Surprise, Posterity, here I am again…!
Gracious, who’d have thought, only months ago — still alive (knock wood) and everything.
Not crowing, mind you; must admit, have been lucky Quite lucky. Incredibly lucky.
For one thing, ultimate war’s bionuclear efficiency imparted breathtaking new scope to definition of “overkill”; for another, rigors intrinsic to existence in subsequent environment doing much the same for “unforgiving.”
In fact, until quite recently your Humble Histographer brooded over eminently defensible, ever-deepening gloomy conviction that own small self constituted Earth’s entire remaining sapient population. Under such circumstances, “mere” mere survival ranks as clearly epic achievement — whether due in any part to own feeble efforts or not.
No, certainly not crowing. Pleased. And not a little surprised.
But pleasure, surprise, now secondary to almost inexpressible relief: Have found somebody!
Finally — a real live person…! That he happens to be intelligent, able-bodied, sensitive, not unattractive, brilliant musician to boot — all immaterial.
Quite suffices is alive!
For, therefore (ipso facto, and in conjunction with dogged faith in Teacher’s opinions [as set forth in Final Letter], together with own unquenchable optimism), presence of one proves are others, too.
Must be.
Somewhere…
However, have no intention of rushing headlong into romance, even if does turn out to be only game in town. Am only 11, after all. Shall indeed “carry out duty” for species’ benefit when time comes, should ultimate necessity manifest; but much prefer relationship growing from mutual attraction, compatibility, respect.
Not that would be all that difficult (apart from initial strain intrinsic to meeting under present coercive circumstances) to become attracted to new acquaintance. Possesses many good qualities, few (at first blush) unforgivable faults. Not bad specimen, viewed objectively.
Which is not to suggest totally lacks peculiarities, fair number of which would not be missed. For instance: Don’t know his name…! Won’t give straight answer; merely offers sidelong glance, elevates near-side brow, smirks knowingly, replies, “Think of me as ‘Adam.’ ”
Now, not prude, nor naïve, don’t mind entendres, of whatever multiplication factor, but that’s old! Bet Eve thought so, too.
(Wonder, sometimes, why always seems necessary to make so many allowances when dealing with 12-, 13-year-old boys [approximate real age, silly straight-faced assertion of 18 notwithstanding]. After all, I’m 11 — is it so unreasonable to expect from boys of comparable vintage demeanor at least as balanced, reasonable, logical, dignified?)
Secondly, is genuine maniac behind wheel: Ambition, prior to End of World, was to become Grand Prix driver; campaign through Europe, world; win World Championship. Even days, that is; on odd days wanted to join NASCAR circuit, tour southern U.S., bumping fenders with “Good Ole Boys” at 195 miles an hour on superspeedways in Grand. National stock cars — which nearly describes how we met: at downtown Baltimore street corner — avoided collision by hair’s-breadth.
(What? Regard unlikely only two people in city would “meet by accident”? Think again — better still, ask neighborhood insurance-history buff about famous 1902 claim wherein only two cars in entire state of Ohio involved in intersection crunch.)
Adam’s third peculiarity is he… he…
No. Can’t say it. Excerpt from conversation at breakfast first morning posthibernation sufficiently illustrative.
Were bringing each other up-to-date on life stories. Adam had distinct advantage of me: Read Vol. II while I lay in coma.
(Another indication of quality of boy’s brains, incidentally: To decipher contents, necessary to teach himself Pitman shorthand theory — did so in single day [took me two!]).
Have, of course, exacted blood oath not to exercise newfound skill by violating this journal; thoughts immortalized in diary constitute — must be regarded as — privileged communication between writer, History.
Anyway, since my knowledge of Adam then quite meager (sharp as tack, clever at EMT work, good cook, brilliant pianist, and drives like mishap studying to become catastrophe) boy necessarily carried bulk of conversation. Was filling me in on high points of existence prior to Armageddon:
Parents unlikely pair: mother state senator, all-around busy, important person; father music director of Baltimore Symphony. Adam divided time between studying Muse, eavesdropping on Moving Shaking within state government.
Determined early on art more fun than politics. And magnitude of talent soon emerged: genuine prodigy on piano; first public recital, age seven. “Father was so proud; mother, too. And I was tickled by all the adulation — amused, really, that something so easy should generate so much attention.
“But it didn’t go to my head; I didn’t have time for such foolishness. I was obsessed with perfecting my skill and committing to memory more and ever more selections. And while I did try to devote equal attention to all the great masters, I gradually found myself spending more and more time studying the works and methods of one in particular. In a remarkably short time I came to be known not so much as a prodigy but as a Bachward child.”
See…? Down through centuries we women have put up with menfolk who caroused; stuffed faces without thanks; missed baths; littered floors with cigar butts, ashes, smelly socks; nobly marched off to war, leaving us to fend for selves (brought home loathsome diseases, often as not); beat us; and, not infrequently, simply abandoned families altogether, because responsibility proved too much trouble.
Okay. Can cope with that. If absolutely must. One way or another. Possibly with diplomacy; more probably to detriment of male in question. But can cope.
This, however, another matter entirely! Lad inexhaustible font of misused words. Delights in puns of every description, lower the better; also in perverting familiar constructions to own depraved ends: Assembling engine is “mantling”; accumulation of scattered components is “persion,” competent person is “ept,” etc. When I made mistake of suggesting words existed which did job more precisely, without requiring listener to perform involuted dissection, analysis, Adam replied was fond of Bach-constructions.
Truly is: Can dredge up Bach-related adjectives to mis-fit any occasion; more inapt or strained the usage, happier seems to make him. For instance, past girl friends’ phone numbers listed in Little Bach Book; smug about Bach porches, his Bach-alaureate, skill at Bach-gammon; swimming Bach-stroke in Bach-waters during laid-Bach vacations at cottage in Bach-woods, etc.
But peripheral consideration; usually unexpected, often funny (sometimes over head), only occasionally irritating. A plus, generally. I think.
However, further problem exists, presenting complications of another order of magnitude entirely: Adam interested in initiating repopulation project. Immediately or sooner. Wants to get me on my Bach. (Actually, “obsessed with” probably more accurate descriptive than “interested in.”) If, at given moment, somehow fails to be in midst of straightforward proposition, is hinting. Broadly. Constantly.
Initially broached (figuratively speaking) subject while describing rigors of growing up rich (still at same first breakfast — as I sat there, hardly 16 hours postcoma; barely alive; pale, thin ghost of former self):
“…so even after both the grand jury and congressional committee absolved me of responsibility, the school withdrew permission to park the Lamborghini in the student lot, I had to be driven to class every day, everybody knew, it was terribly embarrassing, how long will it be before you’re recovered enough to sleep with me?”
Paused; glanced from corner of eye, then quickly away; waited for reaction. And waited. And waited…
Because object of affection having difficulty making mouth work. Reaction complicated: First, was dumbfounded; totally unexpected conversational turn, straight out of blue. Second, genuine no-foolin’ proposition something with which, at my age, have had little — oh, all right! — no experience. Third, blasé expectation — nay; cavalier assumption — of automatic assent quite took breath away — haven’t even decided to keep him yet…!
