The Letter

Lawrence Wells— Lace to his friends— was dreaming of fame. Not real fame, of course— Museum Curators were not known for becoming household names. And if they were, it wouldn’t be the ones that curate museums dedicated to a single city. His ambition had always been for a more local sort of fame: for his baby, the Starlight Museum, to be the sort of place that could attract locals several times a year, and every tourist at least once. This had been his entire life for months, and now the opening was scheduled, along with a grand opening party. There was almost nothing left that he could do, only catalog and double-check and sit in his office feeling a deep malaise that clung to him like a whole field’s worth of burrs.

He stretched backwards, draping his long ferret physique over his low-backed office chair. It was probably terrible for his back, but he stayed and craned his neck up to stare at the soft white fur on the back of his hand. Only a few years ago he thought that a beautiful, soft body like this would never be his, back when the idea of leaving his home up north seemed impossible. Now, even his cousin Daniel was down here. Not that Daniel was likely to ever see a sage and change his soul, but he’d been in Starlight. Even if the world wasn’t changing, parts of it sure were. Lace felt like he was getting everything he’d ever dreamed of in life, so why did he feel so exhausted? Was it precisely because of his victories that he felt unfulfilled? Had he run out of ambitions?

No, he had one more ambition: lunch. He was hungry on top of everything else. He would take a nice, long walk across town and get burgers at the one really good place with the name he could never quite remember. In one smooth movement, he twisted out of the chair, snatched his jacket from the hook on the wall of his office and strode out, wishing he could have done that when someone else was around to see it.

As always, walking the hall back to the entrance was an opportunity to glance at all his beautiful exhibits. They were gathered and donated from every corner of the city, and beyond— some artifacts had ended up leaving, and he’d managed to get them returned for his purposes. He must know things about the city that even the Great Sage didn’t by now. Not everything could be put on a plinth, of course, but getting live shows going was just another iron he had in the fire. After lunch.

It was a clear day, but the outside air was just ever so slightly cooler than it had been the day before. Summer was starting to die off. He paused for a moment to zip up his jacket and stare directly across the street at the Lucky Heart Casino, which stood, lights off, like a sleeping beast. At least it wasn’t stealing people’s souls anymore; only their time. At night, the place would be bustling again, but at the moment the street was quite deserted. Lace hurried towards less lonely roads, hoping to be energized by meeting other people.

Lace walked, hands in his pockets and enjoying the feel of the cool air in his fur, until he heard a noise. The kind of noise that was only just interesting enough that you couldn’t ignore it, but not distinct enough to place.

It was like a faint whistling, coming from somewhere above him. His ears twitched around, but he didn’t actually have any wild animal heightened senses. A quick scan of nearby roofs turned up nothing, which meant this must be above them, something flying. He looked up and ahead at a forty-five degree angle, and there he saw a shape, humanoid and closing in fast while yelling.

“…eeeey! Heeeeey!”

Lace blinked and refocused his sight. Most people couldn’t fly, because even a well-crafted body couldn’t overcome ordinary physics, and people were a bit too heavy to fly with conveniently-sized wings. The principles of artificery allowed for functional mechanical wings, but they’d failed to really catch on after so many early adopters gave themselves concussions ramming into buildings. Only one set was known to exist in Starlight, and their owner was therefore guaranteed a certain degree of local celebrity. Lace had seen pictures of him before, though he hadn’t been keeping up with any of Starlight’s boards— a few too many snarky comments on his museum had gotten him unwisely upset. Regardless, he knew of this man: A dragon with a pair of artificial wings.

“The mailman!” Lace said as the dragon touched down. His name was Finnigan Cross, and he was the only one strange enough to want the job of being Starlight’s sole mail carrier.

“Right-O!” The dragon saluted him, obviously very excited to be recognized. “I saw you come out of the museum! You’re Mr. Lawrence Wells, right?”

“So I am!” He did a little wave back.

Finnigan was about a head shorter than Lace. His yellow-scaled, soft and round snoot was topped by a puffy hat that let through his swept-back horns. He was wearing a pink bowtie and little suspenders, looking like some of the pictures Lace had seen of early town residents who’d come from earlier time periods of the old planet. He had a messenger bag— he was a messenger, after all— hanging from his shoulder, and he was presently rooting through it.

