Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [53]
"Can't have you foundering, old boy, whatever that is," he told the patient beast. "Too bad you can't enjoy taffy—or can you?" He rooted in the bag and unwrapped a Taffy Kiss; the horse nuzzled it from his palm.
"Bad for your teeth," O'Leary warned. "Still, since it's all there is, old fellow, it'll have to do."
He turned to the rolled bundle behind the saddle, unstrapped it, found that it consisted of a thin blanket with holes and a weather-beaten tent with four battered pegs and a jointed pole; the Red Bull's equipage left much to be desired. Fifteen minutes later, with the patched canvas erected and a final taffy eaten, O'Leary crawled inside, shaped a hollow in the sand for his hip, curled up on his side and was instantly asleep.
He awoke with a sudden sense of the ground sinking under him, a blip! as though a giant bubble had burst, followed by an abrupt silence broken only by a distant carrump! and the lonely skriii of a bird. O'Leary's eyes snapped open.
He was sitting alone on a tiny island with one palm tree in the center of a vast ocean.
Chapter IX
From the top of the tree—a stunted specimen with half a dozen listless fronds bunched at the top of a skinny trunk—O'Leary gazed out to sea. Beyond the white breakers that ploughed across the bright green of the shoal to hiss on the flat beach, deep blue water stretched unbroken to the far horizon. A few small petrel-like birds wheeled and called, dropping to scoop up tidbits as the waves slid back from the shelf of sugar-white sand. Three or four small white clouds cruised high up in the sunny sky. It was a perfect spot for a quiet vacation, O'Leary conceded—wherever it was—though rather barren. His stomach gave a painful spasm as he thought of real food.
He slid to the ground, slumped against the trunk of the tree. This was a new form of disaster. Just when he'd though he had a few of the rules figured out—zip! Everything had gone to pieces. How had he gotten to this ridiculous place? He certainly hadn't wished himself here—he'd never even given a thought to inhabiting a desert isle as a population of one.
And, of course, his efforts to shift the scene back to the oasis and his horse failed. Somehow, he couldn't seem to keep his mind on the subject while his stomach was shooting out distress signals. Just when he needed his dreaming abilities most, they deserted him. He thought of Adoranne, her cool blue eyes, the curl of her golden hair, the entrancing swell of her girlish figure. He got to his feet, paced ten feet, reached the water's edge, paced back. Adoranne had given him a hanky and was doubtless expecting him to come charging to her rescue—and here he sat, marooned on this loony island. Damn!
Never mind. Pacing and chewing the inside of his lip wasn't going to help. This was a time to think constructively. He put his hands to his hollow stomach; the pangs interfered with his mental processes. He couldn't even think about escape until he'd had some food! The palm tree wouldn't help: it was devoid of coconuts. He eyed the water's edge. There might be fish there . . .
O'Leary took a deep breath, concentrated, pictured a box of matches, a package of fish hooks, and a salt shaker. Surely, that wouldn't overtax his power,