Went from startlement to shock, directly thence to offended feminine sensibilities; but hesitated momentarily, reflecting before venting feelings — all in space of single breath. Concluded, after brief deliberation, probably not Adam’s fault. Entirely. From wrong side of tracks, after all; can’t be expected to behave like normal person. Besides, is young, healthy; puberty in full cry, bursting with urges. Doubtless views me as Heaven-sent solution; perhaps even hard-won prize, considering effort invested in saving life — of which notion shall promptly disabuse him…!
(But consider parallel situation: If, when puppy does Terrible Thing in house, is immediately shot, replaced; is owner likely to end up with properly housebroken pet? Ever? Similarities existed here. Adam entitled to benefit of doubt during probationary/training period. Decided to let him live — pending…)
So closed mouth firmly; took deep breath, released deliberately; declined, with thanks.
“Oh, come on!” he coaxed heartily. “We’re both healthy young adults…”
(Histographer’s Note: Actually said “adults.”)
“…we like each other, and it’s just not healthy not to have a proper outlet for our tensions.”
Now, recognize would be considered “old enough” in certain (now departed) cultures. Granted; not disputing point (no implying that was reason departed). Further, addressing question from purely mechanical perspective, am very probably “big enough” as well.
However. Pragmatic as do try to be in every respect, find I cannot narrow down viewpoint; regard this question as solely practical matter — to say nothing of notion of debasing currency to point where becomes no more than casual recreation, temporary ennui remedy. True, not entitled to advance own opinion as expert — lack firsthand knowledge. Must rely upon instincts developed through exposure to Momma, Daddy, Teacher; their unvoiced opinions reflected in conduct toward selves, one another, world at large — and especially me.
No, cannot put finger on precise dates, times, places; nor words, acts underlying own attitude. But do know that ingrained into very being is conviction that sex is small-but-important part of very complicated whole; blending liking-respect-tenderness-caring-need-love-coitus with implied lifelong partnership-family commitment, babies optional.
Am not ready for babies: not physically, not emotionally — not now! Nor commitment. Yet. And if can’t cope with package in toto (including deliberate election to proceed to motherhood or not), then strongly misdoubt wisdom…
Well, can work up to it, step-by-step. And undoubtedly will (if do keep him). But not beginning with that step. Period. No matter what “practical considerations” might seem to dictate!
So initially sought to counter Adam’s enthusiasm with logic: Reminded him of age: Probably not fertile yet; and even if wanted to conceive at 11 — and don’t! — well-known amongst OB-GYN trade is fact that excessively young mothers produce generally frail, sickly offspring.
“I’m sure that was true of Homo sapiens women,” Adam replied with irritatingly comfortable superiority, as usual ignoring objection’s nontechnical aspect; “but how much data has been accumulated on us?”
(One of boy’s less appealing qualities: Instantly pounces on flawed reasoning; zooms in for kill without hesitation; gives no quarter, takes no prisoners.)
“No, I don’t know if it’s true of us,” I admitted. “How could I know? How could anybody know? Who would have had time to assemble a data base on us? Only a few hundred people knew about us at all, even before; and they didn’t have time…”
“Besides,” Adam interjected smoothly, “if you’re not fertile yet, then what does it matter? The only question we need to consider is whether it’s good for us; whether it will increase our chances of survival by improving our mental, emotional, and physical condition — which it will, you know; all the texts say so.
“But if even the possibility of conceiving, and the potential effect of your age on our child, really bothers you that much and you’d rather hold off starting a family, that’s easily dealt with. So there’s nothing to prevent us from enjoying the benefits of an active, healthy, satisfying physical relationship. See…?”
Open mouth to reply. Stopped. Noticed bottom-line issue well on way to vanishing amidst mechanics of debate. Quickly reviewed dialogue immediately preceding; concluded misdirection not accidental.
(Obviously Adam exposed to unsavory influences during impressionable years [perhaps too much time spent in company of mother’s state government cronies]; had picked up verbal shell game skills — plus who knows what other tools comprising basic political arsenal.)
Realized then: Might be well to watch step around Adam conversationwise. Always heretofore considered concept of “promise” sacrosanct, orientation which may prove liability: Would rather not find have agreed to something which, through failure to understand, follow transactional semantics to proper conclusion, binds me to something contrary to expectations, intentions.
So switched to more direct approach: “I don’t care whether it’s true or not. That isn’t the point. I’m too young — I’m not going to get involved in sex. Not now…!”
Like most H. post hominems, Adam has extremely sensitive hearing. But can be quite hard of listening: “Don’t get your Bach up,” he soothed. “I know, I know — this all has hit you pretty suddenly, and you haven’t had time to think it through. But you know as well as I do that there’re only the two of us. We don’t have a choice — we need each other. And even though ‘need’ is an awfully broad term, the heart of it, under these circumstances, is sex — I need you…!”
“I don’t want to,” I repeated, somewhat more firmly (possibly because “need” touched nerve, eroded conviction). “At least not yet. I don’t doubt that one day I may want to — at the very least, I will cooperate to the extent necessary to rebuild the population.
“But I don’t have a need yet — and I bet you don’t either; though I’ll grant you’ve probably got a pretty urgent want, the same as any adolescent male. We’re both too young — certainly I am. But even if we weren’t, I’ve never heard of celibacy killing anyone, so I don’t think we’re in any immediate danger; at least not from that quarter. And if it’s physical tensions you’re bothered with, you know the solution to that just as well as I do.
“For Heaven’s sake,” I finished impatiently; look at me — I’m almost still a boy…!”
“I have looked at you,” he replied with a knowing grin; “in the most minute detail, for six long days while you were comatose; while changing your diaper, bathing you, and maintaining your catheter. No one would mistake you for a boy anymore. You are somewhat unfinished here and there, but you’re very pretty. And I’m beginning to regret having been such a gentleman while I had you at my mercy. Did I miss my golden opportunity?”
“I thought you weren’t into snuggling with corpses, and found catheters unromantic.”
“I’m not, they are, so I didn’t. But looking at you was very pleasant, in spite of your condition. And you aren’t unconscious now, and there’re no tubes in the way. Frankly, I don’t understand your attitude — I’d think gratitude alone would be enough to motivate you, if not compassion for a suffering fellow survivor…” This last delivered in tones of hurt puzzlement; wearing a trusting, wide-eyed, cocker-spaniel-puppy expression.
(Adam shrewd at picking apart others’ arguments, but reckless about leaving opening for riposte. Always a mistake: No one who knows me would doubt willingness to snub slack once victim has rope enough to hang himself.)
“I’m glad you feel that way. That means you do understand how I feel about it, and you’ll be happy to quit pestering me — if not from compassion, then out of gratitude.”
“Gratitude…?” Adam’s expression fell. Belatedly realized he’d violated logic matrix, blown argument; but too stubborn to admit it, change tack, quit with grace.