“A letter for you!” The dragon declared, and true to his word he pulled out a plain white envelope, which was addressed with a plain black pen to Lawrence Wells of the Starlight Museum. Lace was reasonably certain that it was Daniel’s handwriting, though he hadn’t seen an example in years.

“Been a while since I got an genuine, physical letter,” Lace made some pleasant conversation as he accepted the delivery. “Even when I got mail, it was mostly advertising.”

Finnigan did a little twirl. “If it was more common, I’d hire more help.”

“S’pose magic does it all these days, huh?” Lace searched around the flap with his fingers, looking for some entry point. He couldn’t wait to see what could have prompted his cousin to send him snail mail— This was more of a relic than half his exhibits.

“The magic is most of it,” Finnigan said. “But it’s also the city itself. It doesn’t like having a lot of outside packages coming in, right? Currency starts getting involved when you mail order stuff. So everybody kind of got self-sufficient over the years— All this is before my time, of course.”

Obviously, Lace was the last delivery he had to make today.

“Mhm. Economics and all that.”

“Yeah! Artificers created all kinds of problems when they invented all the magic delivery systems. Letters and packages still come in, and the couriers don’t know how to find anyone, so that’s where I come in. It’s not like I have a problem with artificers, though! They made my wings, after all.. Hey, do you need a letter opener? I got one.”

“Hm? Oh, no.” Lace had been tracing the edges of the envelope’s flap with no success for a while now, and his attention had drifted. Whatever, there was no real need to be precious about this. He simply took hold of one end and tore the thing open.

And yet, when he looked again, he didn’t see so much as a crease. He’d absolutely opened the letter— There was no way to mistake the sound and the feel of ripping paper. The only problem he could conceive of having with the result would have been if he’d accidentally ripped the letter along with the envelope. Instead, he was faced with the opposite: the envelope was entirely undamaged. It was as whole as it had been before he started. This letter might have been addressed by his cousin Daniel, but Lace thought he sensed the work of Daniel’s companion.

He tore again, less carefully. This time he watched carefully. The paper slipped around his fingers and re-sealed itself.

“That’s weird,” Finnigan piped up. “Is it some kinda enchanted envelope?”

“Probably,” Lace responded. “But not by an artificer. This is witch magic, I’m pretty sure.”

"A witch!” Finnigan seemed to be enthusiastic about most things. “The one from the mountain?”

“A different witch, but the same sort. If I’m right, this envelope was enchanted by a friend of mine. They call her the Tolling Witch.”

“Woah.” The mailman definitely didn’t know who that was.

“I don’t have a full understanding of these things myself, but she happens to have some control over the flow of time. I’m guessing that something about the state of this letter is being reset when I try to open it. And since witch magic works on rituals… well, you don’t need to worry about it. I’ll figure this out.”

“No way!” The dragon shouted louder than Lace could have anticipated. “If you can’t open the letter, then it’s like I haven’t even delivered it! I have to make sure you get it for real!”

Couldn’t fault his enthusiasm. Lace didn’t want to have someone doting over him at the moment, but another brain working on the problem might be beneficial. He decided to accept Finnigan’s help. “Well, do you remember anything odd about it? Or the person who dropped it off?”

“Nope! Just a normal mail carrier from outside. I’ve seen him lots of times.” He seemed pleased with himself, even though his answer didn’t solve anything.

“From what my witch friend told me, a lot of common activities count as rituals. I think maybe you delivering a letter is one of them. It’s a set of common steps, right?”

“Spose so,” said the dragon. “Every letter is different though! I gotta track people down since we don’t really have reliable addresses in Starlight.”

It was no good to get bogged down in those kinds of details: the universal experiences were the best ones to focus on. Even if every delivery was different, there must be some essential core. “I guess… maybe there’s something quintessentially letter-delivery-y we’re missing? Like, maybe I should try using that letter opener after all.” It was a bit of a long shot, but worth trying.

“Of course, sir!” He produced a small case from his pack, small enough that if Lace were the size of a normal ferret he could have carried it like a briefcase. Inside was a pristine little blade, secure but easy to remove from its plastic indentation.

Lace hadn’t ever used one himself, but it wasn’t complicated. Finnigan offered to do it himself, but Lace had the feeling that only the the letter’s intended recipient would be able to open it.

