Star-crossed to Star Dust

By Steven Allan Wheelock

While orthodons and humans interbreed, a cruel star-civilization plots to render orthodons and humans extinct.

It was an era of mass surveillance, tyranny, and interstellar warfare aided and abetted by fiat money essentially created out of thin air.

The main character would be a man named Mole, who would find himself marooned on war-destroyed planet Earth, amongst other adventures. The novel's cover image depicts bikini-clad Padparadscha (Mole's wife) playfully flexing her muscles on her wedding night.

An excerpt from this satiric, horror-comedy space opera novel:

"Love is built upon a foundation of trust; I remember you saying that earlier."

"'Trust' is the operative word," Mole agreed. "Now where were we?"

"Talking about women."

"Right ... women," Mole said stalling for time. Inwardly, he was disgusted with the Human Empire for having taught Victor math and engineering skills, and little else, save selected bits of history; and in spite of his disgust with humanity, said, "Most women desire to love thy neighbor, live honorable lives ... stuff like that there."

"And men?" Victor prodded.

"Yes, of course. The men. Let us not forget the men." It was now darker inside the ship, rendering Victor color-blind, though he could still see considerably more than the one who was closer to the starlit airlock. "Most men," Mole's voice echoed through the old spacecraft, "desire to love thy neighbor, live honorable lives, love their women, and for the most part, do good deeds before their souls depart this material plane. Unfortunately, there's a small percentage of men who desire to rule others with an iron fist. And that's why human history is written in blood. All in all, I'd have to say women are slightly better than men."

"Why's that?"

Mole answered, "Women aren't generally known for starting wars, and for turning once-beautiful planets like this one into vast wastelands; besides, it was men who pushed the buttons and unleashed nuclear war on this world. For that reason alone I'm inclined to believe women are better than men. But it's still a very close call; after all, male or female it's still the same species."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Allan Wheelock
• Release date: Aug 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311356291

Steven Allan Wheelock

A human mission to Mars, involving all countries capable of starting an all-out nuclear war, may possibly aid in the prevention of an all-out nuclear war---a worldwide trimming of military budgets could even pay for the mission. In other words, the author (yours truly) has his impossible dream on how to save the world ... and the author hopes you were amused by it. All Quiet on the Western Front (1930) may be the greatest movie I've ever seen, but Robinson Crusoe on Mars (1964) is my all-time favorite movie. Edmond Hamilton's Starwolf trilogy---three short novels---gave me the greatest reading entertainment I've ever had. In an attempt to learn how to write, I typed out, verbatim, Edmond Hamilton's Starwolf trilogy. The reader should be able to contact me by email at [e-mail] Thinking of two songs---Star Crossed Lovers (Mystics) and Stardust (Hoagy Carmichael)---allowed me to come up with "Star-crossed to Star Dust" as the title of my novel. I have pins at https://www.pinterest.com/swheelock78/pins (mostly links to old music). I've written a short work entitled Musical Mnemonics ... Book Id: WPLBN0004102355. I've attempted to donate Musical Mnemonics to the public domain, so if you can find it on the Internet, you may be able to download Musical Mnemonics for free.

Book preview

Author's Disclaimer

The subject matter contained within this novel could possibly frighten a child; therefore, parental discretion is respectfully advised for all readers under the age of eighteen.

All characters in this novel are fictitious. This novel is a work of fiction, essentially created out of thin air via the author's imagination.

The subject matter contained within this novel could possibly offend and/or disturb readers of all ages.

This disclaimer is included for the sake of the reader, and out of respect for the diligent professionals who legally make this novel available to the public.

The author apologizes for any misused (vocabulary) words possibly lurking in this novel.

Dedication: This novel is dedicated to my departed grandparents, to my departed mother, to my departed brother, to all living family members, and to a departed uncle who left this world before I was born.

Table of Contents

Author's Disclaimer

Prologue

1: Mole

2: Inflation

3: Victor

4: Undergarments

5: Counterfeiters

6: Padparadscha

7: Corinthians

8: Lolium

9: Vocabulary

10: Mission

11: Octagon

12: Dreadnought

13: Dead-fish

14: AI

15: Spies

16: Kramden

17: Hamilton

18: Colloquy

19: Intrigue

20: Thuuuuuunkk

21: Martha

22: Stasis

23: Voters

24: Love Letter

25: Alive

26: Praying

27: Forcefield

28: Typewriters

29: Order 6102

30: Acceleration

31: Coffee

32: Mad World

33: Ruby

34: Slingshot

35: Constitution

36: Captain Barwoo

37: Last Stand

Epilogue

Postscript

Prologue

Instinct made a hell of Earth for millennia—I say we ought to leave it behind us there in the mud and not let it make a hell of the stars.—Edmond Hamilton, The Stars, My Brothers.