“Yes, ‘gratitude.’ Who pulled you out of that fire and stitched up your leg?”
“Who got in the way and made me crash in the first place?”
“Who was driving like a lunatic?”
“Oh, yeah…?”
“Yeah!”
(Have been several conversations like that since then; all revolving around oldest disputed topic; all concluding in same general vein.)
Apart from that, though, Adam seems pretty neat so far. Which is part of reason have not taken sterner line with him regarding nonstop campaign against my “virtue.” Could, certainly, and would bring results. Knows my karate ranking from reading journal; knows am well able to enforce wishes, if so choose.
But don’t choose. Yet. And truly hope never becomes necessary. Only five when Momma Foster died, but had managed by then to impart to me her appreciation for fragility of male ego; care required to preserve from unnecessary bruising. Have encountered nothing during subsequent years to suggest wisdom of altering view (indeed, quite to contrary).
Key word, of course, is “unnecessary”; would not hesitate to warn of impending consequences, employ force as required. But ever been possible for perceptive, intelligent woman to avoid direct confrontation while still getting own way: Merely question of discerning where buttons located, cataloguing effect of each, pushing in proper sequence — without getting caught at it…
To that end, am studying Adam: Feeling out responses to subliminal suggestions; learning what psychological knee jerks exist, where kept, how triggered; reactions to my emotions, etc.
But proceeding carefully. Not uncomplicated lad, nor at all stupid (difficulty compounded by political psychology absorbed at mother’s knee); will spoil everything if suspects manipulation attempt in progress. At least two probable consequences foreseeable: One, will realize am trying to avoid controlling him by force; and two, thereby have nose rubbed in very fact that I can.
Heart of problem, of course, is fact that Adam, while surely hominem, not member of AA group — I know: All names, addresses in Tarzan File. And everyone else alive today on planet, by definition, must be considered AB — must be regarded, absent substantial evidence to contrary, potential hazard to own life, limb, property. Wherefore, despite uniformly favorable data accumulated to present — including Terry’s opinion — still reserving judgment; maintaining slightly watchful attitude where Adam concerned.
(True, beginning to feel something of an ingrate by this point; but learned through experience: Teacher not busybody; not in habit of volunteering superfluous suggestions. On rare occasions when did go to trouble of offering advice [particularly when so unambiguously phrased as to constitute, unmistakably, Considered Opinion], proceeding notwithstanding recommendation almost inevitably followed by Consequences, usually regrettable in nature.)
Have known Adam (consciously) only two days. Most of what have learned thus far limited to hearsay (his) or adduced evidence (own conclusions, based on observations). Have not, with own eyes, seen anything concrete enough to justify abandoning caution entirely — or confirm, for that matter. But preliminary impression favorable; rather suspect will cancel alert shortly; embrace (figuratively speaking) new acquaintance as companion, friend, partner — perhaps even (conceivably, someday, should events so devolve) mate.
Which will be distinct relief: Paranoia most wearing perspective for extended use; tiresome way to go through life. Trust more comfortable outlook — except when blows up in face, of course.
But doubt this apt to. Have often, during brief lifetime, entertained self by “people-watching”; plus always took advantage of opportunities to meet, get to know, as many people as possible. Thereby acquired something resembling competence at picking friends (at least those whom so labeled never betrayed trust). And while do perhaps weight Terry’s judgment more heavily than should when forming own impressions of strangers, am not myself totally helpless in that regard.
And without being able to put finger on any specific event or reason why, feel comfortable around Adam. Have from first meeting postcoma. Almost as if have known him forever…
(Note to Significant Discovery Department: Just this moment realized — have felt this way with precisely three other people in whole life: Daddy, Momma, Teacher. Wonder what that means. Sounds like sort of question probably best not delved into too deeply just now. Or resolved in haste.)
Well, haste unnecessary; will have ample time to debate imponderables. Expect to be here several weeks at least, resting, eating prodigiously, exercising: Rehabilitation after physiological burnout amounts to substantial project; side effects no joke — not kidding when said almost died; did really bang-up job on self. Adam weighed me as part of initial diagnostic procedure; and, based on his data, had lost nearly 20 percent of total body weight, between water, tissue.
No, not sort of experience one bounces back from overnight. And still long way from even first bounce.
In fact, now that I think about it, this is quite enough for first effort: I’m tired…!
Good night, Posterity.
Help…! Adam trying new approach: devious, insidious, unexpected — fattening!
Also wonderful: Who would expect servant-raised-and-educated, musically gifted, apparently hedonistic, smooth-talking young stranger to be competent cook — no, cancel that — inspired master chef? Can’t imagine where he finds this incredible variety of makings — meats, fruit, vegetables, etc. All prepared with genuine magic touch…
(Manufacture same dishes myself; results merely adequate. But let Adam walk through kitchen, stop at stove, sniff pots’ contents, somehow Something. Happens — something wonderful!)
And in present condition, trying to regain lost tissue, cannot begin to take objective view of offerings: Anything failing to bite me first goes to stoke fires (Adam has already used expression “feeding frenzy” [smiled when said it, but doubt really kidding]). In short, am ravenous; appetite running amok; not responsible for actions in presence of food — any food. But especially this food…!
Example, breakfast today: two homemade whole-wheat pancakes, dripping with real butter, drowned in clover honey; delicate two-egg/ham-cheese-mushroom omelet; four-ounce filet, crisp outside, medium-rare inside; hash-brown potatoes; ten-ounce orange juice, 16-ounce milk; megavitamin/mineral pills; huge bowl of fresh strawberries! (Where could he possibly have found fresh strawberries…?)
Midmorning snack: half dozen hot, fresh blueberry muffins with thick pat of butter melted into each; big bowl of chocolate mint ice cream dripping with thick homemade hot fudge topping, sprinkled with nuts, buried under blanket of real whipped cream, capped with cherry; 16-ounce glass of homemade eggnog.
Lunch: large green salad covered with Adam’s own bleu cheese dressing; two-inch-thick slice of rare standing-rib roast smothered in mushrooms, gravy; baked potato (skin crisped, suitable for crunching like cookie; insides removed, cream whipped, butter blended, then replaced); tender cauliflower swimming in exquisite cheese sauce; side dish of applesauce; fresh hot rolls; another 16-ounce glass of milk. Plus dessert: incredible something combining best features of angel food cake (laced with chocolate chips), vanilla pudding, covered with (so help me) miniature hot toasted marshmallows.
Midafternoon snack: two slices of completely egg-and-milk-saturated French toast, sprinkled with cinnamon, powdered sugar, liberally paved with butter pats, and dripping with maple syrup; colossal chocolate milkshake.
Whew…! Isn’t time for dinner yet; don’t know what’s planned. But doesn’t matter; merely reviewing day’s menu thus far imparts great sense of confidence for future (plus makes me hungry again): Know full well that whatever may be, will be work of sheerest culinary artistry. (Will taste good, too…!)
Obviously this is tough life: Gradually wake somewhere around midmorning to aromas wafting up from kitchen as Adam prepares breakfast. Ring to let him know am back among living.
