The Vanishing Island by Barry Wolverton Page A

dung. Here was proof that Bren’s fantasies weren’t so foolish after all. You could make something of yourself, something better than you even hoped, starting with nothing but adream. Bren wanted to know more—he wanted to know everything about the admiral—but they had reached the Emporium. Their walk was over.
    â€œHow long will you be in Map?” said Bren.
    â€œThat depends,” said the admiral. “Whenever our business is concluded. Not more than a few days, I hope. No offense to your fine town and its . . . entertainments .”
    Bren couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.
    â€œI don’t mean to be rude,” said Bren, “but visitors from the Netherlands are quite rare.”
    â€œAh, you mean to ask me what business I have here!” said the admiral, laughing. “Why does anyone come to Map? For maps, of course.”
    â€œRight,” said Bren, not daring to bring up things he wasn’t supposed to know.
    â€œTell you what,” said the admiral. “Why don’t you join me in the Explorers’ Club?”
    Bren looked at him, to make sure he wasn’t joking. “The Explorers’ Club?”
    â€œYou might want to get cleaned up first,” added the admiral, trying not to wince at Bren’s appearance. “But if anyone stops you, you tell them Admiral Bowman has requested you personally.”

CHAPTER
11
T HE O RDER OF THE B LACK T ULIP
    B lack’s Books was closer than home, so Bren ran there, throwing open the front door so hard he nearly toppled a stack of books. Mr. Black stood up abruptly, appearing to notice Bren’s smell more than his appearance.
    â€œWhat on earth?”
    â€œExplorers’ Club!” said Bren. “Oh, that—horse manure!” he added, running to the privy chamber and washing his clothes as best he could. When Mr. Black came knocking on the door for an explanation, Bren openedthe door and ran right past him. “Admiral Bowman! I’ll tell you all about it later.”
    The next adult to try and stop him was Rupert, who grew pale when he saw Bren approaching the gold doors of the club.
    â€œJust a minute, young man! You can’t be in here!”
    â€œTell that to Admiral Bowman,” said Bren, puffing out his chest to make himself look as assertive as he felt. He breezed by Rupert and threw open the doors.
    He was in. He looked around the lounge, which was warmed by a stone fireplace that stood floor to ceiling in the middle. High windows cast a soft blanket of light over the room, and across a dark blue rug were thick leather chairs that made Bren think of ships at anchor. A banquet table was being set up at the far end for tonight’s Explorers’ Feast. He went in search of the admiral, winding past murmurs of conversation in at least ten different languages, half a dozen different brands of tobacco smoke, and huge portraits of illustrious men who had helped map the world.
    Had all these men decorating the walls actually enjoyed the comforts of the club? No. It was part of McNally’s presentation. If you wanted to be the sort of man they painted portraits of, one of the great men who ventured into the unknown, you needed to know Rand McNally. Bren’s disappointment at learning that not every member of the club was a true explorer vanished. He was on hallowed ground.
    At last, on the far side of the fireplace, Bren spotted a chair turned toward the window, a cloud of smoke hovering above and a wide-brimmed black hat on the table next to it.
    â€œAdmiral Bowman, sir.”
    The admiral poked his head around the wing of the chair. “Ah, Bren, you made it past the guards. Good.”
    â€œI must apologize that I didn’t have time to change into new clothes.” He left off the part about not having any new clothes.
    The admiral waved off his apology. “Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair next to his.
    Bren did, and as the