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Updated: June 19, 2025
"Grandfather named it. He was a classicist in his way spent a lot of his time reading books most people never heard of. Things like the Iliad and Gone with the Wind. The mountains he called the Apennines, and that volcano's Mount Olympus. The marshland to the north is called the Pontine Marshes our main road is the Camino Real." Alexander grinned. "There's a lot of Earth on Flora.
He was gazing entranced at the mammoth circle that had been a volcano's throat the very one he had seen flashed on the screen. He moved the control to open a side exhaust and change their direction of fall.
He rode by toward the field, the sun on his broad back, slouching forward as his heavy horses plodded onward. The man in him was asleep yet, yes; but there was a pit of fire as deep as a volcano's throat in his slumbering soul. If she could lift him up to it, if she could pluck the heart out of him and warm it in her own hot breast, then there would stand the man for her need.
About nine o'clock we rode back, facing a cold, driving mist, the back of each rider, protected by the shining yellow "slickers," glowing to the one behind him, in the volcano's light, till we were a mile or more away. The next morning came clear, and the sight of the mighty slope of Mauna Loa, lit up by the rising sun, was a grand spectacle.
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