clearly defined east-west line.
Ahead, all was clear and blue, promising warmth and calm seas. We headed south, as if propelled by the cold wind blustering from astern.
I felt my senses extend, and awareness spread around me like delicate nerve-cells reaching for sensation. I became aware. I opened.
There was a smell of diesel oil, of salt, of fish. The cold wind reached me, even though I was protected by the ship's superstructure; my city clothes felt thin and inadequate. I breathed in deeply, holding the air for several seconds, as if it might contain cleansing agents that would scrub out my system, refresh my mind, rejuvenate and re-inspire me. Beneath my feet, the deck was vibrating with the grind of engines. I felt the pitching movement of the ship in the swell, but my body was balanced and in tune with it.
I went forward to the prow of the ship, and here I turned to look back at what was behind me.
On the ship itself, a few other passengers huddled on the foredeck. Many of them were elderly couples, sitting or standing together, and most of them wore windcheaters or plastic rainproofs. They seemed to look neither forward nor back, but within. I stared past them, and beyond the ship's superstructure and funnel, where silent sea-birds glided effortlessly, to the coast we had left. The ship had turned slightly since leaving the harbour, and much of Jethra was visible. It seemed to spread along the coast, sheltering behind its quayside cranes and warehouses, filling its broad, estuarine valley. I tried to imagine its daily life continuing without me there to see it, as if everything might cease in niy absence. Already, Jethra had become an idea.
Ahead was our first port of call: Seevl, the offshore island I had never visited. It was the island of the Dream Archipelago closest to Jethra, and for all my life had merely been a part of the scenery. Dark, treeless Seevl dominated and blocked the view to the south of Jethra, yet to all but a few people with family connections, Seevl was prohibited to Jethrans. Politically it was part of the Archipelago, and while the war continued neutral territories were inaccessible. Seevl was the first, the nearest; there were ten thousand neutral islands beyond.
I wanted the ship to go faster, because while Jethra lay behind I felt I had not truly started, but the sea at the mouth of the estuary was shallow, and the ship changed course a number of times. We were approaching Stromb Head, the great broken cliffs at the eastern end of Seevl, and once we had rounded this all that lay ahead would be unknown.
I paced the deck, impatient for the journey, cold in the wind and frustrated by my fellow passengers. Before boarding I had imagined that I would be travelling with many people of my own age, but it seemed that almost everyone who was not crew was at retirement age. They appeared to be self-absorbed, heading for their new homes; one of the few methods of legal entry to the islands was by buying a house or apartment on one of a dozen or so listed islands.
At last we rounded the Head and sailed into the bay outside Seevl Town.
Jethra disappeared from view.
I was eager for my first sight of an Archipelagan town, for a glimpse of what other islands might be like, but Seevl Town was a disappointment. Grey stone houses rose in uneven tiers on the hillsides surrounding the harbour, looking untidy and drab. It was easy to imagine the place in winter, with the doors and shutters closed, the rain slicking the roofs and streets, people bent against the sea wind, few lights showing. I wondered if they had electricity on Seevl, or running water, or cars. There was no traffic that I could see in the narrow streets surrounding the harbour, but the roads were paved. Seevl Town was quite similar to some of the remote hill villages in the north of Faiandland. The only obvious difference was that smoke was pouring from most of the chimneys; this was a novelty to me, because there were strict anti-pollution laws in Jethra and the rest of Faiandland.
None of the passengers disembarked at Seevl, and our arrival caused little stir in the town. A few minutes after we had tied up at the end of the quay, two uniformed men walked slowly down and boarded the ship. They were Archipelagan immigration officers, a fact which became clear when all passengers were instructed to assemble on Number One deck. To see the other passengers together gave me the opportunity to confirm that there were very few young people aboard. While we were queuing up to have our visas checked I was thinking that the nine days it would take to reach Muriseav, where I was leaving the ship, might turn out to be lonely. There was a youngish woman in the queue behind me--I guessed her age to be in the early thirties--but she was reading a book and seemed incurious about anyone else.
I had seen my voyage to the Dream Archipelago as a break with the past, a new beginning, but already it seemed as if the first few days, at least, would have to he spent in the same sort of half-hearted isolation I had grown used to in Jethra.
I had been lucky. Everyone I knew said it about me, and I even believed it myself. At first there had been parties, but as we all began to appreciate what had happened to me, I found myself more and more cut off from them. When finally the time had come to leave Jethra, to travel to the Dream Archipelago to collect my prize, I was glad to go. I was eager for travel, for the heat of the tropics, for the sound of different languages and a sight of different customs. Yet now it had started I knew that it would be more enjoyable in company.
I said something to the woman behind me, but she merely replied, smiled politely and returned to her book.
I reached the head of the queue and handed over my passport. I ilad already opened it at the page where the Archipelagan High Commission in Jethra had stamped the visa, but the officer closed it and examined it from the front. The other sat beside him, staring at my face.
The officer looked at my photograph and personal details.
'Robert Peter Sinclair,' he said, looking up at me for the first time.
I confirmed this, but was distracted by the fact that his was the first authentic island accent I had ever heard. He pronounced the name I usually used with a lengthened vowel: 'Peyter'. The only time I had heard the accent before was when actors used it in films; ilearing it used naturally gave me the odd feeling that he was putting on the accent to amuse me.
'Where are you travelling to, Mr Sinclair?'
'Muriseay, at first.'
'And where are you going after that?'
'Coliago,' I said, and waited for his reaction.
He gave no obvious sign that he had heard. 'May I see your ticket, Mr Sinclair?'
I reached into an inner pocket and produced the sheaf of flimsy dockets issued by the shipping company, but he
