Or until, by believing it, people made it come true.

And, yes, women would go on talking over what had happened here, this winter. They would pore over the notes Dena Spurgen had left behind, read the same old books the Scouts had read, and argue over the merits of judging men.

Gordon had decided that it hardly mattered now whether Dena really had been mentally unbalanced. The lasting effects would not be known during his lifetime. And even he hadn’t the influence, or the desire, to interfere with the spreading legend.

Three myths… and George Powhatan. Among them, the people of Oregon were in good hands. The rest they could probably manage for themselves.

His spirited mount snorted as Gordon swung into the saddle. He patted and soothed the mare until she was calm, trembling with eagerness to be off. Gordon’s escort already waited out at the edge of town, ready to see him safely to Coos Bay and the boat that would take him the rest of the way.

To California… he thought.

He remembered the bear flag patch, and the silent, dying soldier who had told him so much without ever saying a word. He owed that man something. And Phil Bokuto. And Johnny, who had wanted so to go south and see for himself.

And Dena… how I wish you could have come along.

He would find out for them. They were all with him now.

Silent California, he wondered, what have you been up to, all these years?

He wheeled his mount around and headed down the south road, behind him all the clattering and shouting of an army of free men and women, certain of victory — soldiers who would return gladly to their farms and villages when the distasteful chore was done at last.

Their clamor was loud, irreverent, determined, impatient.

Gordon rode past an open window blaring recorded music. Someone was being lavish with electricity today. Who knew? Maybe the raucous extravagance was even in his honor.

His head lifted, and even the horse’s ears flicked up. It was an old Beach Boys tune, he recognized at last, one he hadn’t heard in twenty years… a melody of innocence, unflaggingly optimistic.

I’ll bet they have electricity in California too, Gordon hoped.

And maybe …

Spring was in the air. Men and women cheered as the little blimp rose, sputtering, into the sky.

Gordon nudged with his heels and the mare sped to a canter. Once out of town, he did not look back.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author would like to express his appreciation to those who gave so generously of their time and wisdom during the evolution of this book.

Dean Ing, Diane and John Brizzolara, Astrid Anderson, Greg Bear, Mark Grygier, Douglas Bolger, Kathleen Retz, Conrad Hailing, Pattie Harper, Don Coleman, Sarah Barter, and Dr. James Arnold all contributed helpful comments.

Especially, I would like to thank Anita Everson, Daniel J. Brin, Kristie McCue, and Professor John Lewis, for their important insights.

Appreciation to Lou Aronica and Bantam Books, for excellent support and understanding, and to Shawna McCarthy of Davis Publications, for more of the same.

And finally, my thanks to those women I’ve known who have never ceased to startle me, just when I’ve grown complacent and need most to be startled, and who make me stop and think.

There is power there, slumbering below the surface. And there is magic.

David Brin

April 1985