* * *

In this galaxy and beyond, humans used to be the simplest form of life writing novels, till I, Crangutan Chimpula, burst upon the literary scene. As you may have surmised, I am a chimpanzee writing under a pseudonym (Crangutan Chimpula writing as S. A. Wheelock). For full disclosure—my publisher insisted—I'm actually three-quarters chimpanzee, one-quarter extraterrestrial orangutan.

No chimp had ever written a novel till I came along. I've been called the Einstein of Chimps, though I assure you the real Einstein was immensely superior to me in all measures of intelligence. But I digress.

Read on, my human friend, and I shall endeavor to regale you with a true story from your twenty-seventh century, as told to me by a time traveler hailing from your twenty-eighth century. For the record, the time traveler in question was an entity of artificial intelligence, to use a misnomer—viz. artificial—destined to fall from common usage once mankind has been surpassed.

I dedicate my novel, such as it is, to a Passenger Pigeon named Martha.

Will mankind fall from the sky, or rise to the challenges ahead? Time will tell, my human friends.

(signed)

Crangutan Chimpula

1: Mole

Oz was always our friend. When he was here he built for us this beautiful Emerald City, and now he is gone he has left the Wise Scarecrow to rule over us.—L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

* * *

Aided by mostly human eyes and ears, he readily perceived the sound and fury of the river's torrential flood. He wasn't purely human, only three-quarters so, and this suited him just fine, as far as it went, and it went not far enough; for, if he'd had any say in the matter, he'd have been born zero-quarters human and four-quarters orthodon.

Orthodons, those rabbit-eyed bipeds of similar size and stature to humans, had nothing to do with marooning Mole and another wretched soul on this small, low-gravity orb. Mole had been used to the stronger gravitational tug of humanities' second homeworld, but this, the floating mote of humanities' original homeworld amid the stars, had finally afforded him the liberty he'd always dreamed of: he was free of humans at last.

He was free to die.

Lying in the mud, having collapsed from exhaustion, his weary mind wandered from one oddball remembrance to yet another.

He remembered his surly, wide-eyed grandmother: she was pure orthodon, endowed with a three-hundred-and-sixty degree field of vision. He was only a child then, and she was strict.

No, he ruminated, she wasn't strict. I only believed that because I was too young to understand the concept of discipline inspired by love. Mole remembered his grandmother as a schoolmarm, before his first encounter with humans, back in his salad days when home was the Orthodon Republic—represented on the stellar-cartography grids as the vast expanse of the Lesser Magellanic Cloud, give or take a few hundred parsecs of duly marked vectors on most standard star charts.

Within the Orthodon Republic, schooling of children consisted of reading, writing, arithmetic, and economics. Only now, marooned as he was on planet Earth, embedded in mud overlooking the receding Amazon River, did he realize why economics was taught to orthodon children. He realized it not so much in conscious reflection, but rather in a dream.

Drifting out of consciousness, he slept. He remembered in a dream his grandmother's words, her tender countenance peering down upon him when he was young. He was so young and naive then as to believe life was fair, and the universe a sprawling playground filled only with beauty and wonder. Grandmother had spoken to him many a time during his childhood days, and in a surreal dream, spoke to him once again:

As a table needs three legs to stand, dear grandson, a civilization needs to know three things about itself if it too is to stand. Without knowing these three things, a civilization must surely fall, as a two-legged table must surely fall.

What are these three things a civilization must know about itself, grandmother dear? Mole politely asked in his dream, for he'd always been reluctant to vex his grandmother whom he loved.

Sleeping in the mud, he visualized his grandmother sitting in a rocking chair, reading from a mysterious object containing the strange substance paper. While reading from this book, his grandmother had answered, A civilization must study its own history, economics, and politics, in order for it to survive. The study of history is vital: a society that knows neither where it's been, nor where it's going, can not endure. As for politics and economics....

