on Artesia: the narrow, crooked streets, the tall, half-timbered houses, the spires of the palace, the cobbles and steam cars and forty-wall electric lights—and Adoranne, her patrician face, her smile . . .

He was aware of a sudden stress in the air, a sense of thunder impending, then a subtle jar, as though the universe had rolled over a crack in the sidewalk.

He felt himself drop two feet, and a gush of cold salt water engulfed him.

O'Leary sputtered, swallowed a mouthful, fought his way to the surface. He was immersed in a choppy, blue-black sea, riffled by a chilly breeze. The island was nowhere in sight, but off to the left—a mile or more, he estimated as a wave slapped him in the face—was a shoreline, with lights.

He was sinking, dragged down by the heavy sword and the sodden clothes. The belt buckle was stubborn; O'Leary wrenched at it, freed it, felt the weight fall away. His boots next . . . He got one off, surfaced, caught a quick breath; the clothes were dragging him down like a suit of armor. He tried to shrug out of the vest, snarled it around his left arm, nearly drowned before he got his head free of the surface for another gulp of air.

It was all he could do to hold his own; he was out of breath, tiring fast. The cold water seemed to paralyze his arms. His hands felt like frozen cod. He managed a glance shoreward, made out a familiar projection of land: the blunt tower of the Kamoosa Point Light. He knew where he was now: swimming in the Bay, twenty miles west of Colby Corners!

He went under again, shipping more water. His arms . . . so tired. His lungs ached. He'd have to breathe soon. What a fool he'd been . . . shifted himself back to the Colby Corners . . . and since he'd traveled twenty miles to the west, naturally he'd wound up in the Bay . . . too tired now . . . can't swim any longer . . . cold . . . going down . . . too bad . . . if he could have just seen her turned-up nose once more . . .

—and something slammed against his back. The cold and pressure were gone, as though they had never been. O'Leary gasped, coughed, spat salt water, rolled over and coughed some more. After a while his breathing was easier. He sat up, looked around at an expanse of twilit sand—lots of it, stretching away to a line of jagged peaks black against the blaze of sunset.

Apparently he was back in Artesia. He looked up at the stars coming into view now in the darkening sky. The best bet would be to get a few hours of sleep and then start on. But he was too chilled to sleep. Perhaps if he walked a bit first, he'd warm up and his clothes would dry.