He pinched himself. Ouch. Didn’t seem that way. The craft went bumping over the waves. It made Twain sick at first, but in time, his stomach settled. There was the smell of the ocean being channeled through the top of the machine by a whirligig that pulled the air throughout, and in the beginning made the interior too cool and too strong with the smell of salt. But in time it became refreshing. The stalking machines were long left behind, and now there was only the water and the jumping craft, bouncing up the waves and down them, in the ocean that was home to Gibraltar and the Pillars of Hercules. Just the thought of that made the historical-minded Twain happy. He could envision himself and his companions as ancient Greek heroes who had sailed this stretch of sea. He tried to recall which heroes he had read about, which ones had sailed the sea on which they bounced. Who was it? Jason? Odysseus? Theseus? All of the above? He couldn’t remember, but it was fun trying. And it was better than thinking about the machines.