Thinking about it, why was the letter locked down like this? Was it important to keep something secret? Was it important for closing some time loop? This was well outside of Lace’s area of knowledge, but from what he’d seen and heard, things like that were pretty much bread-and-butter for the time witch. The worst of all possibilities crept in from the deepest cracks in his brain: it was needed because she and Daniel were in some danger. He tried to disregard that possibility for now. He would open the letter and read it, and making any assumptions before he’d done so was a waste of effort. In any event, the letter opener did nothing to help. The thin paper of the envelope sealed itself back up as quickly as he dragged the blade through it.

Would fire work? Lace blinked twice and shook his head, even though he hadn’t voiced the thought out loud. That didn’t even make sense. Nobody opens letters with fire.

“I don’t think it’s anything to do with how we open the letter,” he concluded. “I think we’re missing an earlier step.”

“I didn’t do anything different than normal,” Finnigan offered, sounding just a little bit hurt. Of course, what he was hearing was the implication that he’d made a mistake.

“My friend is a wanderer,” Lace explained. “She probably didn’t consider something. Something a layman wouldn’t be aware of.”

The little dragon scrunched up his face as he thought it over, bringing amusing creases over his scales. “I handed this to you on the street because I knew who you were, but that’s rare. I usually deliver directly to someone’s address.”

“Ah, of course! Good catch.”

“Should I… take it back and give it to you at your door?”

Could it really be that easy? “We should try it,” he agreed.

So they did. Lace returned to his museum, and Finnigan knocked on the door. The two of them playacted a normal, completely banal mail delivery.

‘Letter for Mr. Wells.’

‘Ah, that’s me, thank you very much,’

And that kind of thing. He tore into the envelope one more time and… no change. The two of them stood out in the sun in front of the museum and frowned in silence. Neither of them said much for quite a few long minutes, both trying to think of something else to try. He lost track of time, but it was at least ten minutes before Lace had a sudden burst of inspiration that made him feel, briefly, like an absolute genius, before he just like a buffoon for having not thought of it earlier.

“In the big cities, the mail carrier doesn’t knock on the door to give you a letter,” he suggested. “The only thing you’d be going to pick up immediately are big packages. Letters, you get from a mailbox.”

“A mailbox!” The little mailman practically jumped three feet in the air, even with his wings folded. “We have those in some of the apartment buildings in the city! Is there one where you live?”

Lace scratched at the soft fur on the side of his neck. “No… I’ve been living at the museum, honestly. Sleeping on a cot. Last I checked, someone else has my old place. I suppose we could see if they’ll let me try it, though.”

“No need!” Pride dawned on the dragon’s face. “I have one we can use. Or rather, the post office does! We can go and get it!”

This had definitely become more of an errand than expected. But, then again, Lace had already been planning to take his time wandering around town. This just gave him a little more direction.

“Well, that sounds fine. I can swing by for it.”

“I’ll stay grounded and go with you. It’s kind of hard to find, you know? Actually, do you want to grab lunch on the way? I know a place.”

Not that knowing ‘a place’ meant much in Starlight, but the subject made Lace remember that he had originally left the office to eat. All at once, the hunger he’d been too distracted to feel came to him. Going for food before continuing with the task was the only sensible course of action, and so it was reasonable to accept Finnigan’s proposal.

Only, he usually liked to get something and bring it home if he was with someone else. To Lace, two people getting a meal had the stench of a date about it. It had been a while since Lace had attracted any such advances, but he was always wary of them. Socially, though, that wasn’t a good enough reason to refuse the offer. It was just something he’d have to be wary of.

“Sure. Lead on,” he said. If he let these worries decide his actions, he’d never have a decent human interaction ever again.

The mailman led him a few blocks away, and then down a few alleys, always rushing ahead almost to the point where Lace couldn’t see him anymore before stopping. It was a little surprising that he knew the side-streets of the city so well, given that he must travel by air most of the time.

Finnigan’s food joint of choice was one that Lace had already known, though he’d certainly learned a faster way of getting there. It styled itself as a diner in the style of ‘old America,’ one that served breakfast food all the time because, as the rabbit in front said, “fuck it.” It was a wonderfully disheveled place, but not actively dirty. The whole thing seemed calculated to project a certain repellent aura without being actually dangerous.

