The Saga Begins (prologue)

I sat there and thought about how this whole thing started with that awful car. That Citroen is to blame for all of this, if a finger must be pointed at all. I thought back over these past events, the search for 'Professor Waverly' which, through a confusing maze of subsequent events, led to this: My sitting strapped down in this 100-ton aluminum tube full of people and jet fuel about to be ignited and pointed into the sky to cross an ocean.

I hate flying. I think it is more my lack of control I find unpleasant than a fear of heights or ignorance of physics. I agree that my reasons for not enjoying flying are not important here, but it is important to know that after my last flight I swore airplanes off altogether, and yet there I was with my white knuckles, squeezing and unsqueezing my knees, despite the generous dose of Valium I was given an hour before.

I glanced at 'Professor Waverly' there in the seat to my right, the window seat, which he insisted on sitting in himself. He told me he required this seat because he was going to take some notes while we crossed over the polar ice cap, something to do with the calving of icebergs or global warming, ultimately something to do with fish, which he had an unnatural obsession with. He appeared pleased with himself as he smiled out the window, humming, then he withdrew the in-flight magazine from the seatback in front of him and actually began to read from whatever spot that just so happened to flop open.

The airplane began to move with a jolt, and then began to taxi about on the runway slowly and ominously. I was very nervous. I wished I had drank a little bit more before boarding. I wondered if my effects were in order, in case the worst did happen? I wondered if I had unplugged my hotplate before leaving, or did I just turn the dial to 'off'? What if it was bumped or disturbed somehow while I was gone? What if the rheostat failed?

I was brought back to the present by the sudden application of brakes accompanied by the loud screaming of all the engines at full throttle. The pilot kept the plane vibrating alarmingly, but immobile and locked in place here on the tarmac like the driver of a dragster at the quarter-mile races, until he was satisfied that there was enough thrust and nothing in the way, and then flipped whatever lever or switch was required to set this vessel free, sending my stomach into my throat, and my hands began to involuntarily clutch at each other in a cold sweaty tangle. I looked at The Professor again for reassurance and he put down the magazine just long enough to tell me matter-of-factly:

"Well, if it is going to go poorly, this is usually when it happens."

Then he brought his reading material back up to his face, pages shaking, and started to hum again.

I watched my hands do their little dance, jostling there in my lap with the bouncing of the aircraft and I began to feel not so good. I started to pray, and I am not a religious person, I should tell you that right now. I closed my eyes and felt my stomach drop as the nose of the airplane lifted up, and with it the rest of the airplane, and as the rubber tires lost their grip on the sweet Earth and gave up and folded away somewhere underneath us, I began to wonder if this was all worth it.