Grandmother patiently explained: politics and economics were husband and wife respectively. Still dreaming, he recalled an earlier, happier time, of his grandmother having said, When the husband loves his wife, society enjoys liberty; when the husband abuses his wife, society suffers tyranny.

He was vaguely cognizant of the metaphor carried aloft by his dream: politics (husband) and economics (wife) were intertwined and inseparable.

Political freedom and economic freedom go hand in hand, Mole mumbled in his sleep. Afterward, Mole's dream took an odd and unpredictable turn, as often happens in dreams:

If you don't believe in a God of love, don't believe you possess a soul, and believe there's nothing but matter, antimatter, and rocks....

Upon awakening, Mole shivered uncontrollably. He momentarily embraced the discomfort of hypothermia, for in such discomfort there must be a glimmer of life, and Mole wanted to survive. The discomfort of hypothermia wasn't embraced for long though, and Mole soon found his shivering discomfort appalling, that is to say life threatening. Despite shivering uncontrollably, he did not yield to panic, yielding instead to irrational thought:

A dream like that can only mean I'm losing my sanity: not once while growing up did I ever hear grandma say anything about matter, antimatter, and rocks.

Pulling a blanket out of his backpack with numb fingers, he proceeded to wrap himself in the blanket's warmth. Then he sat, overlooking the Amazon River, its murmur whispering in his ears while his chilled bones rediscovered warmth.

The waters of the Amazon agitated just shy of his present shoreline position, and as he warmed himself with the aid of his blanket, the chuckling whisper and hypnotic swirling of the river at water's edge nearly found him fast asleep. Then, a mirthless, sardonic smile and furrowed brow disturbed the contours of his previously smooth face. He was no longer that sweet, trusting grandchild of what seemed to him a lifetime ago. He was approaching middle age and had acquired the pessimistic cynicism of an old-timer; yet, despite this pessimistic outlook, his gut-instinct burned with the conviction that life was more than a soulless affair, devoid of free will—he was more than a soulless biological machine. This last thought spurred him to action.

Move! thought Mole, forcibly hauling his buttocks off the ground. And move he did, finding strength from he knew not where.

He trekked along the river bank, toward the rising sun, into a valley spilling over with potentially edible plants perched along gently sloping hillsides, above where the Amazon's flood waters had swept away less fortunate plant-life. There was no way for him to identify these plants, for Mole was alien to this planet, and he hadn't been marooned with anything resembling a field guide to edible plants.

I hope they're edible, he thought, thankful the flood waters hadn't washed away his bountiful find.

Ever mindful that, although the plants were of sufficient quantity to sustain his life and that of another, it was the quality of the plants which mattered; it was a matter of life and death, sustenance versus starvation. It was—

Don't be so damned melodramatic, he admonished himself.

It wasn't just himself he thought of, for there was one other marooned on this war-destroyed planet—population: 00,000,000,002—who needed him. Without Mole, this other sentient being would perish.

Mole's survival training during Basic Space-Training hadn't covered the subject of survival on an ecologically devastated planet, for the complacent humans had determined by fiat that twenty-seventh century technology had, in and of itself, rendered such training obsolete.

What humans used to call the Universal Edibility Test had been taught to him by his one hundred percent orthodon grandmother—about the time he'd exchanged diapers for underwear.

I thought I was among the big boys then, proud of my underwear with the dinosaur pictures ... any more time squandered in daydreams and Victor dies. Concentrate, damn-it. Must concentrate.

His orthodon grandma had taught him to filter water through layers of rock and sand, but since humans had abandoned this orb generations ago, he gambled that the water of the Amazon was safe to drink as is. Idle speculation made him consider that even the crudest imaginable water filter, as his grandmother had discussed with him, would perhaps reduce the odds of his coming down with a perilous case of intestinal parasites—colloquially called space worms by spacers. For Victor's sake he refused to lose the precious time necessary to construct another makeshift water filter, even as the filtered water he carried began to run out. Exerting himself as he was, his filtered water ran out about the time he thought it would.

Instead of fretting over the potentially lethal decision he'd made—deciding against constructing another water filter—he drank directly from the river with reckless abandon—Here I am, space worms, come and get me! he yelled—and then got on with the business of employing his grandmother-taught edibility test for plants. And besides, Mole thought, the odds are with me: it's probably safe to drink from this alien river. The decision was the lesser of two evils, and ... and the hell with it.