The two of them ordered and settled in without incident, but Lace remained dubious. He wanted to be friendly and polite, but not make the dragon feel like he was interested. Then again, if that was the idea, then it would be better to get it out in the open quickly and squash the idea.

“So! What made you want to me a mail carrier, anyway?” Lace asked as he bit daintily into his toast.

Finnigan stopped shoveling egg into his mouth right away, eager to answer. “At first, because nobody else was doing it! Its essential to a running society, you know.”

Lace eyed the dragon’s wings, sitting folded neatly on the seat beside him. Not too much eye contact. Don’t want this to feel too intimate. “That’s a lot of pressure, isn’t it?”

“Not really. There’s not a huge amount of mail, and I get to meet people delivering it. I sorta expected someone to come by and take it off my hands and do a better job, but nobody did!”

“Everyone in Starlight just does whatever they want, I guess; myself included. I started the museum because it was there and I felt like it.”

Finnigan had taken another bite, but swallowed it quickly to get another question out. “So it wasn’t something you thought about doing before you came here?”

“I guess not. I wanted to be an artist. Still do, I suppose. But when I thought about what I was missing in the community, the things that interested me… it didn’t seem like a difficult choice.”

“That’s really cool! I’ve been looking forward to the museum opening, you know.”

“Thank you. That’s… nice to hear.”

It was. It was energizing to talk to someone who was enthusiastic. Not just about his museum, but anything at all. Certainly, Finnigan’s general demeanor had to be genuine, but it was still difficult to say if he really cared about the museum. It could just be a flattering lie. So many people who’d spoken enthusiastically in person hadn’t returned his personal invitations to the opening. If Lace asked— quizzed the dragon on the public information, for example— he might be disappointed. He wasn’t sure he could handle the rest of their time together if he knew that.

Finnigan finished his meal long before Lace was done with his own, but showed no hint of impatience. He asked about the museum, and was happy to hear the history of any exhibit Lace cared to mention. While somewhat overbearing, Lace gradually accepted that the dragon was a pleasant conversation partner. Friendly and thoughtful. That was probably all it had been from the start; nothing amorous about it. He was finally able to relax a little.

Once they left, it wasn’t far to the post office. Lace would have missed it without a guide; It was not much more than a hidden apartment at the lower side of a two-story building, probably only about five years old judging by its angular style, which was recent but not current. The only thing betraying that it was the post office at all was a sign, handmade by Finnigan, marking the spot. Immediately inside was a small room with a front desk and not much else. It was dusted, and there was a little bell that one could ring, but waiting around there would be very dull indeed. The smell of cleaner that permeated the room only made it more uncomfortable. Like you were spoiling something pristine by stepping through.

The dragon bid him come past the front desk to a small door leading to a narrow set of stairs downwards. The dragon actually had to take his wings off again and hold them folded up to fit in the passage. At the bottom, through a creaking door, was the first room that looked lived-in. That was Finnigan’s office, of sorts. It was more like a living room— Maybe even a bedroom. There was a couch up against one wall that looked incredibly soft and plush, flanked by two lamps that cast a warm light. It was a room more suited to napping than working, but there was a row of filing cabinets against the opposite wall, along with a desk. At the far end was a door to some other room, and a kitchenette.

The detail that most caught Lace’s eye, though, was a bookshelf, filled out with several dozen books on a variety of subjects. A glance at the titles revealed quite a bit of fantasy and sci-fi fiction, but also a lot of nonfiction in the realm of science, magic research, and all sorts of other things. The initial impression he’d had of the mailman was someone who didn’t pay much attention to the outside world, but now it seemed he might just be selective about it. A little like Lace himself, in that way. He’d almost surprised himself, actually finishing the museum project. So often, interest was a temporary affliction.

In order to get books in Starlight, you usually went to the library or brought them with you from outside. If the hundred or so volumes on the shelf were an indication of a larger collection at home, then it was fairly likely that the postman himself accounted for a reasonably high percentage of packages making their way into the city.

“Nice collection,” He remarked.

“I got a lot more at home,” Finnigan said. “But I haven’t gotten to reading all of them yet. Put on some coffee or something if you want, and I’ll go fetch the mailbox from storage.” He vanished into the other room, leaving the door open only long enough for Lace to see it was some kind of storage. The sound of searching through piles of stored items started leaking out from it almost immediately. There’d been a number of boxes, and a few more filing cabinets inside. A little bit more businesslike than Lace’s own storerooms.

