Mindswap

'Your words lack conviction, my young friend,' Valdez laughed. 'I beg of you not to worry about my safety.'

'As a matter of fact,' Marvin said, 'I was worrying about my safety.'

'No use!' Valdez cried gaily. 'Hot passion betrays the studied coolness of your words. Forward, my friend!'

Valdez seemed determined to force him to Cathy's side whether he wanted to go or not. The only solution seemed to be a quick blow to the jaw, after which he would drag Valdez and himself back to civilization. He edged forward.

Valdez edged back. 'Ah no, my friend!' he cried. 'Again, overweening love has rendered your motives transparent. To knock me out, is it not? Then, after making sure I was safe and comfortable and well provisioned, you would plunge alone into the white wilderness. But I refuse to comply. We go on together, compadre!'

And shouldering all their provisions, Valdez began his descent of the precipice. Marvin could do nothing but follow.

We shall not bore the reader with an account of that great march across the Moorescu Mountains, nor with the agonies suffered by the love-dazzled young Flynn and his steadfast companion. Nor shall we delineate the strange hallucinations that beset the travellers, nor the temporary state of insanity that Valdez suffered when he thought he was a bird and able to fly across thousand-foot drops. Nor would any but the scholarly be interested in the psychological process by which Marvin was moved, through a contemplation of his own sacrifices, to a fondness for the young lady in question, and then to a strong fondness, and then to a sensation of love, and then to an overweening passion of love.

Suffice it to say that all of these things happened, and that the journey across the mountains occupied many days and brought about many emotions. And at last it came to an end.

Arriving at a last mountain crest, Marvin looked down and saw, instead of ice fields, green pastures and rolling forests under a summer sun, and a little village nestled in the crook of a gentle river.

'Is – is that-?' Marvin began.

'Yes, my son,' Valdez said quietly. 'That is the village of Montana de los Tres Picos, in Adelante Province, in the country of Lombrobia, in the valley of the Blue Moon.'

Marvin thanked his old guru – for no other name was applicable to the role that the devious and saintly Valdez had played – and began his descent to the Location-Point where his wait for Cathy would begin.

Chapter 21

Montana de Los Tres Picos! Here, surrounded by crystal lakes and high mountains, a simple, good-hearted peasantry engage in unhurried labour beneath the swan-necked palms. At midday and midnight one may hear the plaintive notes of a guitar echo down the crenellated walls of the old castle. Nut-brown maidens tend the dusty grape vines while a moustached cacique watches, his whip curled sleepily on his hairy wrist.

To this quaint memento of a bygone age came Flynn, led by the faithful Valdez.

Just outside the village, on a gentle rise of land, there was an inn, or posada. To this place Valdez directed them.

'But is this really the best place to wait?' Marvin asked.

'No, it is not,' Valdez said, with a knowing smile. 'But by choosing it instead of the dusty town square, we avoid the fallacy of the 'optimum'. Also, it is more comfortable here.'

Marvin bowed to the moustached man's superior wisdom and made himself at home in the posada. He settled himself at an outdoor table that commanded a good view of the courtyard and of the road beyond it. He fortified himself with a flagon of wine, and proceeded to fulfil his theoretical function as called for by the Theory of Searches: viz, he waited

Within the hour, Marvin beheld a tiny dark figure moving slowly along the gleaming white expanse of the road. Closer it came, the figure of a man no longer young, his back bent beneath the weight of a heavy cylindrical object. At last the man raised his haggard head and stared directly into Marvin's eyes.

'Uncle Max!' Marvin cried.

'Why, hello, Marvin,' Uncle Max replied. 'Would you mind pouring me a glass of wine? This is a very dusty road.'

Marvin poured the glass of wine, scarcely believing the testimony of his senses; for Uncle Max had unaccountably disappeared some ten years ago. He had last been seen playing golf at the Fairhaven Country Club.

'What happened to you?' Marvin asked.

'I stumbled into a time warp on the twelfth hole,' Uncle Max said. 'If you ever get back to Earth, Marvin, you might speak to the club manager about it. I have never been a complainer; but it seems to me that the greens committee ought to know about this, and possibly build a small fence or other enclosing structure. I do not care so much for myself, but it might cause a nasty scandal if a child fell in.'

'I'll certainly tell them,' Marvin said. 'But Uncle Max, where are you going now?'

'I have an appointment in Samarra,' Uncle Max said. 'Thank you for the wine, my boy, and take good care of yourself. By the way; did you know that your nose is ticking?'

'Yes,' Marvin said. 'It's a bomb.'

'I suppose you know what you're doing,' Max said. 'Goodbye, Marvin.'

And Uncle Max trudged away down the road, his golf bag swinging from his back and a number two iron in his hand as a walking-stick. Marvin settled back to wait.

Half an hour later, Marvin spied the figure of a woman hurrying down the road. He felt a rising sensation of anticipation, but then slumped back in his chair. It was not Cathy after all. It was only his mother.

'You're a long way from home, Mom,' he said quietly.

'I know, Marvin,' his mother said. 'But you see, I was captured by white slavers.'

'Gosh, Mom! How did it happen?'

'Well, Marvin,' his mother said, 'I was simply taking a Christmas basket to a poor family in Cutpurse Lane, and there was a police raid, and various other things happened, and I was drugged and awoke in Buenos Aires in a luxurious room with a man standing near me and leering and asking me in broken English if I wanted a little fun. And when I said no, he bent down and clasped me in his arms in an embrace that was plainly designed to be lecherous.'

'Gosh! What happened then?'

'Well,' his mother said, 'I was lucky enough to remember a little trick that Mrs Jasperson had told me. Did you know that you can kill a man by striking him forcibly under the nose? Well, it actually does work. I didn't like to do it, Marvin, although it seemed a good idea at the time. And so I found myself in the streets of Buenos Aires and one thing led to another and here I am.'

'Won't you have some wine?' Marvin asked.

'That's very thoughtful of you,' his mother said, 'but I really must be on my way.'

'Where?'

'To Havana,' his mother said. 'I have a message for Garcia. Marvin, have you a cold?'

'No, I probably sound funny because of this bomb in my nose.'

'Take care of yourself, Marvin,' his mother said, and hurried on.

Time passed. Marvin ate his dinner on the portico, washed it down with a flagon of Sangre de Hombre, '36, and settled back in the deep shadow cast by the whitewashed palladium. The sun stretched its golden bottom towards the mountain peaks. Down the road, the figure of a man could be seen hurrying past the inn …

'Father!' Marvin cried.