if this is such a splended sensation why do I feel so sick to my stomach? It can’t be possible that mermaids get seasick!
They must, however, because she could feel her duodenum give a sudden, spasmodic lurch.
She opened her eyes and found herself looking down on the professor and Hughenden as they still lay on their couches. There was a momentary overlap as dream segued into reality, during which half second or two the princess wondered what in the world the two scientists were doing underwater. Then, as her vision became steadier, she wondered what they were doing on the ceiling, stuck there as nonchalant as a pair of houseflies. As she fully awakened, her brain reeled in sympathy with her stomach; there was a nasty reversal, an inversion of perception: why was she looking down on the two men? Why was she hovering somewhere near the apex of the cabin? Why was she stuck there like the nonchalant housefly? Why was there this horrible sensation of falling when she could so clearly see that she was not moving? And why, oh why, had she been so silly as to have eaten before she boarded the rocket?
All around her swirled the forgotten paraphernalia, the unnoticed minutiae of life, coins, bits of paper, pencils and a penknife, a twenty-crown banknote, a cancelled train ticket, a comb, paper clips, a safety pin, a piece of candy, a few small pebbles, nuts and bolts, spinning around her like anxious ballroom suitors vying for her hand in a grand aerial waltz. As Bronwyn spun slowly on her long axis, like a spindle, she closed her eyes and thought, I’m like the clockwork dancer atop a music box. I will turn and turn even after the spring runs down and the music stops; I will waltz here until I die. Then my corpse will waltz; it will waltz until the flesh falls from its bones. My bones will waltz until their ligaments disintegrate and the bones spin away from one another, revolving until they become dust. Then every separate mote of dust will revolve until it dissolves into its every particular atom and molecule, and these will then continue to revolve and dance and waltz with each other forever and ever and ever . . .
“Bronwyn!” cried the professor. “Keep your eyes open!” His warning was, however, too late and the miserable princess erupted like an overtaxed pressure cooker. “Oh, my dear!” commiserated Wittenoom, while the other scientist only glared darkly, making no attempt to disguise his disgust. The professor unlatched his harness and, with a gentle push, drifted toward Bronwyn, who had curled into a ball, now the center of her own miniature planetary system of orbiting globules of digestive débris.
“Doctor Hughenden,” the professor said, while catching hold of the girl’s ankle, “please find something with which to gather up this mess.”
As Wittenoom drew the princess toward the floor of the compartment, like a captive balloon, the other scientist, with a snarl, unfastened his restraining belts and began the distasteful job of carefully gathering Bronwyn’s effluvia in a bag woven of a fine mesh.
“Are you all right now?” asked the professor as he fastened Bronwyn into her couch.
“I feel much better,” she replied weakly. “But what happened? What’s going on? Are we falling?”
“No. Or at least not exactly. Not the way you mean, anyway.”
“I’m sorry about the mess. I felt so dizzy.”
“Don’t give it another thought.”
“Easy for you to say,” grumbled Hughenden from above.
“I remember what you told me about free fall now,” the princess admitted. “I just had no idea what it’d be like. It took me completely by surprise. I think that I’m going to be all right now.”
“Here,” the professor said, handing her a piece of bread. “Eat this slowly, it’ll help settle your stomach.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Hughenden ungraciously, as he deposited the bag into a waste receptacle. “We’re going to be finding bits of her breakfast for the rest of the
They must, however, because she could feel her duodenum give a sudden, spasmodic lurch.
She opened her eyes and found herself looking down on the professor and Hughenden as they still lay on their couches. There was a momentary overlap as dream segued into reality, during which half second or two the princess wondered what in the world the two scientists were doing underwater. Then, as her vision became steadier, she wondered what they were doing on the ceiling, stuck there as nonchalant as a pair of houseflies. As she fully awakened, her brain reeled in sympathy with her stomach; there was a nasty reversal, an inversion of perception: why was she looking down on the two men? Why was she hovering somewhere near the apex of the cabin? Why was she stuck there like the nonchalant housefly? Why was there this horrible sensation of falling when she could so clearly see that she was not moving? And why, oh why, had she been so silly as to have eaten before she boarded the rocket?
All around her swirled the forgotten paraphernalia, the unnoticed minutiae of life, coins, bits of paper, pencils and a penknife, a twenty-crown banknote, a cancelled train ticket, a comb, paper clips, a safety pin, a piece of candy, a few small pebbles, nuts and bolts, spinning around her like anxious ballroom suitors vying for her hand in a grand aerial waltz. As Bronwyn spun slowly on her long axis, like a spindle, she closed her eyes and thought, I’m like the clockwork dancer atop a music box. I will turn and turn even after the spring runs down and the music stops; I will waltz here until I die. Then my corpse will waltz; it will waltz until the flesh falls from its bones. My bones will waltz until their ligaments disintegrate and the bones spin away from one another, revolving until they become dust. Then every separate mote of dust will revolve until it dissolves into its every particular atom and molecule, and these will then continue to revolve and dance and waltz with each other forever and ever and ever . . .
“Bronwyn!” cried the professor. “Keep your eyes open!” His warning was, however, too late and the miserable princess erupted like an overtaxed pressure cooker. “Oh, my dear!” commiserated Wittenoom, while the other scientist only glared darkly, making no attempt to disguise his disgust. The professor unlatched his harness and, with a gentle push, drifted toward Bronwyn, who had curled into a ball, now the center of her own miniature planetary system of orbiting globules of digestive débris.
“Doctor Hughenden,” the professor said, while catching hold of the girl’s ankle, “please find something with which to gather up this mess.”
As Wittenoom drew the princess toward the floor of the compartment, like a captive balloon, the other scientist, with a snarl, unfastened his restraining belts and began the distasteful job of carefully gathering Bronwyn’s effluvia in a bag woven of a fine mesh.
“Are you all right now?” asked the professor as he fastened Bronwyn into her couch.
“I feel much better,” she replied weakly. “But what happened? What’s going on? Are we falling?”
“No. Or at least not exactly. Not the way you mean, anyway.”
“I’m sorry about the mess. I felt so dizzy.”
“Don’t give it another thought.”
“Easy for you to say,” grumbled Hughenden from above.
“I remember what you told me about free fall now,” the princess admitted. “I just had no idea what it’d be like. It took me completely by surprise. I think that I’m going to be all right now.”
“Here,” the professor said, handing her a piece of bread. “Eat this slowly, it’ll help settle your stomach.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Hughenden ungraciously, as he deposited the bag into a waste receptacle. “We’re going to be finding bits of her breakfast for the rest of the
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