The ferret availed himself of the offer and flipped on the coffee machine. As the machine began to drip, Finnigan emerged again, and brought with him something that Lace realized quite pointedly he would not have attached much significance to when he woke up that morning: a mailbox. Even as a curator, he would have failed to see the beauty in it. The history. He’d been ignorant. Accepting the reality he perceived as a given, and not the result of a billion choices from a million beings.

Physically, it was a small metal box, rough and angular and the same kind of brown that the city had been oddly fixed on, about a century ago. It was likely that it had been grown by the city, but quite a long time before the current version of the building itself. Had the city stopped making these because the volume of mail dropped, or was it the other way around? He had to visit the library. Lace had almost forgotten that when he started his research on Starlight’s history, it was for the pure joy of knowledge, not to impress anyone else.

“When I was looking for a place to make my post office, I just happened to find this place with this box still standing in front of the door,” Finnigan explained. “I figured it was a sign. I’ve never seen anything else like it in Starlight.”

“Neither have I,” Lace admitted.

“And now I finally found a use for it: giving it to you.”

Lace hesitated. “I don’t know if I can just take—

But the dragon put his fingers up to the front of his big round snout, as if hushing a child. “It has to belong to you, or this might not count! It came from the city anyway. If you want to pay me back, put it in the museum! Remind people of how important the mail is.”

It was a little hard to argue with that. Lace took the box, but as he did so he grabbed the letter from his pocket and passed it over to Finnigan. “Here. You’re the mailman, and now you can deliver this letter properly.”

With a smile and flourish, Finnigan popped the mailbox open and placed the letter lovingly inside. It was probably the first letter the box had seen in a century, and maybe the last it would ever hold. He slammed the lid shut and the backed away, but after a second he seemed to think of something else. He flipped up the little flag on the side.

Lace sensed it. There wasn’t any physical way to describe the sensation around him, but he knew instinctively that the letter could now be opened; it was as instinctual as breathing.

“Do you think it worked?” Finnigan asked. Maybe the premonition was merely a product Lace’s imagination, or maybe only he, the letter’s intended recipient, could feel it. Either way, he retrieved his mail from his new mailbox and took great satisfaction in tearing into it. He was soon faced with several neatly-folded sheets of paper, and he was quite sure that it was his cousin Daniel who had written the letter they contained.

The letter read as follows:

—

Lace,

It’s me, Daniel. I hope everything is going well up there, and you’re managing with your museum and all. I wish I could see for myself, but I’m off on this little quest. You know, this is my first time writing a letter on paper, but I guess it’s appropriate. I’m out here in the big, wide world, having all kinds of firsts and dealing with magic and rituals and all kinds of complicated things like that. You won’t believe this: July sometimes keeps meat in her pack, and if it goes bad she just witches it back to before when it was still safe, and cooks it that way. I hate it! No matter what she says, it just feels wrong, you know? I can’t eat something like that.

I have a good reason for writing to you like this, but I want to tell you the whole story from the beginning, so be patient with me. We’re not all that far from Starlight City yet, but there aren’t many normal days when you’re traveling with a witch. We stopped the other day for July to get some money doing her usual tricks. It feels like giving you all the specifics would be a breach of witch-client confidentiality or something, but it wasn’t anything all that exciting compared to what you’ve already seen her do. I was just watching when I found I couldn’t talk. I wanted to talk, but I couldn’t. I guess it’s what they call being nonverbal, except that it was just… happening. I know I’m a quiet guy, but never like that. It wasn’t natural.

Actually, I wasn’t quite as surprised as you might be thinking. With all the work I did back home, I got pretty used to a lot of magical parasites. The ones that feed off “words” aren’t super common, but I’d seen them a few times. I could get rid of them, too, if I had specialty equipment. I had to type messages to July out on my phone to get the point across to her, and with the way she is, you know she didn’t really pay attention to me for ages. I think if I’d just gone on not talking she wouldn’t have noticed for at least a week. Once I did get her attention, she told me that the machines we use up north aren’t really common down here, and she didn’t want to pull one from the future because it’d be too difficult to replace. Considering the things I’ve seen her do, I don’t know how much I buy it.

