Big Planet

10 The Monoline

About noon, there was a sudden opening before them—a lake. Small waves rippled and glinted at their feet; clouds reflected between areas of deep blue. In the distance floated a few low boats with wide double-lateen booms and baggy orange sails; and beyond was Swamp City. It sat up in the air, on top of the forest, like a mirage; it reminded Glystra of an old-world fishing village.

For several moments the party stood staring at the city on stilts… A shrill squawking startled them: a blue and yellow flying thing, beating sluggishly through the air.

“For a moment,” said Cloyville, “I thought the Magick-ers were upon us.”

Back to the forest—more winding, squeezing, doubling back, occasionally a straight run of twenty or thirty feet.

The sun moved across the sky; at last, in the middle afternoon, Glystra saw overhead the walls and houses of the city. Five minutes later the caravan moved into the shadow of the deck.

“A moment, please” said an unhurried voice. A platoon of warriors stood beside them, stocky men in mulberry coats.

The officer approached Glystra. “Your business, if you please.”

“No business. We’re travellers.”

“Travellers?” The officer glanced at the zipangotes. “From where?”

“From Jubilith, north of Beaujolais.”

“How did you get those beasts across the river? Certainly not on the high-line; our agent would have reported you.”

“We ferried them over on a raft. Last night.”

The officer fingered his mustache. “Did not the griamobots—”

Glystra smiled. “The Magickers have been hoaxing you. The griamobots are vegetarians, harmless. The only dangerous griamobot was one the Magickers built and filled with soldiers.”

The officer swore under his breath. “Lord Wittelhatch will wish to hear this. Magicker regulations and tariffs have long irked him, especially since he strung up the cable to begin with.”

“The cable interests me,” said Glystra. “Is it metal?”

“Oh no, by no means.” The officer laughed affably—a handsome young man with an expressive face and a jaunty straw-colored mustache. “Come, I’ll lead you to where your caravan may rest, and along the way you’ll see the working of our industry. We are rope-makers to the world; nowhere is cable equal to ours.”

Glystra hesitated. “Our wish was to continue as far along the way as possible before nightfall. Perhaps you will direct us—”

“A wealthy man in a hurry,” said the officer, thoughtfully eying the three girls, “would ride the monoline. It would cost much metal, much metal… Best confer with Wittelhatch.”

“Very well.” Glystra motioned to the column; they followed the officer, and a moment later came upon a scene of industry.

A series of rope-walks occupied an area five hundred feet square, which had been partially cleared, leaving only enough spines to support the weight of the city above. Each rope-walk consisted of a series of frames. In the process of formation the rope passed through a hole in the frame and immediately afterward passed through a wheel, which rotated around the rope as an axis. Fixed at regular intervals on the wheel were five fat slugs, and from their positors white strands ran to the rope. As the rope pulled through the frame, the wheel rotated and five new strands were added to the rope.

Glystra sighted up the rope-walk. Each frame had its wheel, and each wheel carried five slugs secreting thread for the rope. “Very clever,” said Glystra. “Very clever indeed.”

“Our rope is unexcelled,” said the officer, with a proud twist for his mustache. “Flexible, weatherproof, strong. We furnish rope for the monolines of Felissima, Bogover, Thelma, also the long line to Grosgarth in Beaujolais and the line out to Myrtlesee Fountain.”

“Hm… And the monolines are fast transportation?”

The officer inspected him smilingly. “I assure you.”

“Just what is a monoline?”

The officer laughed. “Now you joke with me. Come, I will take you to Wittelhatch, and he will doubtless feast you at his evening wassail. I understand an excellent conger bakes in his oven this day.”

“But our packs, our luggage! And the zipangotes, they have not eaten yet, there is nothing in this swamp for them to eat!”

The officer signalled; four men stepped forward. “Service and groom the beasts, feed them well, pluck their sores, wash and bind their feet, set them out each a dram of dympel.“ He said to Glystra. ”Your baggage will be secure, Swamp Island knows no thieves. Merchants and industers we be, but robbers no, it is against our rotes.”

Wittelhatch was a fat man with round red face, half-petulant, half-jocular, with crafty heavy-lidded eyes. He wore a white blouse embroidered with red and yellow frogs, a red brocade surcingle, tight blue trousers, black boots. In each ear hung a gold ring and each finger was heavy with assorted metals. He sat in a ceremonial chair, apparently having just lowered himself into place, for he was yet wrestling with the folds of his garments.

The officer bowed gracefully, indicated Glystra with a debonair motion. “A traveller from the west, Lord.”

“From the west?” Wittelhatch, narrow-eyed, rubbed one of his sub-chins. “I understand that the highline across the river has been cut. It will be necessary to kite it back into place. How then did you cross?”

Glystra explained the Magicker hoax. Wittelhatch became shrill and angry. “The long white muckers—and all the business I’ve sent them out of pity! Hey, but it discourages an honest community to be set so close to rascals!”

Glystra said with restrained impatience, “Our wish is to proceed on our way. Your officer suggested that we use the monoline.”

Wittlehatch immediately became business-like. “How many are in your party?”

“Eight, together with our baggage.”

Wittelhatch turned to the officer. “What do you suggest, Clodleberg? Five singles and a pack?”

