Jim and the Flims by Rudy Rucker Page B

Weena. “On my first time through it, an enormous fat man above me really did explode—his scraps scattered all over the pavilion. Of course then Charles told me that the exploding fat man was only a fake, grown by the yuels running Funger Gardens, similar to a soap bubble, and that the man explodes hundreds of times a day. So!”
    The horizon tilted weirdly as the ship swept expansively to and fro. Belatedly it occurred to me that going on the Boardwalk rides might not be a great idea for someone who’d just been in the hospital with a brain problem. But with Weena laughing at my side, I set aside my cares.
    We went on a few more rides, then we hit the snack bar. We ordered fried squid, fried artichoke hearts, a hot dog, and a couple of beers—and carried them down to the beach where Droog was waiting. We fed him the hot dog.
    After our own meal, Weena and I lay there cuddling, staring at the wrinkled sea and the ultramarine sky. We even napped for an hour. I was facing more kinds of doom than I could keep track of, but somehow this afternoon I felt mellower than I had in a long time.
    â€œThanks for all this,” I told Weena. We were awake now, watching the sinking sun and petting Droog.
    â€œWould you like a demonstration of zickzack?” asked Weena.
    â€œSure. Make us some beach chairs. You know, low chairs with no legs.”
    â€œI can do that,” said Weena.
    She flexed her fingers and gestured in midair. Tendrils nearly too fine to see crept from her fingertips. The air shimmered and glinted as something took shape upon the sand. I saw mirrored tubes, connected by glittering panels like fabric. Weena squinted and muttered to herself. The panels took on colors, candy apple red and cadmium yellow.
    And now our beach chairs were done.
    Gingerly I touched the red chair. The material was smooth, with the soft feel of—a fingertip. It was as if my own hand were pressing back at me. My mind was thoroughly boggled.
    â€œSit!” said Weena, flopping down.
    We sat together for a while, letting the time slide by. I was very comfortable. Soon it was nearly seven o’clock. We had a half hour till our meet with Chang.
    The sun was still slanting across the waters, but the Boardwalk’s colored lights were coming on. I had a sense of exhilaration, as at the beginning of a great adventure.
    â€œBefore you got here, I thought my life was over,” I told Weena.
    â€œYou’re exactly the right person to be our cosmic postman,” she said warmly. “A hero who’s ready to battle with complete abandon! And I won’t forget your quest for your lady fair.”
    â€œToo bad that yuel scares the shit out of me.”
    â€œYou are modest,” said Weena. “That’s heroic, as well.” As always, her eyes were unreadable. “Is it time to meet the others?”
    â€œWe have time for one more ride,” I said, pointing up towards the Boardwalk. “How about the Big Dipper?”
    â€œThat clickity-clack lattice of wooden beams and rusty rails?”
    â€œThe Boardwalk’s fabled roller coaster, yes,” I said.
    I herded the doubtful Weena into the very first little car of the Big Dipper’s little train. The cars rushed through a darkened arch, then up the wooden hill, higher and higher above the beach. The streaming air was damp and salty, the colors rich in the setting summer sun, the sounds a mesh of screams and rattles and carnival music and breaking waves. It was wonderful.
    But now we inched around a U-turn and faced the drop, far steeper than I’d remembered. We shot down, then up, then down, then up and around another turn. Weena looked ill, she was clutching both hands against her stomach.
    Two more bumps and she collapsed against me, retching into my lap. Amid the partly digested food was a gently glowing object shaped like a pitty-pat squash—a flattened orb with a ruffle around its girth. It was hard to imagine