Somehow puts preparations on Hold. Appears instantly in room to help me from bed (can walk myself, but balance not reliable yet; still awfully weak) to potty for morning dump. Thence into tub (which previously filled without waking me); turns on Jacuzzis, administers massage to get blood flowing again. Bathes me gently yet efficiently; impersonally, without “taking liberties” (either teasingly and/or in earnest), despite intimate contact necessarily involved (and notwithstanding undisguised libidinous ambitions). Assists me from tub, dries me with huge, thick, bath-sheet towels; dresses me to extent required by day’s schedule (usually robe, slippers); dries, combs hair. Then, steadied by his arm, I walk to kitchen, where he completes breakfast, somehow picking up preparations where left off without even hint of difficulty.
After breakfast, again leaning on shoulder, I take quarter-mile hike (once around house, inside — no kidding!) for exercise; then lounge in library, reading while Adam practices piano. (In times past people world over paid money to hear poorer keyboard work than I get daily as private Muzak while enjoying fruits of most impressive book collection have ever seen.)
Adam wakes me when time to return to kitchen for midmorning snack (invariably fall asleep on couch); then back to library for more music, reading (as long as eyes stay open).
And then time for lunch. Afterward we repeat therapeutic hike; following which I nap until afternoon snack-time. Generally manage to remain awake thereafter, reading, until dinner.
After dinner Adam gets serious: Plays the Good Stuff; each work straight through rather than, as in practice, taking run after run at trouble spots. Makes it count. For that I stay awake. Don’t even read.
Evening finally winds up with modest bedtime smackrel (no more than 1,500 calories or thereabouts); and so to bed, perchance to dream (generally of food).
Despite nursing schedule, Adam finds time to keep himself clean, groomed; kitchen spotless; do laundry; as well as housecleaning (dusting, carpets, etc.) for those areas of house I get to see; and still is as conscientious about taking care of Terry as would be myself if able.
Finally, manages — somehow! — to find, prepare that astonishing variety of wonderful food! (Where could he have found those strawberries…?)
And throughout remains uniformly considerate, optimistic “… cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean…” etc. Having person like that around could get habit-forming. (Probably what he’s up to — auditioning [would make some lucky woman terrific househusband]).
Only, if continue to let him wait on me hand and foot — never mind feeding me like this — in six months will be too fat to move. (Suppose that’s what he’s up to…? Perhaps likes his women ample?)
If so, have long way to go. Only week since coma ended. Been eating, sleeping with remarkable devotion to duty ever since; and condition improving, true — color back to normal, no longer dehydrated, metabolic balance restored — but haven’t begun to gain weight; still pretty puny example of Womanhood in Flower. If had any competition, doubt Adam would give me second glance. No, strike that; would look, but sympathetically: awfully nice person — for adolescent male, of course.
And is adolescent male, let’s not forget. Far from perfect. (I mean — anyone who can be that cheerful in morning…!)
Further, he… No, can’t go on. Quote from breakfast this morning (breakfast, mind you) quite damning enough:
“… was the loneliest summer of my life,” he mused pensively. “Mother was seized by this notion that I should learn something resembling discipline involving areas beyond music. She decided that I should work mornings in her office. She reasoned, I suppose, that this would force me to get up early, which in itself would be Good For Me. Besides, discovering what it meant to work in a proper work setting, earning a minimum wage, would ‘be good for your perspective.’ That’s what she said — I thought my perspective was fine just as it was.
“So I became an office boy. Not just an office boy: the junior office boy — the lowest of the low. I was given responsibility for sorting, storing, and checking in and out the innumerable little IBM type-balls, or elements, of the various sizes and fonts that Mother used in her official correspondence — it was a big office and there was a bunch of them.
“The work was boring and seemed without real value. However, I determined to put the best possible face on the situation and went about my duties cheerfully, earnestly, and doing my best to be nice to everyone.”
Adam smiled, eyes going distant. “In particular, I did my best to be nice to the secretaries; of whom there was a considerable number, and each better looking than the next. True, some were slightly older than I; but that had never stopped me before — I’ve been out with many women in their twenties. In fact, some of my most interesting and, uh, productive dates have been with older, more worldly women. It looked as though the summer was shaping up nicely, apart from the job itself, of course.
“So you can imagine how disturbed I was when, after better than a week there, I had yet to get one of these ladies to respond to anything beyond the most businesslike inquiry: ‘Thank you for returning that Orator-10 element, Miss Peach, and here are your Elite-12 and Italic-12. Have a nice day.’ ‘Thank you, Adam.’ Beyond that — nothing…!”
Had no idea where he was going with this; didn’t particularly care. Good company, diverting conversationalist; lived interesting life to date, related it entertainingly.
But didn’t distract me from food.
“It was terrible,” Adam continued plaintively. “I began to wonder if something was wrong with me: Maybe a postnasal infection had left me with an unspeakable variety of halitosis, of which only I was unaware. Or maybe I had deodorant failure. Or perhaps someone had circulated a vicious rumor that I had herpes — or worse, perhaps Mother had interdicted me…!
“I asked her about that and she denied it. Now, to my knowledge, she never lied to me. She was a fine lawyer and a consummate politician, true; and it was often necessary to listen closely to make sure that the words one heard carried the meaning they seemed to on the surface — but she never lied…
“Well, by the end of the first month I was completely at a loss. I didn’t know what to do; which way to turn. I had discharged my job duties flawlessly. I had kept track of all the elements without error; given them out, taken them in, ordered new ones from IBM; all in the most charming, helpful, personable manner possible — and I am my mother’s son: I know my social psychodynamics.
“All to no avail, however: The ladies simply would not socialize with me, no matter what I did or didn’t. My self-esteem was in shambles; my reputation as a roué was crumbling.
“Finally at wits’ end, I sought advice from one of Mother’s senior advisors. He was a wily old fox, versed in the intrigues of political life — but more importantly, he knew people.
“I told him my problem. He smiled paternally and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Adam,’ he soothed, ‘don’t let it get to you. It’s nothing you’ve done, or can do; it’s your job.’
“ ‘My job?’ Now I was more in the dark than ever. All I do is keep track of the—’
“ ‘Elements,’ said he. ‘Of course they won’t associate with you. Don’t you understand? You’re taboo, the element boy…’ ”
Silence echoed through kitchen. Froze, glaring, fork halfway to mouth. Adam’s expression a study in puzzled innocence.
Terry picked up vibrations; emitted long, low whistle; said, “How ’bout that.”
After counting to ten, slowly, again became aware of blended aromas rising from feast spread before me. Weighed benefits, liabilities. Carefully. Violence such a transitory satisfaction. Decided to let him live.
But just imagine: If do decide to keep him, will spend whole rest of life never knowing when something like that due again — but positive out there, somewhere. Waiting. With my name on it…
Good night!
Surprise! Adam just asked to accompany us when search resumes for AAs — instead of baldly declaring intentions, per usual practice.
(This, standing alone, offers hope: May be making progress; perhaps housebroken status achievable within foreseeable future.)
