Mer - Cycle - Piers Anthony

Mer - Cycle - Piers Anthony, ebook

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Piers Anthony
Mercycle
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
1 — Don
2 — Gaspar
3 — Melanie
4 — Eleph
5 — Pacifa
6 — Mystery
7 — Crevasse
8 — City
Page 1
 9 — Glowcloud
10 — Decoy
11 — Ship
12 — Splendid
13 — Minos
14 — Atlantis
15 — Crisis
16 — Mission
Author's Note
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CHAPTER 1
DON
Page 2
 Proxy 5-12-5-16-8: Attention.
Acknowledging.
Status?
Four locals have been recruited and equipped. They are waiting for the signal to commence.
They are ignorant of their mission?
They believe they have missions, but none know the true one. They have been given a cover story
relevant to their interests. By the time they realize that the cover story is irrelevant, they should be ready
for the truth.
Contraindications?
One is an agent of a local government.
Why is this allowed?
The recruitment brought the response of this person. It seemed worth trying. That one can be eliminated
if necessary. Such involvement might prove to be advantageous.
With the fate of a world at stake?
We do not know what will be most effective. It is no more risky than the exclusion of such persons might
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 be.
It remains a gamble.
Any course is a gamble.
True. Proceed.
Acknowledged. I will start the first one through the phasing tunnel.
Don Kestle pedaled down the road, watching nervously for life. It was early dawn, and the sparrows
were twittering in the Australian Pines as they waited for the picnickers, but nothing human was visible.
Now was the time. He shifted down to second, muttering as the chain caught between gear-sprockets
and spun without effect. He still wasn't used to this multiple-speed bicycle, and it seemed to be more
trouble than it was worth. He fiddled with the lever, and finally it caught.
He bucked the bike over the bank and into the unkempt grass, moving as rapidly as he could. He
winced as he saw his thin tires going over formidable spreads of sandspur, though he knew the stuff was
harmless to him and his equipment. That was because, as he understood it, he wasn't really here.
Soon he hit the fine white dry sand. He braked, remembering this time to use the hand levers instead of
embarrassing himself by pedaling backwards, and dismounted automatically. Actually it was quite
possible to ride over the sand, for it could not toss this bike—but anyone who happened to see him
doing that might suspect that something was funny. A bicycle tire normally lost traction and support,
skewing badly in such a situation.
In a moment the beach opened out to the sea: typical palm-studded Florida coastline. Seagulls were
already airborne, raucously calling out. A sign warned NO SWIMMING, for there were treacherous
Page 4
 tidal currents here. That was why Don had selected this spot and this time to make his cycling debut; it
was least likely to harbor prying eyes. He had been given a place and a time to be there; his exact
schedule was his own business.
The tide was out. Don walked his bicycle across the beach until he reached the packed sand near the
small breaking waves. Myriad tiny shells formed a long low hump, and he realized that early-rising
collectors could appear at any moment. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Yet when else could he
enter the water, clothed and on a bicycle, by daylight? He simply had to risk it.
Beyond the shell ridge, the sand was wet and smooth. He looked carefully, both ways, as if crossing a
busy intersection. Was he hoping that there would be someone, so that he would have to call it off?
No, he wanted to do it, Don reassured himself. In any event, his timing was such that he could not spare
the hours an alternate approach would require. He had chosen dawn at this beach, and now he was
committed. He had been committed all along. It was just that—well, a bit hard to believe. Here he was, a
healthy impetuous fair-complexioned beginning archaeologist with a bicycle—and a remarkable
opportunity. What could he do except grasp it, though he hardly comprehended it?
Don remounted and pushed down hard, driving his machine forward into the flexing ocean. The waves
surged through the wheels, offering no more resistance than air. He moved on, feeling the liquid against
his legs as the force of gentle wind. He didn't really need more power, but he shifted into first anyway,
bolstering his confidence. It remained hard to believe that he was doing this.
The bottom dropped, and abruptly he was coasting down into deeper water. Too fast for his taste. Now
he did backpedal, futilely. There was no coaster brake on this machine!
The water rose up to his thighs, then his chest, then his neck. Still he coasted down. In another instant it
was up across his face, and then it closed over his head. Don did not slow or float; he just kept going in.
He could see beneath, now. There was a rocky formation here, perhaps formed of shell. He would have
investigated the local marine terrain more carefully, if only he had had time. But the whole thing had been
set up so rapidly that he had barely had time to buy his bike before going through the tunnel. Now here
he—
He realized that he was holding his breath. He forced himself to breathe, surprised in spite of himself that
Page 5
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