11

On the road to Ulm

“Were those her exact words?” asked Catherine. “Did she say it was a ‘nice’ idea, or a ‘very nice’ idea?”

Catherine’s face was projected in the air beside Jon as he sat enjoying the crisp flame of the fire stone. Several calls had come from a ‘Catherine Bridjermann,’ so he had her back.

“She said it was a ‘very nice idea,’ and those were her exact words,” said Jon.

“That’s high praise coming from a Cobone…”

The term ‘Cobone’ is a dated pejorative for a Co person, and refers to the prejudices held by inhabitants of the other provinces that Co people are stubborn and intellectually rigid. Although it has fallen out of use, we the biographers have reproduced it here in order to faithfully transmit the conversation.

“I wouldn’t call the word ‘nice’ a form of high praise,” Jon answered.

“Well, it is in Co. We hate emphatic language. It makes us uncomfortable.”

“Is that why you always call things ‘very good,’ but never magnificent?”

“Exactly. If something really is magnificent, we might venture so far as to say it’s very great, but that’s stretching it. My dad’s from Ii, though, so I’m a little more ‘talkative.’ I take after my mom in other ways. My dad’s always making us try new things and it drives us crazy.”

Jon laughed.

“This family from Yep was much quieter than you are. I think you just said about as much as they did all evening. Are you sure you’re from Co?”

“It doesn’t come out as much because I’ve been living in Mo for a while. Anyway, the kind of people you met are definitely village people.”

“I see…”

At that moment Cyan began climbing over Jon and trying to lick his face.

“What did I just see?”

“Uh, nothing—there’s just…”

“Don’t tell me you adopted a stray dog.”

“I won’t tell you anything you don’t want to hear.”

“Jon!”

He picked up Cyan and held her in front of his face so that she appeared in the projection that Catherine was seeing.

“You never cease to amaze me.”

“That’s high praise coming from a Co girl.”

“Don’t get sassy. How are you going to take care of a dog while you’re traveling?”

“I’m just planning to see how it goes. Take things day by day.”

“That’s how you do everything. You never ask yourself what’s practical or makes sense.”

“It’s going to be fine. She didn’t have anyone to take care of her.”

Catherine sighed.

“Fine.”

“Anyway, it’s getting late, and I should get up early. I’ve got a few days of riding before I reach Ulm.”

“Your first time in a Co city…”

“Can’t wait.”

“Call me when you get there.”

They said good night and Jon cleaned up. Before going to sleep he took out his Eye and washed Cyan’s feet, then he carried her into the tent with him. He rubbed her ears until he started dreaming to the crashing of waves.

After two uneventful days of nearly constant uphill riding, Jon had begun to approach Ulm. The way had grown steep, but he persevered. He often needed to dismount and push his bike uphill manually, and having Cyan did not help.

Gone were the easy-going walking paths of Mo along the coastline. The road he was riding on had once been for cars, but traffic was underground now. A few old roads were maintained as evacuation channels, and Jon had this one all to himself. However, it lacked so much as a fence to protect him from the steep descent into the sea.

Jon had never experienced nature this way; a nature without walls in front of it, with the promise of danger straight ahead, and certain to make good on that promise if he got too close.

Peeking over the edge, he saw violent waves crashing against sharp rocks, and his stomach dropped. Whenever the road grew too narrow for comfort, he dismounted and pushed his bike with Cyan in the basket, progressing up the mountain slowly but steadily.

On the morning of his third day, Jon powered uphill for as long as possible when he suddenly reached the top of a seemingly endless incline. Finally he came to a rest, panting, as a cool wind swept up from the sea and dried his face.

Ahead of him, the road stretched on and on until it resembled a piece of unraveled string. It unwound itself all the way to Ulm across the turquoise sea, on the so-called ‘arm of Co,’ which from the sky resembled a flexing arm. It went west and then north from there. All that Jon had left to do was ride downhill, and his heart felt light. He rubbed Cyan’s ears as he gazed at the view.

“It’s all downhill from here!”

The air felt cool but not cold, and the slope feeding into the sea channeled an endless stream of wind that swirled around him pleasantly so that Jon had every reason to believe he would enjoy the rest of his ride; and we, in turn, have every reason to believe that he did.

Mounting his bike again, he began his descent, stretching out his legs to the sides and feeling a rush of wind filling up his clothes. Cyan squinted happily as the wind coursed over her fur, and her mouth hung open.

Far away, sunshine moved out from behind a cloud and illuminated Ulm. Built into the side of the Eji Mountains, some of the buildings higher up on the slope of Mt Tul appeared to be two or three times the height of the others. Their surfaces were all black smart-glass with their outlines in bright red. Jon observed every detail he could from this distance.

As he reached the bottom of the hill, a village came into view. Jon could not remember seeing it on the map. Coming to a stop, he fixed his Eye into place to check. Sure enough, Jon had overlooked it.

It was the village of Pag, and it was no more than a single road along the seaside cliff, in the ‘pit’ of the arm of Co.

“I guess it won’t take long if I poke around.” Cyan twisted her head at Jon, then yawned. “It’s only lunchtime. We’ll make it to Ulm before dark.”

He continued riding down the road and reached the village around one o’clock.

After surveying the sea in front of the village, and finding it to have no beach at all, but only great bulging waves that rolled and splashed against the rocks and sprayed his face, Jon headed toward a café for some bread and coffee, leaving Cyan tied up outside with his bike and backpack.

In the window of the café, a young man was hunched over a table and trying to write in a projected notebook with a projected pen. The young man rubbed his chin, tapped his nails on the table, scratched his head, thinking deeply about something… But he seemed to be doing more coffee drinking than writing.

This young man suddenly noticed Jon walking away from his unusual bike, and his eyes lit up. He stood up at once and went to open the door for Jon.

“Did you ride that here?” he asked, pointing to the bike.

“I did”

“From where?”

“Sandwich.”

“May I ask why you would do something like that?”

Jon hesitated.

“Because I’m… riding my bike around Icomo…”

The young man, who could not have been a month older than fifteen, went slack-jawed.

“Are you serious?”

Jon grinned.

“Yeah, but—would you mind if I came inside?”

“Oh, right… sorry.”

The young man had been obstructing the doorway, so he moved to the side. Jon read the menu and ordered a traditional Co coffee.

“Let me buy that for you.”

Jon turned around.

“Excuse me?”

“Let me buy you a coffee. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your trip.”

Jon had no idea, but the young man standing before him would become one of the most well-respected essayists of the next century.—But at that time, Ethan Rittenhouse was only a fifteen-year-old boy who loved to write, and had absolutely nothing to write about.

“I’m submitting non-fiction pieces for magazines,” explained Ethan, “and I want to write about you, if that’s okay.”

“Why?”

“There’s a call for pieces about eccentric people with unusual hobbies.”

Jon burst out laughing.

“Uh, eccentric people?”

Ethan smiled ingratiatingly.

“Eccentric in a good way, of course.”

“Always in a good way,” said Jon.

“So let me buy you a coffee and we’ll sit down and chat for a while.”

Far from wanting to be interviewed, Jon actually felt curious about the young man himself. He therefore paid the bored-looking woman at the counter, whose robot was brewing coffee behind her with one hand and pulling crust-bites out of the oven with the other. Then he sat down at a high table by the window to conduct the interview that would make him famous.