We argued about it for a while, but she always wins these things. She told me that these spirits tend to attach themselves to people with unspoken thoughts. Things they wish they’d said. That the best way to get it out of my soul was just to say what I wanted to say to the person I wanted to say it to. That really made me mad, because I knew she was right, and I knew it was going to be hard. You know I’m not good at talking to people. She said that writing things down would be easier. I’ll see if that’s true now.

I told July that I was worried about other people seeing it, with how personal this is. Remember the time that package got stolen off my doorstep? So, she said she’d put a ritual on this letter that would make sure you get it. I hope nothing weird happens because of that, but I guess there’s only so many things that can go wrong. I mean, this is only a few sheets of paper, right? Apparently, as soon as I send this, and really feel like I’ve said my piece, the parasite should stop bothering me. I won’t be able to tell you since I have to send the letter first.

I guess it’s obvious by now: you’re the one I wanted to talk to. I’m writing this in ink, so I have to be careful that I don’t mess it up. What I wanted, was to ask you for help. When all this business with July and gods and everything else is over, I want to come live in Starlight and help you with the museum, if you’ll have me. I might be worthless at stuff like that, but I can do any gruntwork you give me. I won’t even complain! Part of me still wants to go back home, up north and hide again. But I can’t do that. It feels like dying. If I can’t find a way to live with magic, I’ll just waste away. I’ll even try out being a poodle or whatever if it helps.

I shouldn’t put it like that. I should take it seriously, right? I dunno what I’d be. I’ll figure it out. I want to figure it out. It’s hard for me to think I’ll ever be useful to anyone, but I have to try. Right now, with how frustrated I am not being able to talk, I can actually say it. If I’d asked before I left, then I could have gotten your answer, but instead I’m going to have to show up later and just hope you accepted me. Therapists tell you to just write stuff like this and burn it, right? Don’t worry about answering it, though. I don’t think you’d even be able to get it to me.

I don’t know how to end this, so I’ll stop.

#

Your cousin, Daniel Wells

—

Lace fell onto the couch and laughed. Daniel was still himself. He had that rare quality that made him a universal constant. Obviously, Lace wanted him to come back. Obviously, he’d love to have him at the museum. If anything, family being there with him would make the work ten times more fulfilling. He’d have to think of an animal shape for his cousin to try out if it came to that. Or maybe something other than an animal. He’d always been kind of like a wet puppy, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try something mythological or even inanimate. Well, it didn’t matter if he did any of it; all that mattered was that he was comfortable with himself.

The truth fell on Lace like a collapsing roof: he was lonely. Hearing from his cousin again, and palling around with Finnigan— those things had brightened his day. He felt a little more alive than he had a few hours ago.

He turned to the dragon. “Thanks. I’m very happy that I read this today.”

Finnigan did his little salute again. “It’s all the duty of the mailman!”

“Must be satisfying work.”

“Of course! That’s why I do it!”

“Oh yeah? Earlier you said you just took the job because it was there.”

Finnigan scratched the tip of his snout thoughtfully. “Did I? That’s true, but it’s not the full story.”

Ah, there was a story. There’s always a story. Every building, every object, and every person. “Would you mind telling me?”

The mailman nodded, and then took a seat next to him. “Before I came to Starlight, I had a friend who moved here. They said they’d stay in touch, but never returned any of my messages on the networks. We knew each other since we were little kids, but I just figured… that maybe they’d forgotten me, you know? New home, new friends… I figured they realized I wasn’t all that fun after all. But then I got a letter from them, just like yours! When I read what they wrote about this city, I started thinking I could live here, too.”

“And later, you remembered. You wanted to make it easier for letters to get to people in the city.”

“Not right away. I barely thought about it at first, but then one day… my friend passed away. I started thinking that I was only able to be by their side at the end because of that letter.”

“I see.” Lace stiffened, a rather ridiculous move for someone as noodly as himself. “I’m sorry to bring up old wounds.”

“Nothin to be sorry about,” said the dragon. “It’s what happened. But if you want to do something for me, put that mailbox in the museum.”

“I’ll give it a place of honor,” Lace promised. “Speaking of which… there’s someone that I’d like to talk to about all this. Problem is, they aren’t technically inside the city. Think you can handle another delivery?”

Hopping to his feet, Finnigan Cross did a little salute. “As long as my wings will carry me there, I’ll try.”

“Well, do you think they can carry you up Hub-and-Spoke Mountain?”