So agreed. But with conditions…
First: Must understand agreement embodies no implied secondary (read “sexual”) acquiescence. Will be partners; sharing resources, proceeds, risks, hardships — period.
Second: Pooling brains, agreeing wherever possible on course to be followed — but with me ultimately setting policy. My decisions final. If time allows, prior discussions permissible; but if crisis looms, or events move quickly, orders must be carried out without hesitation.
Pecking order necessary: Present-day environment unforgiving; indecision, inexperience, lack of teamwork — all erode chances for survival. Despite Adam’s slight age advantage, am more experienced in survival in world-as-is; been knocking about, self-sufficient, for months. Plus own education vastly broader, again despite age difference; for have devoted bulk of waking hours to emulating Rikki-Tikki-Tavi (“Run and find out!”); trying to learn something about everything, become “generalist” before settling down to specialty.
Adam, by contrast, has learned lots about very little; narrowed interests too early: From own observations, is unparalleled at keyboard, in kitchen; first-rate EMT; efficient domestic (Lord! — entire ancestry, along with ghosts of most of Baltimore’s Upper Crust, must be spinning in graves at that summation!); plus shrewd student of people.
Clever also, according to hearsay, at mechanics, electronics. Demon inventor, tinkerer: Most stereo equipment throughout home product of Adam’s handiwork; plus garage contains (says he; haven’t been out there yet) numerous highly modified automobiles, none of whose designers would recognize, all of which boast performance, mileage, handling, durability far exceeding manufacturers’ specifications.
But since Man’s Passing, has existed (notwithstanding brash persona) as conservative stay-at-home, scavenging as need arises. Explorations limited to forays about already familiar (to him) city, suburbs. Totally unprepared to set off into wilderness.
Therefore, final condition: Must apprentice to me as karate student. Two reasons: First, we will encounter inimical ABs en route — utter certainty, this. Would be comforting to know partner competent to guard my back (plus will feel lots better knowing Adam able to take care of himself should something happen to me — certainly not least probable outcome in post-Armageddon conditions).
Second, instructing him good therapy for me: Am wreck; going to take weeks of rest/food/exercise to restore me to combat-readiness, and sparring only training better than kata.
Into second week now. Stronger; can walk unaided, bathe self — though in habit of sociable morning soak by now; luxuriating to Jacuzzi-driven hot water, massage, lazy prebreakfast conversation, laughing at Terry: Silly goose decided if we can, he can — and conducts most energetic baths imaginable at poolside (tubside — tubside [size blurs distinction!]); perched carefully on rim, grabbing huge beakfuls, slinging all directions, flapping violently, squawking ecstatically, drenching everything within ten-foot radius — all without getting more than tiniest sprinkle on feathers.
Have begun Adam’s training. Initial work revolves around exercises to enhance balance, flexibility, coordination, strength, reaction time, speed; aiding student to recognize feel of own ki; learning to concentrate flow; focus, direct through body to attain instantaneous, automatic (preferably correct!) reaction, counterreaction, striking power.
Adam is, of course, quick study (suspect all hominems natural athletes, barring prohibitive physical defects). Mastered principles underlying balance in record time (yes, quicker than me here, too); same with footwork, physics governing striking power. Working now to establish basic group of hyperalert, hair-trigger reflexes which constitute foundation of martial art; “secret” of blindingly fast; shockingly violent, concentrated frightfulness:
Competent, well-trained student reacts without thought. Interlocking, interdependent, multiplex daisy-chain of yes/no decisions, once programmed into subconscious, form automatic “combat computer.” Conditioned reflexes evaluate degree of threat, determine quality of response. All takes place too quickly for conscious thought, formation of don’t-hurt/hurt/hurt-lots/kill intent.
(Which explains why throwing surprise mock punch at karate student, especially relative beginner, such folly: Newly keyed-in responses imperfectly integrated; subconscious misjudges seriousness of threat, overreacts. Before playful intent apparent to cerebrum, foolish acquaintance has paid price. Particularly risky game if done quickly — hurrying even most proficient of masters surefire ticket to own funeral.)
At this stage, however, all proceeds with deliberation, precision. Though weak, am able to perform necessary instruction. And drilling with Adam of immeasurable benefit to own condition: Each day can feel strength returning; body ever more ready to respond to demands.
And while lack even semblance of combat-readiness thus far, my response speed, accuracy, power have Adam’s complete attention. Demonstrated in beginning that, slowed and weakened as I am, he cannot land blow of any kind; can block anything he throws, hand or foot; don’t even look rushed. Yet can touch him anywhere, anytime, with any limb, despite his best efforts.
Brooded initially about effect on Adam’s psyche (Momma Foster’s caution again) of revealing how far beyond him I am in combat skills, but proved needless concern: If sensitive about being bested by “mere female,” conceals it well; responds to challenge like Thoroughbred to touch of whip — most competitive soul have ever met! Uniform reaction to every demonstrated weakness (after eyes grow round) has been to knuckle down, do flat-out damnedest to match me.
And know from own lessons: Demonstrated superiority necessary for effective teaching: Student’s appreciation of instructor’s prowess must approach level of awe. Progress in karate matter of conquering own frontiers. Regularly necessary to issue outrageous pronouncements calculated to hype student’s self-confidence (subliminal autosuggestion one of karate instructor’s most effective tools) to enable performance exceeding then-assumed limitations. For as each new threshold crossed, matters little whether task once impossible (as well may have been, without overstimulated neuromuscular responses): Karate, at journeyman levels, hinges at least as much on psychology as finely honed physiology.
Felt good to get back into training. And better to have sparring partner. Doing us both good: Adam enjoying workouts; benefit to me simply incalculable.
Of disadvantages, only two immediately apparent: One, believe it or not, appetite actually increased (compounding Adam’s awe!). And two, between meals, drills, sleep constantly…!
Good night, Posterity.
Preserve me from well-meaning innocents…! Naïveté on this scale cannot be coincidental: Creator Himself must have planted Adam in my path together with circumstances mandating adoption.
Follow: “You know, Candy,” he began this evening as we finished dinner, “I’ve been thinking…” (and cosmos trembled) “…you’re going to be fit enough to travel pretty soon now.”
“True.”
“Well, I’ve been looking over your van…”
“And…?”
“It’s small. Three of us living in that little thing will go mad.”
“It’s not so bad,” I assured him. “It’s certainly not as roomy and comfortable as living here, and it will be more crowded with you along; but it’s adequate, once you get the knack of how to use what space there is, and when to spill outside for cooking, dressing, bathing, and whatnot.”
“If you say so.” Dubiously. “But,” — hopefully — “we do have an alternative, if you’re interested.”
Was; so Adam led way to garage. First time there since coma. Impressive as rest of home. Could have stored Daddy’s house in there, too. Several times. With TV mast erected.
Also much taken with contents: astonishing variety of automotive toys. Lamborghinis are neat. Especially in red. Especially that red. Ferraris not bad either. Nor Maseratis. Nor Porsches. Never had much use for Lincolns, Cadillacs, limousines generally (bulky, clumsy, inefficient things — besides, who wants to be driven everywhere?); on other hand, Rolls (es?) could grow on one (is such a thing as elegance, after all).
