The Key to Irunium

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All his life he had been vaguely aware of the way things around him disappeared without any reason. At his christening, so he was told with hearty guffaws, the water had vanished from the font. “Dried up in the hot weather, old man!”—that had been the official explanation, but it remained odd, all the same.

At school, his teachers—a faceless bunch by now—could never understand why Prestin’s books, rulers, pencils and other unlikely objects should always be in short supply, or why his classrooms always seemed to be short of educational items. But as he spent half his time in the United States and the other half in England, his schooling tended to grow empirically rather than be guided by firm academic regularity.

Walking out to the waiting aircraft at London Airport, a grown man with a job now, he knew he had never bothered about that. He hadn’t cared. He knew from the first what he was going to do: he was going to be a flyer like his father.

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