The officer squinted thoughtfully. “Their baggage is considerable. Better might be two packs and two singles. And since they are unused to the trolleys, a guide.”

“Where is your destination?” Wittelhatch inquired.

“As far east as possible.”

“That’s Myrtlesee… Well now.” Wittelhatch calculated. “I care little to let my trolleys journey to such vast extents; you must pay substantially. If you buy the trolleys outright—ninety ounces of good iron. If you rent—sixty ounces, plus the guide’s pay and a reasonable return fee— another ten ounces.”

Glystra haggled politely, and reduced the rental to fifty ounces plus the zipangotes, and Wittelhatch would pay the guide. “Perhaps, Clodleberg, you would care to lead the party?” Wittelhatch inquired of the young officer.

Clodleberg twisted his blond mustache.

“Delighted.”

“Good,” said Glystra. “We’ll leave at once.”

Wittelhatch rang a hand-bell. A porter appeared. “Carry the baggage of these people to the take-off deck.”

Wind blew in sails and trolley wheels whispered down the monoline—a half-inch strand of white Swamp Island cable. From the dome at Swamp City the line led from spine to spine across three miles of swamp to a rocky headland, crossed over the rotten basalt with only six feet to spare, swung in a wide curve to the south-east. At fifty-foot intervals L-brackets mounted to poles supported the line, so designed that the trolleys slid across with only a tremor and slight thud of contact.

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.”

They set off, close-hauled, sailing so near into the eye of the wind that the leach of the sail flapped constantly. The line ran from tree-top to tree-top, and sometimes black-green foliage brushed Glystra’s feet… Clodleberg had doused his sail, was beckoning him urgently.

“What’s the trouble?”

Silence, signalled Clodleberg. He pointed ahead. Glystra trundled his trolley forward, up against Clodleberg’s. “What’s wrong?”

Clodleberg was fixedly watching something on the ground, through a gap in the foliage. “This is a dangerous part of the line… Bands of soldiers, starving forest people, bandits… Sometimes they wait till a trolley is over a high space, then cut the line, killing the traveller…”

Glystra saw movement through the leaves, a shifting of white and gray. Clodleberg climbed from the trolley into the branches of the tree, let himself cautiously down a few feet. Glystra watched him quietly. Behind came the quiver of the next trolley. Glystra signalled it to a halt.

Clodleberg was motioning to him. Glystra left his trolley, climbed to the crotch where Clodleberg stood. Through a gap in the leaves he could see the floor of the forest. Behind a low orange bush crouched three boys about ten years old. Bows and arrows ready, they watched the line like cats at a mousehole.

“Here’s where they get their early training,” whispered Clodleberg. “When they grow larger they go to raiding the towns of the March and all the Galatudanian Valley.” He quietly nocked a quarrel into his cross-bow.

“What are you going to do?” asked Glystra.

“Kill the biggest… I’ll be saving the lives of many innocent people.”

Glystra struck up his arm; the bolt shattered a branch over the head of the would-be assassins. Glystra saw their white faces, big dark eyes, open frightened mouths; then they were off, scurrying like rabbits.

“Why did you do that?” asked Clodleberg heatedly. “Those same skulkers may murder me on my way back to Swamp City.”

Glystra could find no words at first. Then he muttered, “Sorry… I suppose you’re right. But if this were Earth, or any of the System planets, they’d be at their schooling.”

A shaft of pure brilliance plunged down through the sky— Big Planet sunlight. The rain-washed colors of the forest shone with a glowing clarity never seen on Earth: black-greens, reds, yellows, ochers, buffs, the lime-green of low hangworts, the russet of bundle-bush. The wind blew high, blew low, the clouds flew back across the mountains; they sailed in a fresh sunny breeze.

The monoline dropped down out of the forest, stretched across a river-valley, over a swift river which Clodleberg named the Thelma. They made a fifty foot portage up the opposite bank, and set off once more across a land of peaceful farms and stone houses, undistinguished except for the fact that each house carried on its gable an intricate tangle of brambles and spiny leaves.

Glystra called to Clodleberg. “What on earth are those bristling thorn-patches?”

“Those are the ghost-catchers,” said Clodleberg easily. “This section of country abounds with ghosts; there’s a ghost for every house, sometimes more; and since they always give a quick jump which takes them to the roof where they can walk back and forth, the traps discourage them sadly… The very home of ghosts is this Mankelly Parish, and witches too”

Glystra thought that no matter how ordinary and uneventful a Big Planet landscape might appear, it was still—Big Planet.

The monoline paralleled a rutted earthen road, and three times the caravan, swinging along briskly with the breeze on the beam, passed big red farm-wains with six-foot wooden wheels, squeaking and groaning like scalded pigs. They were loaded with red melon-bulbs, bundles of orange vine, baskets of green okra. The lads who walked barefoot alongside goading the longnecked zipangotes wore tall conical hats with veils of white cloth about their faces.

“To fool the ghosts?” Glystra asked Clodleberg.

“To fool the ghosts.”

Afternoon wore on; the country became verdant and the ground supported every kind of pleasant growth. The farming region fell behind; they seemed to be traversing a great parkland.

Clodleberg pointed ahead. “See there, that white aquafer? There is your first glimpse of Kirstendale, the finest city of the Galatudanian Valley…”