But Adam brushed past four-wheel jewelry to far (perhaps “distant” more appropriate adjective) corner where stood what I took, at first glance, for garage wall. Wasn’t. Goodness…
“This is how we traveled before,” he announced, with proud sweep of hand. “Neat, huh? It’s a converted Greyhound.” Surely was; large, economy size; obviously capable of sleeping, feeding, entertaining regiment. Vehicle was Adam’s mother’s solution to visiting constituents statewide without having to (shudder) sleep in motels. Appointments bordered on sybaritic.
“And you have to see the kitchen,” he enthused. “It duplicates the one in the house, in miniature. Anything I can cook there, I can make here: It’s got everything!”
Telling point; mouth started watering at mere thought of Adam’s cooking.
However…
Silly thing was 40 feet long! Twelve feet tall, not counting air-conditioners jutting from roof. Eight feet wide. Barely six inches ground clearance (got down, looked). And of three axles, obvious that only forward tandem driven; rearmost merely load-bearing idler; very front, steering only. Plus, GVW plate listed maximum weight at 16 tons!
Cast about briefly for means to pop Adam’s bubble tactfully — was so proud of self, solution. Still merrily burbling on about juggernaut’s wonderful qualities; taking my silence for enthusiasm, no doubt. Pondered variety of alternate approaches without satisfying requirements.
Finally concluded no help for it; might as well plunge ahead, rain on parade without sugar-coating — disappointments exist in present-day reality; must face sooner, later. Perhaps dose of disillusionment good thing; maybe yanking rug from under mobile Pleasure Dome’s apparent usefulness helpful in conveying rational perspective of real-world conditions.
Opened with slow curve: “Boy, this is great!” Then fast break: “But something this size must have a really powerful winch to get across soft terrain. Where did they hide it?”
Adam ground to halt; looked puzzled, also faintly offended. “They don’t put winches on a top-of-the-line land yacht,” he explained, with slightly exaggerated patience.
“Oh, I see; all three axles powered then — must be just about unstoppable. Good thing; sure would hate to try to ford a stream otherwise — without a winch.”
Adam hesitated, looked unsure for first time. So reminded him, while off balance, of tribulations set forth in Vol. II. Asked if cared to try balancing across railroad trestle in this, as I did van. Agreed was not enticing notion.
And that was that. Adam nobody’s dummy. Chief failing consists of important gaps in background; ignorance of things obvious to anyone but cloistered genius reared amidst wealth, excess material advantages. Given hint, moves on quickly to grasp problem himself.
But still not satisfied with prospect of three of us living in van; determined to find solution. (Hope successful — really will miss that kitchen…)
Hello again, Posterity. Please be patient; must proceed cautiously; maintain tight control lest emotional state bollix record through omission of pertinent, possibly vital, details.
Something Important happened today: Found clue…!
Happened like this:
Feeling pretty good past few days. Thinking seriously about resuming search. However, work undone right here in Baltimore: On way to examine Harpers’ premises when originally bumped into Adam, got sidetracked. Logic dictated completing that before moving on.
Told Adam intentions; asked if familiar with area. Was; volunteered to take me there — correction — take us there:
(Terry so happy to have me healthy again; really bored during recuperation. Likes Adam lots but is my baby brother, knows it; expects to help me with daily chores, explorations, etc.)
Found Harpers’ office easily; gained access (Adam as proficient at prybar locksmithing as self), commenced examination. I explained were looking for clues suggesting AAs’ final destination, explanation for uniform disappearance; tangible or intangible — anything found, or deduction based on identification of something missing. Then went at it.
Adam proved quite good at fine-tooth search; was in fact he who found clue.
Took it calmly when he said, “Is there likely to be more than one Soo Kim McDivott associated with these people?”
“What? Where?” Adam tore sheet of paper from computer printer, held out. Snatched from hand, pored over it feverishly, and…
…PAY DIRT!
Fragment of message to Harpers — from Teacher…! Content ambiguous, due to apparent computer malfunction. But faded print on remaining portion read:
…imple as it first appears… Telemetry… their “contingency solution”… already in place…
…oblem not resolved when it’s “over.”
The authorities still refuse… must be scrapped. Meet me… Palomar facility as soon as… and please bring everything!!!
Love to all, and good luck getting here.
Soo Kim McDivott
That was all. But more than enough. To anyone who knew him, fragmentary missive shrieked starkest urgency. If had not seen with own eyes, would never have believed Teacher would end sentence with three exclamation points. Fabric of Universe hardly less flappable than Teacher.
Heard him express urgency only once. Happened perhaps six months before World Ended:
Though retired, Teacher still member in good standing of town’s medical “reserves.” Often baby-sat practices when Daddy, Jorgé Curaçao, G.P., (town’s “other” doctor) needed time off. On one such occasion (genuine “must” seminar for every physician) Teacher volunteered services to enable both to attend. Set up shop in Daddy’s office (front of our house).
Both gone less than two hours before hysterical truck driver arrived with flat-bed trailer carpeted with casualties from high-school bus capsize (ran over hog — basic rural no-no). Forty-some injured; ten, twelve critical; balance varied between minor broken bones, cuts/scrapes/bruises, acute self-pity.
And in keeping with rules governing such events (known in some quarters as Murphy’s Law), Yours Truly only semblance of nurse/medical assistant available. Flitted about office, trying to be three of me: diving in, out of rubber gloves to hand instruments, operate retraction, tie off; fetch, install bandages; mop blood, etc.
But Teacher faster yet; moved quicker than ever saw outside dojo — seemed everywhere! Worked miracles: Sorted patients by degree of crisis; stabilized some critically wounded apparently by force of will while worked on others even more so. Somehow coped without losing anyone (and some critical really were) until reinforcements arrived from County General, 35 miles away in next town.
Was busy hour. During course of which urgency such that Teacher omitted saying “please.” Twice.
So three exclamation points…!
“Important, huh?” Adam could hardly fail to note shaking hand holding paper.
Nodded wordlessly, thoughts churning.
He waited decent interval; then tried again, still gently: “I read it, but I don’t understand the significance. Is this McDivott your ‘Teacher’?”
“Oh…” Returned to surroundings with a start. “Sorry. Yes. This is from Teacher, I’m sure; telling the Harpers to meet him somewhere; probably just prior to the attack, though maybe right after. And he’s worried about something — I don’t know what, but apparently something that will be a problem even after Mankind is gone — even after he’s gone himself, poor dear; Teacher was like that: Always worried more about others than himself.”
“Any idea what ‘it’ he was talking about?”
“No. And ‘Palomar’ is pretty vague, too — unless he could mean Mount Palomar, near San Diego. But I can’t imagine any connection between Teacher, the AAs, and an observatory. This doesn’t furnish much information.”
