The maze around them began to throb, and smoke began to pour from beneath the nearest sliding panel.
Captain Cipher’s eyes were glazed; his jaw hung slack. He said, “Spears it. Runs it down and spears it. That takes…”
“Can you solve it?” They could take their loss and scamper, or try to answer the question. Every second cost them another five points.
“I’ve got half of it already. The bird…”
Acacia spun, deciding to let him work. She raised her sword high, set her back against the Captain’s and waited, ready for danger.
The mirror behind Captain Cipher flamed red. A mouth had appeared in it now, glowing brightly, a vast, grinning diamond-shape, chock-a-block with needle teeth. Fire blazed within. Laughter rang in her ears.
The demon of the maze. This was the final trump—if Captain Cipher failed, all of their accumulated points might vanish. If he succeeded but she was killed by the materializing demon, the Troglodykes would hunt Cipher down and kill him.
“Have you got an answer?” she hissed.
“Never published. Brand new puzzle. Well—”
And the demon leapt.
Panthesilea screamed her battle cry, and—
The demon froze in mid-leap. Captain Cipher had begun to answer the question. Mutilations were temporarily suspended.
She peered anxiously over Cipher’s shoulders.
“Black and White. Penguin,” he typed.
The face of the demon appeared on the screen, politely inquisitive. “Why?” he/she/it asked sonorously.
Cipher looked around. “The camp is one plus one over two Pi times N miles north of the South Pole.”
Acacia stared. “What?”
“The hunter runs it down, yes? The bird’s flightless. Do penguins ring a bell? Find the tuxedoed darlings near the South Pole.” He was typing furiously:
“1 + ½Pi (N) miles north of the South Pole (N a positive integer.)”
“Just so the demon knows I mean business,” he said arrogantly. “Now, Hunter set his tent just north of the South Pole, right? He walks a mile south, toward the pole, then circles the pole. That takes him ‘a mile west,’ see? If he’s closer yet, he can circle the pole two or three or four times. Then he goes a mile north, and he’s back at base camp. Only place he can do that is at the South Pole.”
She felt dazed. Captain Cipher waited coolly, matching gazes with the ruby-flame apparition dancing in the glass before him.
“Dinner,” it said, “is served.” Its mouth opened wider, wider. A tunnel to the beyond.
Panthesilea whispered “Stay here,” and stepped through the portal.
THE GHOST SHIPS
The Ghost Ships have been hanging around in my head for many years. They’re a life form. Think of a ghost ship as a pattern of shock waves in the interstellar medium: a Bussard ramjet with no ship in the middle. Primitive forms may have been born in the shock waves of a supernova explosion. That would have given them their initial velocity too. (Bussard ramjets theoretically can’t work below 1000 kilometers/second.)
Okay, I know where there was a supernova, a billion years ago.
And I know how ghost ships mate. [I talked this over with Jack Cohen, who knows more about fertility than anyone else on Earth.]
And what if ghost ships come home to mate? The Smoke Ring could be in for a hell of a shock. And Sharls Davis Kendy won’t like it either.
The peculiar conditions of the Smoke Ring—microgravity and powerful tides and winds—require new techniques. Robert W. Davis of Millburn, New Jersey, wrote me a letter describing technology I’d never touched. I’ve made good use of his suggestions involving sails and kites.
And I’d love to give you an excerpt, but we learned better while working on N-SPACE. There’s no way to partially describe the Smoke Ring.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
DESTINY’S ROAD
I’ve described this novel before, and everybody in the business goes, “Yeah!” It’s a wonderful idea, and a very simple one. Nobody seems to doubt I can make it work, except me.
But I need several months of sensory deprivation, and I don’t see a way to get it. I’ve got to get inside a man’s head. I’ve contracted to tell his life story.
Spiral City grew up around the place where two landers came down. Then one fusion-powered lander rose on its ground-effect skirt, described an expanding spiral, then went off to explore…leaving a trail of molten rock behind it all the way. It never came back.
Families have followed the lava road. Other communities grew up, and trading caravans return from time to time. There’s the mystery of what happened to Cavorite’s crew.
At one time this was the only form for a novel. But I’ve never tried anything like it before.
Wish me luck.
• • •
• • •
LETTER
Ralph Vicinanza Ltd.
New York, N.Y.
Dear Ralph,
I got a phone call from the Soviet Union, Tuesday evening. What the voice wanted was…well, something from another author, until the guy looked at his notes to see who he’d phoned. The connection faded in and out. I sensed some urgency (his and his translator’s, not mine). He’s offering rubles, wants to publish certain books. Any proper names were sure to get scrambled, and…he wanted my power of attorney. That sounded like something not to pass out like peanuts at a party.
So I said I couldn’t understand, suggested hard copy, and presently hung up.
This arrived Tuesday.
I had all Wednesday to phone you. I forgot. Now it’s Thanksgiving; you’ll be out of your office. So I’ll do this by mail, and phone as soon as I can.
What do I do next? Over to you, Ralph.
Best wishes,
Larry Niven
FROM: U.S.S.R. SUVG
TO: NIVEN
POWER ATTORNEY STATEMENT TO IGOR
TOLOCONNICOV BORIS ZAVGORODNY
WITH YOUR APPROVAL CLAUSE ON DEALS
WE CONCLUDE PERMISSION IN LETTER
FOR ONETIME APPEARANCE PROTECTOR
RINGWORLD RINGWORLD INGENEERS
MIRIMUM 35000 RUBLES
VOLGOGRAD 400026
• • •
Larry Niven, Playgrounds of the Mind
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