The various plants he tested during the day were those most abundant. Later, covered by his muddy blanket, he spent the night atop a hillock, the river sounds made visible by the swirl of starlight and moonbeams reflecting off windswept waters and eddy currents.

2: Inflation

Let the money unit, or dollar, contain eleventh-twelfths of an ounce of pure silver. This will be 376 troy grains, (or more exactly, 375.989343 troy grains,) which will be about a third of a grain, (or more exactly, .349343 of a grain,) more than the present unit. This, with the twelfth of alloy already established, will make the dollar or unit, of the weight of an ounce, or of a cubic inch of rain water, exactly. The series of mills, cents, dimes, dollars, and eagles, to remain as already established.—Thomas Jefferson, July 4, 1790.

* * *

Common opinion among the advanced stellar civilizations had it that humans were among the least civilized of all the countless creatures exploring the cosmos.

On a whim, any one of these advanced civilizations theoretically could have swept through and cleansed the galaxy of its creepy human bugs long ago; however, these advanced civilizations—machine intelligence capable of processing more information per millisecond than the human brain could slog through in a century—though realizing such things as humans existed, rarely gave the matter consideration. The evolutionary gap from machine intelligence to human intelligence was immense, greater than the gap from human intelligence to that of the caterpillar.

From earthbound caterpillars to space-faring butterflies, humanity had miraculously survived its nuclear age—a backwater time of warfare funded largely by the electronic printing press's creation of money out of thin air. As for humanoids having survived this backwater time in history, Mole was indifferent. As for the creation of money out of thin air, Mole was passionate: he had another word for inflation—counterfeiting. Mole held that money was information, pure and simple.

The rest of his reasoning was as follows: information in the form of money not backed by tangible assets—money created out of thin air—was analogous to a news reporter's story not backed by sources, and correspondingly, impossible to cross-check, corroborate, or verify.

Believing the marriage of corrupt politics and dishonest economic policy had gotten Victor and himself marooned was one thing, surviving their present predicament would be something else. And in the damnably long time it was taking him to discriminate between edible plants and those which were poisonous, he wondered if Victor Seventy-Eight would be alive upon his return.

I doubt it, Mole thought. Victor's probably dead. And if he's been dead long enough, he may stink even worse than I do. It's a dirty business being marooned, but according to the laws of human nature, somebody's got to do it. And aren't we the lucky ones, the we of his innermost thoughts referring to him and Victor Seventy-Eight. Mole knew little about Victor, but he knew a lot about not wanting to be the last person alive on planet Earth.

A crude scanner Victor had assembled before suddenly taking ill had aided Mole in his search for edible plants, but even so, Mole was still a long way from learning which of the many species of plants surrounding him could be eaten. While he worked at learning which plants were edible from those which were not, his stray thoughts returned to Victor.

He knew that Victor Seventy-Eight was created from a mixture of genetically altered human DNA; also, Victor seemed to be of a pleasant personality, but beyond that, Victor remained a mystery. He did, however, suspect that Victor's immune system might not be strong enough to cope with Earth's microbes, and if that was the case, then Victor was certainly dead by now.

Mole wasn't feeling well either, suffering from the flu, but at least he was alive, if not optimistic he'd stay that way.

Several varieties of berries grew around him. One variety of berries made his skin break out into a rash; he wouldn't rub this species of berry on his forearms ever again if he could help it. Another prevalent species of berries covered the valley; this species of berries did not make his skin break into a rash, so Mole held one of these berries under his tongue as part of the edibility test.

Mole swallowed the berry, then thought of his dilemma: on one hand, if he took too much time to find edible food, then Victor would die. On the other hand, if he was willing to engage in a foolhardy gamble, then he might be able to return to Victor with food and water in time to save his life.

He's probably dead, meaning I'd be risking my life for nothing, Mole reasoned. And within five minutes of this most reasonable conclusion, he'd eaten several handfuls of the type of berry he'd been holding under his tongue.

Pulling out a bag to collect berries, Mole filled the bag as quickly as he could, exerting himself almost to the point of exhaustion, collecting only the type of berry he'd held under his tongue and later eaten by the handful. The type of berry he'd eaten in quantity would either kill him, or possibly sustain him and Victor long enough to fight another day for survival.