“Enough to get your hopes up, but raising more questions than it answers…”
“Exactly. Just enough to send us off on what will very likely end up a wild-goose chase and waste a lot of time.”
“Not really; even if nothing turns up, there are plenty of AA addresses out there. You’ll just be revising the order in which you visit them. You’re looking at a potential gain, even if it’s a long-shot. You can’t lose, no matter what.” Smiled beatifically. “I don’t see the problem.”
Adam never so irritating as when correctly stating obvious, particularly when I’m the one overlooking it (correctness always delivered with such cheerful assurance). However, took deep breath, swallowed retort poised on tip of tongue; agreed was little choice: Any course other than proceeding to check out “Palomar” manifest nonsense.
Should, however, conclude sweep of Harpers’ office. No telling what else might surface.
Did so. Predictably, without profit.
And en route home afterward, Adam observed: “Seems an unlikely sort of coincidence. Are two of the Harpers married, and the other’s their son; or is it a husband/wife/brother thing, or what?”
Glanced across at him. Engrossed in driving; expression devoid of clues usually accompanying deadpan teasing. Possible he didn’t know? Had read Vol. II, glanced through Tarzan File, but perhaps missed that. Decided to accept question at face value.
“No, they’re married.”
“Who?”
“All of them.”
“Oh,” he replied disinterestedly; drove on. Several minutes later head snapped around, eyes narrowed in good-natured suspicion. Demanded, “What?” Then relaxed. “Oh, I see. It really is a coincidence: All separately married; no relation?”
“No, not related at all. Nor married separately. Married.” Couldn’t help smiling as watched Adam juggle possibilities. He noticed; grew truly suspicious.
Easy to tell when figured it out: Jaw went slack, eyes round. “All three of them…?” Adam exerted manful effort to be debonair; but expression — indeed, total aspect from head to toe — very embodiment of shocked disapproval.
(Naturally, have no idea whether men’s relationship extends beyond shared wife, but not about to let Adam off that easily.)
Smiled. Added helpfully: “Sure. Of course they’re not the only ones; lots of AAs are involved in group marriages. You mean you didn’t know?”
Didn’t. Tee-hee. Wolf in wolf’s clothing. Lecher, profligate, lady-killer, rake, debaucher, libertine, playboy. Swath-cutter amongst Baltimore’s fair sex. Any and all of above. Says he.
Well, maybe. But just discovered mile-wide chink in macho armor: Adam dyed-in-wool, card-carrying, soapbox-standing, old-fashioned sexual conservative! Face-to-face encounter with evidence of honest-to-goodness ménage à trois leaves him breathless with scandalized, bluenosed shock.
Hope exists for Adam after all. Gladder I found him by the day. Glad is coming with us…
Adam not kidding about hating prospect of three of us living in small van. Nor about mechanical, electronic ingenuity, ability. Has been busy past few weeks; all to good.
Example: Now attached to van’s rear by heavy-duty, load-equalizing hitch is lightweight, self-contained, 25-foot travel trailer. Clever notion: Enjoy luxuries without disadvantages intrinsic to vehicle unwieldy enough to carry them — in pinch, can drop trailer, proceed in van alone.
Adam sprung it as surprise: Went through Yellow Pages, visited dealers, located suitable unit; found, mounted hitch; hooked up, brought home. Then installed kitchen equipment matching that in parents’ land yacht. (My taste buds thank you, my appetite thanks you, I thank you…!) Quiet, multikilowatt, 120/240-volt, engine-driven Honda alternator replaces LP tanks on trailer’s A-frame tongue; powers everything.
Then he went through van with mad inventor’s eye, determined weaknesses, corrected. Rebuilt engine, replacing nearly every moving part; all with what described as “competition specs” (sounds impressive, but don’t ask me). Same for running gear.
(Whatever… Bottom line, boy; don’t care how watch built — what time is it? Speak English! [Verbal inquiry worded more politely, of course. Some.])
“Okay, okay,” he agreed. Tone impatient, but eyes alight; clearly pleased with self. “What I’ve done will make the engine and drivetrain more reliable under load, and shifts the power range downward, which gives it more torque — makes it more powerful at low RPMs, and gives it much more traction so it can pull the trailer more easily and climb steeper grades.
“And it’s more efficient now; goes farther on the same fuel. Since we have to rely on finding cars to siphon from, which may or may not have enough to bother with, or a gas station whose tank caps we can force, that’s insurance.
“Sounds as if it was a lot of work.”
“It was.” He nodded. “But solving mechanical problems is fun; I’ve been doing it for years as a hobby — along with the electronic stuff.”
“How did a well-bred, artistic type like you pick up such a physical sort of interest?”
“You mean ‘rich and spoiled type’ and ‘filthy sort of interest.’ ” Adam grinned; displayed fine hands now covered with cuts, scrapes, bruises; embedded with dirt, grease. “It grew out of what you might call the ‘flip side’ of growing up terribly rich, with parents too wrapped up in their careers to spend time with me.
“I stayed busy. Even I could practice piano only so long; and I’m as quick a study as you, so academics took even less time. I whiled away a good bit of the rest following around my favorites among the house staff and learning their jobs. That’s how I discovered that I love cooking — and where the EMT training came from, of course.
“But that still left a lot of time. Now, I’d gotten a taste for approbation from performing on the piano, and I’d noticed that people were impressed by fast cars and people who built and drove them. It looked like an entertaining hobby and a good way to show off. Naturally, anything material I wanted, all I had to do was ask; cost was never discussed. That’s where the Lamborghini, the Ferrari, the Porsche, and the motorcycles came from — and, of course, the Trans Am I splattered.
“They hired Gus Wilson to take care of them. He was a proud old mechanic who used to run what he called a model garage. I became his shadow and he did his best to teach me everything he knew — it tickled him to discover that a rich, spoiled brat was genuinely interested in learning his craft, and didn’t mind getting his schoolgirl-soft hands dirty doing it. Gus taught me my rule-of-thumb engineering, mechanical, and electrical skills.
“However, in the process, he taught me one of the most important lessons I ever learned: You can fix anything — if you want to badly enough. Sometimes what it takes is knowing where to find special tools and parts; sometimes it takes being able to figure out how to make special tools and parts.” He grinned again. “Sometimes all it takes is a bigger hammer — you’d be surprised what you can accomplish with naked force.
“Back then, of course, all it took most of the time was to throw money at it. But anything can be fixed if you need to badly enough. Somehow.
“For instance — remember how you crossed the Susquehanna,” he said abruptly, apparently out of blue.
Statement, not question. Do indeed; experience intrudes into dreams with regularity. Wish wouldn’t: Wake up with racing heart, clammy palms. Balancing van on tracks on single-width railroad trestle at altitude barely inside Earth’s atmosphere not fun.
“Look…” Adam squatted down, pointed to double-scissor-hinged frames bolted to van’s, trailer’s undercarriages; “…this is my masterpiece: I fixed it.”
Perplexity must have shown on face.
Adam smiled, said, “Watch”; operated cranks protruding from underside of van, trailer, respectively — and additional sets of wheels lowered to ground. Tiny metal things, barely ten inches in diameter; located ahead of front, behind rear, wheels on van; just aft of tandems on trailer.
