“Fair suck of the sav! It’s the bloody desert everywhere, acting like it was the ocean. And I’m riding a wave of sand, to boot. It’s traveling like any wind swell would, racing toward some distant shore. But my wave’s solid if you can call sand solid. And the shoreline it’s headed toward isn’t hidden or lost over some horizon. The dune I’m riding is making its way up, inside a giant bubble. I can see where this movable beast is traveling toward cooler, more temperate climes, hundreds, no, thousands of kilometers away. And though there’s haze, I can see where this world gets greener as you continue up the bubble—lusher, more jungle-like. Then it becomes forested near the top, more alpine. I can barely make it out, but there, nearly directly overhead, it’s nothing but mountains, snowcapped peaks staring back at me like stalactites. Beyond that, and directly atop of me, it’s nothing but white. I can’t make out any details—must be the back of bumfook—but it must be all snow and ice. A polar cap of sorts. Apparently, I’ve been marooned at its hottest spot, at the bottom of the sphere, and me sportin’ nothing but black.

You’d think an opal miner’s son from the outback would have more sense when dreaming up stuff like this. But then again, I’m not home in Oz, am I?”