ight yellow suit, searching
the near horizon for ...

_Where is it?_

* * * * *

A vague calling came from beyond the black sea curtain. Objectively,
because he could do nothing to stop them, he watched his feet pick up,
move forward, put down; pick up, move forward, put down. Funny. He had
the feeling, the concept, that this action held meaning. It was supposed
to cause some reaction, accomplish an act. He wondered at the regular
movement of his legs. One of them hurt. A hurt is a sensation of pain,
caused by over-loading sensory-units in the body; a hurt is bad, because
it indicates something is wrong.

Something certainly was wrong. Something stirred in Cully's mind. He
stopped and sat down on the sandy sea bottom, gracefully, like a ballet
dancer. He examined his foot. There was a tiny hole in the yellow
plastic fabric, and a thin string of red-black was oozing out. Blood. He
knew.

He was bleeding. He could do nothing about it. He got up and resumed
walking.

_Where is it?_

Cully lifted his head in annoyance at the sharp thought.

"Go away," he said in a low, pleading voice. The sound made him feel
better. He began muttering to himself.

"Water, black, s-sand, hurt. Pain. Radio tanks ..."

It didn't sound right. After a few minutes, he was quiet. The
manythoughts were calling him. He must go to the manythoughts.

If his foot was bleeding, then something had happened; if something had
happened, then his foot was bleeding.

"No!"

If something had happened, then maybe other things had happened--before
that. But how could something happen in a world of flat gold sand and
flaccid sea? Surely there was something wrong. Wrong: the state of being
not-right; something had happened that was not-right. Cully stared at
the edges of the unmoving curtain before him.

_Where is it?_

It was a driving, promise-filled concept. No words; just the sense that
something wonderful lay just beyond reach. But this voice was different
from the manythoughts. It was directing his body; his mind was along for
the ride.

The sameness of the sea and sand became unbearable. It was too-right,
somehow. Cully felt anger, and kicked up eddies of dust. It changed the
sameness a little. He kicked more up, until it swirled around him in a
thick gold haze, blotting out the terrible emptiness of the sea.

He felt another weight at his side. He found a holster and gun. He
recognized neither. Again h