Below lay an ocean world dotted with green-and-coral archipelagoes, inhabited by a satisfactorily savage species of non-humanoids whose evolutionary line had worked the flotation principle into its own makeup. These monsters prowled fiercely upon the waters, following after the cloud islands in the perennial hope of discovering one low enough to plunder.
The contrast, for Wesley's purpose, was perfect. His hero could land on a floating preserve, forcing it down by overload. There was occasion for a first-class battle with the water-walkers in which he could rescue his One Love at least twice, and a crashing denouement in which the argonaut atoned for his injury by blasting his ship away tenantless under robot control, so saving the day for all concerned and making it forever impossible to betray Her people to his own.
Above all Wesley had at hand a wealth of detail, of color and atmosphere unarguably convincing because it was true, that offered him the idea-lode writers dream of. Ordinarily the most cautious of workmen, Wesley flung himself into such an orgy of creation that the Aldhaferian epic was reorganized, written and rewritten within three days.
For Wesley, the wordage was tremendous. It ran to novelet length, and it was all good.
"Damned good," said Wesley, who was more given to mailing his manuscripts in fear and trembling than in confidence.
That confidence waned during the succeeding week when Charlie Birdsall continued to drive past the inn with nothing more encouraging than a wave of the hand. Miriam grew more intent in her attentions as Wesley spent less time at his writing. His Aunt Jessica, gauging his ebbing resistance, put the first of her matrimonial trumps on the table.
She cornered Wesley one morning just after Miriam had driven away to school in her coupe.
"It's high time you stopped mooning around with the stars, Wesley Filburn," his Aunt Jessica said, "and took stock of yourself. You're thirty-two years old, you've no income except the miserable dribble you get from your wild stories and you've no more responsibility than a wild goat in the hills. It's time you settled down."
Wesley might have protested his independence, but his lifelong conditioning had left him too little to discover. His Aunt Jessica had brought him up from childhood after the death of his parents, who had owned his half of the inn before him; he owed her a great deal for her care and affection, as he had been told often enough to remove any lingering doubt, and the least he could do now was heed her wiser counsel.