... assuming Victor isn't already dead, his soul in Heaven and his body stinking to same. Upon further reflection, Mole thought the following: I hope Victor's still alive. But if he's dead, should I bury him or pile rocks over him? I suppose I could haul his remains into the river and watch him float away ... no, I couldn't do that. He deserves better.

Assuming the berries I ate don't kill me, then I should know by sunset if Victor's still alive. If he's alive, I'll tell him about the berries I picked, and then he can make up his mind whether to eat potentially poisonous berries or starve to death. I'll tell him: If I don't drop dead within the next few hours, then the berries I picked for you are probably safe. If I drop dead, then you'll know otherwise.

It was time to find out if Victor still lived.

So Mole began his return trek, forlorn at the prospects of being the only sentient being alive on this war-destroyed orb.

I bet this used to be a beautiful planet, Mole thought as he hiked more or less parallel to the Amazon River and into the sunset.

* * *

Victor slept inside an old spaceship, sheltered from the elements. His dream-visions alternated between vivid colors, sepia tone and shades of gray; he was lost in dreams between the quick and the dead.

Unlike his friend Mole, Victor had been marooned on this nearly desolate planet because he was deemed obsolete by the State. Strangely enough, he was actually fortunate to have been marooned in the first place, for the traditional end for those such as Victor was either incineration or the eternal space walk. Victor had been judged, by fiat, as nonhuman, a pseudo-life devoid of a soul, and this put him in the inanimate objects category.

Mole's crime against the State was far more egregious than was Victor's crime of mere soulless obsolescence, for Mole had bellowed at the Space Opera Bar and Grill:

When you get down to brass tacks, money created out of thin air—backed by nothing but empty promises—is counterfeit money! And every day, the State gets fatter and fatter on the fodder of its counterfeiting monopoly. After a moment's brooding, Mole had had the temerity to continue: "Human nature always gravitates toward fiat money—the eternal search for the mythical free lunch. Counterfeiting begets inflation; inflation begets hyperinflation. And sadly, hyperinflation begets revolution."

Continue his tirade he did, pretty much saying that units of money should be defined, measured and standardized, as units of time had long ago been defined, measured and standardized.

Furthermore, Mole insultingly claimed that human beings were congenitally incapable of contemplating a free market in money.

A Gold Standard—Mole had continued in his drunken stupor, only the bar patrons could hardly understand him, for Mole was barely able to understand even himself—"such as planet Earth had during its nineteenth century ... even that was superior to what we have now.

"What we need these days is honest money in the form of tangible assets: by tangible assets, I'm referring to platinum, gold, silver, copper, or any other universally recognizable, readily assayed asset you can think of.

"Imagine, if you will, a free market in money. Imagine free-floating digital currencies of platinum, gold, silver, copper, neutronium, and whatever the hell else the free market decides upon.

"We need to go back to honest money! That's what I say! By the way: ever wonder why the government needs to collect taxes, despite its famed ability to print all the money it needs right out of thin air?"

And with that question out of the way, he'd been too debilitated by drink to remember whatever else he wanted to say, forcing him to pause.

Mole, no longer a citizen of a republic, but rather a subject of a rogue empire, rallied what remnant wit remained and bellowed, "Ever wonder why we don't vote with paper ballots anymore? Does anyone ever wonder about anything, anymore? Then, Mole Wairwoofer politely asked, Bartender, may I have another drink?" and fell on his face.

Government surveillance equipment, funded by money created out of thin air, recorded every word, every image. Mole was summarily charged with sedition; also, the Space Opera Bar and Grill was shut down shortly thereafter by the State, and the former Human Republic reorganized, renaming itself the Human Empire.

This Human Republic/Human Empire concept was originally inspired by the first alien species to make contact with the star-hopping humans. This nonhuman civilization, once its name was transliterated, eventually became known to humans as the Orthodon Republic, and sure enough, humans followed suit in a sort of monkey see, monkey do, monkey-copycat mindset: if orthodons had their Orthodon Republic, then humans were damn-well going to have their Human Republic.

After the orthodons came humanities' second alien contact, the Boostrad Empire, which honestly called itself an empire. This sheer honestly emboldened the de facto human empire to call itself by its true colors; hence, the misleading title of Human Republic was promptly retired in favor of the intuitive title of Human Empire.

