There are doorways in the world. Fractures in the world between Earth and fourteen other worlds. Places where a few very special people can not just see these other worlds, but travel to them. These people call themselves travellers, and Elrick Moorcroft is one of them. Life as a traveller is good. You can easily make a lot of money by digging up the untapped wealth of the other worlds. You don't have to work. And you can explore the fifteen worlds as much as you want. But there are two things you never want to do. First let any of the governments of Earth know about either the doorways or the travellers. And second disobey any of the rules of the Ellis veri (elves) High Guard. They are less than understanding. But the day that Elrick stepped through from his home in Erislan to the number nine platform of the Wellington Railway Station and came across a dead body he knew that both of those things were likely to happen. When the man had very obviously been killed by a giant predator from another world, a predator that was loose in Wellington, it seemed almost certain. And he knew that one other thing was almost certain. It would all be his fault somehow!
About the Author: Greg Curtis was born in New Zealand, land of the long white cloud and small flightless birds. He grew up in the city of Wellington, renown for its high winds and the almost magical ability of rain and sleet to be lifted off the street and blasted into one's face. After eighteen years of suffering the cold and wet, he was finally blown away in a particularly bad storm to settle far away as a student, for more years then most would ever admit to. Then finally when the universities pronounced him done he became an overqualified and underpaid worker in the health sector, (aren't we all). He has lived in the city of Rotorua, one of the very few places in the world where people have actually chosen to reside beside active geysers and breath air that reeks of sulphur, for the past fifteen years. He works by day for his daily bread by speaking to people about their various diarrhoeal illnesses. While at night he toils away on his books. When not engaged in his great passions of reading and writing science fiction and fantasy, drinking strong black coffee (some call it tar), and consuming copious amounts of chocolate (dark naturally), he lives a quiet life of contemplation as the high priest to his two cats. His duties include worshipping them with regular gifts of food, the occasional grooming and providing them with a warm dry place to sleep. They in turn look down upon him with typical feline disdain, but occasionally deign to bring him gifts of headless vermin, - as a warning. In a desperate bid to understand the meaning of his life, he has recently started studying philosophy, particularly metaphysics, and come to a startling conclusion. God is a cat! Cheers and be good or don't get caught.