Rip woke up early to the sound of rain, water gently falling outside his window.

He stretched and thought about the day ahead.

“Time to get back into some old habits.”

He dressed quickly, donning what could pass as workout clothes. He put on cotton pants, and an undershirt. Then he threw on a rain slicker.

He chose a good pair of boots which Nancy had assured him were coated in a waterproof concoction. Then he opened the door and ventured out into the rain. He exited the courtyard through a back gate that led to a side street between the townhomes in this neighborhood.

Then he started to jog.

He went out to the main street and stayed along the sidewalk, or what the locals called “pavement,” which confused him.

Pavement, as far as he was concerned, denoted the paved streets. He supposed it made a certain amount of sense in this world, though. The streets here were mostly cobblestone, and the sidewalks were made from concrete. So, maybe the sidewalks could be considered paved, in a way.

Still, the American in him insisted he think of the walkways to the side of the street as sidewalks.

No one else was out and about in Blair’s neighborhood during the early morning rain. Rip kept going, luxuriating in his aerobic exercise.

At least all his activities recently had been physical, he thought. Things like holding onto ropes attached to airships, and jumping up on robots trying to kill him. Surely these things provided benefits similar to exercise.

But for the first time since his arrival, he settled into a good long run. And it felt wonderful.

In due course he left Blair’s neighborhood and traffic grew heavier. He weaved in between other pedestrians who stared at him openly.

I guess jogging isn’t a thing here, yet, he thought. And certainly not in the rain.

The street opened up to a park on the other side. He looked both ways before crossing over.

It was not a big green space, at least not by the standards of New York City’s Central Park. But it had a nice trail lined with bricks that allowed him to keep jogging.

When he came out on the other side, he recognized the street and knew where he was. He turned and ran down to the next intersection.

Here a newsstand stood, its oilskin awnings protecting paper books, magazines and newspapers underneath.

The proprietor and the newsboy looked up as he approached. Rip was breathing hard and had worked up a sweat under the slicker, despite the morning chill and cold rain, so he paused for a moment to catch his breath.

Then he said, “I’ll take the Trumpet,” and handed over a coin.

“Take care. It’ll get wet out there, guvner.”

Rip smiled at the man as he took the paper and tucked it inside his slicker. He left, running back in the direction he came.

The boy and the man looked at one another with quizzical expressions.

“He must have heard the news and wanted to read about it for himself,” the boy said.

“Aye, he certainly was in a hurry. Never seen a man run to buy a paper like that.”

Rip managed to avoid talking with anyone else all the way back. When he entered the back gate again, he checked his internal clock and found he had jogged for over 22 minutes.

He stopped inside the courtyard, looking at the data. He queried the implant how much distance had been covered. The answer came back: 2.96 miles.

He rubbed his chin, walking toward the door of the cottage.

If the implant can measure time and distance . . . could it make a map, too?

Inside the door he pulled the slicker off, then his boots, pleased that he remained relatively dry underneath other than from sweat.

He headed toward the bathroom with the paper.

Drawing water for a bath, he sat on the edge of the tub and read the headline above the fold.

Otherworlder Saves City! Knighted by King in Private Ceremony!

Hmmm. That’s a bit on the attention-grabbing side. Oh well, I guess headlines sell papers, or something.

The story was credited to Angela Fontaine.

“The otherworlder so recently pulled from the depths of the Gretna Green steam vault by Baron Swathmoor, Lord Bixby and his Bandits, has once again proven himself to be of utmost utility to His Majesty in fighting the forces arrayed against the realm from those dark places . . .”

“Not bad,” he murmured, testing the water. He settled into the tub and kept reading, holding the paper high to keep it from getting wet.

“She got it mostly right. Once you get past the attention grabbing, she stays pretty true to the interview.”

Later he dried off and shaved, then dressed in his khakis. By this time the rain had let up, dying down to a light sprinkle.

He walked over to the house and picked the lock on the back door to get inside, just for the experience.

“Oh, there you are! Sit, sit, breakfast is almost ready.”

Nancy shooed him to the kitchen table. He took out the paper and continued reading while he waited.

About the time Nancy brought out a platter of poached eggs with melted butter and salt, toast with marmalade and a bowl of peeled tangerines, Blair showed up, also dressed in khakis.

She sat down and smiled at Rip. He glanced at her over the paper and decided she was in a good mood this morning.

“You certainly generate the headlines,” she said, piling eggs on her plate.

“Hm. I think the Fontaine woman scooped her competitors. I saw headlines about the airships being captured and all that, but I don’t think my knighthood was mentioned elsewhere.”

“They’ll follow up on it. The Standard Trumpet is one of the biggest. I imagine you’ll be a popular interviewee.”

He folded the paper and loaded his own plate with food. Then he looked at her again. She was still smiling.

“Why are you so happy?”

“My father is coming for a visit.”

“Ah. I guess you haven’t seen him in a while? Well, it’s good he’s dropping by to spend some time with his daughter.”

“He’s not coming to see me, Ripley. He’s coming to meet you.”

Rip chewed on a bite of egg and frowned.

“Why’s that make you happy?”

“Because, I can’t wait to see his reaction. I’m betting this will all be quite enjoyable.”