One of the Human Empire's first victims was Mole, who was charged with sedition. The Human Empire was accuser, arresting officer, jailer, judge, jury, and executioner—and Mole was found guilty.

The usual punishment meted out for sedition was either incineration or the eternal space walk, but it usually came down to the eternal space walk as this method of execution consumed less energy and required no cleanup—outer space was vast.

In this new age of the Human Empire, and of central planning, incinerators and the eternal space walk had rendered prison facilities obsolete, all in the name of efficiency.

Ordinarily, Mole would have been arrested by the Empire, charged with sedition by the Empire, tried in the Empire's court system, found guilty ... executed; however, this was not one of those ordinary situations.

A mitigating factor in Mole's favor was as follows: Mole was only three-quarters human, with the remainder being orthodon, and this fact alone saved him from either of the usual approved methods of execution. In an unusual gesture of diplomacy toward the Orthodon Republic, it was decided that Mole would be marooned—on faraway Earth—instead of executed. This gesture of diplomacy was due almost entirely to Mole's orthodon grandmother.

Mole's grandmother had pleaded for her grandson's life. And the Human Empire, reluctant to receive detrimental publicity, decreed Mole's life be spared.

Ultimately, the State decreed that Mole was to be marooned on planet Earth along with one of the expendables. The State, concerned with its image, fretted over the prospects of orthodon news outlets heaping accusations of cruel and unusual punishment upon the Human Empire. Marooning one person on a distant orb would have invited such accusations, so the obvious solution was to maroon two people on Earth instead of only one: as long as Mole was marooned with someone to talk to, charges of cruel and unusual punishment would fall by the wayside.

Civilizations as far away as Andromeda might pick up on the orthodon news feeds if we maroon just one, President Demolican of the Human Empire had been informed. This last declaration from Vice President Weimar, who also wore the hat of economics advisor, got President Demolican's attention. Weimar is right as usual, lamented Demolican in private thought. I shan't maroon only one dissident on faraway Earth ... just as easy to maroon two on Earth instead of marooning only one. Besides, pouted Demolican, I want to feel good about myself.

President Demolican was a misnomer, with the woman herself having once said, "The title of President shall be retained for the benefit of those who insist the original representative republic of our Founding Mothers still exists. If our subjects believe we're a union and not a nation, then I'll pretend I'm their President and not their Empress."

President Demolican's first act in office was the signing of Executive Order 9066, unilaterally nullifying the Habeas Corpus clause of the Great Charter of Delpav. There! rejoiced Demolican after the final stroke of the pen: "The not-so-'Great Charter of Delpav' is now a dead letter, proving once again the President is above the law."

Aiding Demolican's cause was the Empire's very own computer-assisted voting machines, which redistributed vote tallies in favor of predetermined candidates whenever the people voted incorrectly. With elections no longer in doubt, the Human Empire governed by the law of the sword.

President Demolican informed all concerned that Mole and an expendable were to be marooned on Earth for the rest of their lives. The randomly chosen expendable to accompany Mole to Earth was Victor Seventy-Eight, while the remainder of the Victor Series of Genetic Experiments found an end to their misery via the merciless vacuum of space, commonly referred to as the eternal space walk.

Mole and Victor were marooned and forsaken while the rest of humanity fell merrily into the future.

3: Victor

Alas, poor ghost!—William Shakespeare, Hamlet.

* * *

While Victor lay comatose within a derelict spacecraft, Mole labored outside in the sunlight planting seeds, while occasionally noting the river's waters lapping against the prow of the old ship. Another meter rise and the river would spill inside the antiquated spaceship, but Mole thought the flood waters receding. And with this world apparently flirting with a new ice age, Mole couldn't help but wonder if the Amazon River's next major flood wouldn't occur until after this new ice age finally ran its course. Unlike previous ice ages on this small rocky world, there would be an absence of vertebrates contending for survival this time around.

Having saved the seeds of edible plants from previous excursions, Mole planted them near the ship, especially at higher elevations which had escaped flood damage. During the planting of these seeds, the Amazon River had proven an awe-inspiring sight.

Mole was no stranger to mammoth rivers, but he had never expected to encounter one on this small planet, covered three-quarters by salt water seas. This last thought was occasionally resurrected by a whiff of salt-laden air, suggesting the Amazon