Echoes of the Fourth Magic by R. A. Salvatore Page A

the despair. Tugging uncomfortably at the rational side of him, which refused to admit blind faith, was the notion that a miracle had saved him on the bridge of the sinking
Unicorn
. And on a deeper, still unfathomable level, the thought of intervention by some angelic overseer hinted at a sense of comfort beyond anything Del had ever experienced.
    Day was a brutal trial of endurance in the sweltering 120-degree heat. Even outside the stuffy tent, a good breath of air was hard to come by. Lungs and throats ached with fire in the parching dryness and lips cracked within cracks. Strained eyes, bloodshot from the uncanny brilliance, stung relentlessly even when closed.
    Nights were better. When the temperature dropped to more tolerable levels, some of the men ventured out to join Billy, hoping for a nostalgic glimpse of normalcy, a relief from the constant pressure. And yet they were always disappointed, for the night sky was ever the same, unblemished black. Not a single star would grace them with its fantasy-spawning light, nor did the moon arise with her alluring glow. Del focused on this perversion, and to him it became the greatest tragedy of all. He desperately wanted to see a star again before he died.
       On the afternoon of the fifth day, their water supply nearly exhausted, Billy lay alone outside the tent. The sea sat calmer this day, a smooth, dull crimson below the thinmist that hugged the surface. Billy sprawled across the edge of the raft, his hand drawing shapes in the water. He fell asleep in that position, unaware that the raft had entered a strong current and was steadily accelerating. Several hours and many miles later, Billy woke and looked up with a start. Dead ahead, his sweat-filled eyes beheld a beautiful sight.
    “A mirage,” he gasped, closed his eyes tightly, and rubbed the sleep from them.
    But when he looked again, the vision remained.
    Their way was blocked by a wall of golden light stretching from the sea to the sky and for miles in either direction.
    Billy’s breath came in short puffs. What barrier was this? The gateway to death? To heaven? Or had the heat brought him delirium?
    The raft continued toward the golden sheet and Billy’s apprehension grew. He needed someone now—Del, or anybody. “Hey!” he shrieked between gasps. “Come see this!”
    The men under the tent reacted slowly to the call. Some were asleep, others lost in daydreams or distant memories.
    “Hey!” Billy yelled again. Heads finally appeared from the tent, and amid questioning and unbelieving exclamations, the six men crawled to the front of the raft.
    “A giant sunbeam,” Del remarked.
    “What could it be?” Mitchell asked Reinheiser, a trace of panic in his voice as he was once again faced with something unknown and so obviously beyond his control.
    Reinheiser just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He wasn’t talking much these days. He had expected a future world of marvelous machines and great discoveries, but something apparently had gone very wrong. Someone had pushed the wrong button, or, in a fit of economic timidness, had continued to ignore signs of impending disaster, and simply washed away his technological dream. The bitter reality around him had forced Reinheiser to question the value of science, and thus the value of his entire existence.
    “Here we go!” Del said as they rushed into the light.
    Instantly the temperature dropped to a comfortable level and their vision became a yellow-golden blur, bereft of individualizing shadows and shades of depth. Everything, the orange raft, their blue clothes, Billy’s black skin, melded together in the uniform hue of their background.
    The raft exited the golden sheet without any warning, and the startled men were greeted by a cool breeze and blue skies and the bluest water any of them had ever seen. After a moment of shock, they cried out in delight, even Mitchell and Reinheiser, and Thompson sobbed with joy. Some of the world had escaped