The tinted ocean lay smooth as glass, not a ripple upon its dull surface. Directly ahead, rising from the vast expanse of still water, was a dim, distant island, mountains gently rolling.
"It's the Plain!" cried Spike.
It was faint on the horizon, a hazy undulation darker than the mist of distance.
"Looks like mountains," said Rusty wearily. He despaired of finding anything right in this irrational world.
"It's the Plain," said Spike again. "You can't see it. They're the cliffs behind it."
He stepped to the water, waded in. Lothar followed.
"Hey!" yelled Rusty. "Why not build a raft? We can't swim that distance!"
"Build a raft from what? Those trees won't float. And the water's only five feet at the deepest."
Rusty gingerly waded in. The liquid, thicker than water but of similar elements, according to Spike, was covered with a thin film of vegetable oil. It was sticky, hot.
Making slow progress in the heavy stuff, Rusty splashed along in the wake of the ponderous Lothar. The water slowly deepened to his chest.