I'm off tomorrow for London. Four days in my old stomping ground--the first city I ever lived in, or remotely got to know--before going on to Paris, a city I've never seen at all, and then Nantes and the Utopiales mega-con. Hope to send dispatches from both. If you're in London on Friday night (Oct 16), come on by Forbidden Planet between 6 and 7pm and say hello.
In Alifros, meanwhile, everyone on the Chathrand seems to have reached the ends of their ropes. Yes, the ship is sinking and the Gulf is full of warships, but those aren't the fundamental issues. Reality has caught up with these castaways. They're in an unknown world, ten thousand miles from the lands and people the love, and surrounded by legions of murderers. I don't know what to tell them. Pazel is heartbroken; Bolutu is nearly suicidal; Thasha is staring into a personal abyss. Felthrup is holding everyone together. I'm sure you'll agree that it's a lot to ask of a rat. And the darkness just keeps growing.
Sting is correct. There has to be an invisible sun.