But even with demonstration, at first couldn’t divine purpose — and really wanted to: Adam’s expression appropriate for having solved Mystery of Universe. That he expected praise obvious; but would spot bluffing, and understanding nature of accomplishment prerequisite for intelligent head-patting.
Then light dawned; indeed understood — and pretty darned pleased own self: Wheels’ flanges match rails’ spacing, engage inner edges — singlehandedly Adam devised, manufactured rig permitting use of rails without drama, effort: Line up on level crossing, lower guide wheels — unnecessary even to steer.
“I reread that part of your journal after you pointed out the problems with the land yacht,” Adam explained. “I got sweaty palms myself, just thinking about it. I figured there had to be a better way.
“I remembered reading about railroads modifying cars and trucks like this for their own use. I drove down to the railyard, found a truck outfitted this way, and studied how they did it. Didn’t seem all that difficult a project, if you don’t mind getting out to crank the wheels up and down — the truck had hydraulics; the railroad people wanted to be able to deploy and retract theirs without getting rained on.
“After that it was just a matter of cannibalizing a couple handcars, and a little fabrication. Anyone could have done it.”
“I couldn’t,” I replied positively. “It never occurred to me even to pull a trailer.”
“You could if you were in my shoes.” He grinned. “We needed more room without incurring a permanent weight penalty; a trailer is the obvious solution. And the rail-riders are equally obvious: Without them, if we absolutely had to cross a railroad bridge, we’d have to abandon the trailer. I just couldn’t see leaving behind all my best tools and music and everything.”
“Not to mention your kitchen!”
“And hot showers and a warm, clean, roomy bed.”
“Whose…?”
Daddy often voiced opinion that those in habit of giving in to knee-jerk responses usually best described by omitting “knee.” Here was textbook example. Regretted immediately. But too late.
Adam’s smile unchanged, but no longer included eyes. Realized, then, suspicion unfounded; sex farthest thing from boy’s mind. For once attention limited to demonstrating fruits of own technical brilliance. Offended, no doubt about it. And rightly so.
Without further comment, Adam led me to bedroom at rear of trailer. Accommodations consisted of twin-size bunks positioned fore and aft, one either side of room; dresser between at extreme rear; hanging closets on either side between door, foot of each bed.
Adam stopped, about-faced so abruptly almost ran into him. “I’m going to sleep in one of these,” he stated loftily, with over-the-shoulder thumb indication. “You may have the other or you may, each and every night and morning, go through the trouble of making up the dinette or the couch in the salon — your choice; both convert to full-sized doubles. But when I’m tired, I’m going to go to bed, without going through the unnecessary nonsense of making it up. Suit yourself.” Brushed past, started to walk away.
Already in throes of contrition; required little effort to appear more so. Pulled at lower lip with teeth; allowed eyes to fill, almost overflow; “impulsively” reached out to catch arm, stop him. “Adam, I’m sorry!” I blurted. (And found really was — astonished to discover how much!) “That was a rotten thing to say. I shouldn’t have taken it that way. I’ve got a hair-trigger installed on that one subject, and I don’t know how to fix it. I’m trying… but…”
Adam unexpectedly magnanimous in victory: Paused, took deep breath; then turned back, placed hand gently over my mouth, damming apologetic flood; said, “Hush, it’s not your fault; I haven’t said two words to you without one of them being a proposition.”
(That much certainly true; but managed [for once!] to curb shrewish tongue, avoid getting in deeper. Fortunately. For Adam not through; further surprises in store.)
“Neither of us is at fault. Not really. This is hardly an ideal situation for comfortable boy-meets-girl-ing. We may be the last couple on Earth, and you are both intelligent and responsible; you understand the inevitabilities of our situation as well as I do: Unless we find someone else whom we like better, we’re going to have to get on with making babies — in a primitive society children are necessary; they’re our social security, all we’ll have to take care of us in our old age.
“I’ve known all along that you feel pressured. It could hardly be otherwise, even if I never said a word about it.
“You know it, I know it, and I know you know it — and I haven’t allowed you the courtesy of adjusting to the idea in peace. But I couldn’t help it, and I’m sorry.” Confession so sudden, caught me quite off balance. But looked, sounded really sincere.
Caught by surprise, then by intensity of affection suddenly upwelling in response. Hidden behind Adam’s brash façade is genuinely likeable human being. Possibly even lovable. When lets himself be…
Hey, Posterity…! Vacation over: Back on the road again; we leave tomorrow morning.
And about time — though would have been madness to set off into unknown again with me in less than contest-ready condition. And of course will drill twice daily as we travel, both for physical conditioning and to continue Adam’s training.
Speaking of which, progress confusing: Brilliant mastery of every technique demonstrated. Form excellent; power, speed, outstanding. Has assembled kata of unrivaled violence, grace. Have never seen such flawless performance in student below black-belt level. But…
Has not established basic reflex-matrix program. Plans, directs every step consciously. True, conscious reactions very quick — combined with execution skills, probably match for any two, three untrained opponents right now — but not as fast as correctly programmed, subconscious combat computer. Perhaps problem is subliminal fear of letting go; perhaps doesn’t trust reflexes to operate without cerebrum at helm. If so, don’t know how to help him. Problem never arose during own training; programming took hold, settled in as if conscious mind wanted out.
Further, Adam’s subconscious evidently resisting hysterical strength tap programming. Explanation obvious, of course: After nursing me through misuse sequelae, not eager for firsthand experience. But will never achieve full journeyman/Master status without; certain techniques possible only through at least momentary burst of focused preternatural power.
Remember clearly Teacher’s induction formula; plus Adam good hypnotic subject: Achieves deepest somnambulistic trance state easily, first under my direction, later through own autohypnotic concentration. Listens quietly while in trance state; apparently absorbs programming formula. But posthypnotic triggering ineffective; available strength never exceeds norm.
Well, all I can do for now is maintain present training format: Continue kata critique, guidance; daily sparring; penetrate guard at will, while he can’t lay finger on me. Perhaps subconscious will get message.
That’s one problem; another is packing van, trailer for trip. Adam obviously graduate (sigma cum load) of school of scientific packing; only possible explanation of how managed to cram so much stuff into so little space. This, after several days’ agonizing over what constitutes excess; boiling down to present two, three tons of irreplaceable possessions.
Actually, I exaggerate. A little. Maybe.
For example, managed to cram entire toolbox (five feet tall, four feet wide, two feet deep) and contents into heretofore unnoticed empty corner of van’s interior (don’t know how — certainly no room to spare before). Converted one living-room wall in trailer into electronics center: all-bands, two-way radio of own design; stereo system — plus thousand-plus cassette music collection, of course. And found room for much-modified Moog synthesizer keyboard and processor (plays through stereo speakers; amazing tone — can’t tell whether hearing electrons putting on airs or genuine concert grand from library). Also stowed incidentals: food, clothing, Terry’s stand, weapons, etc.
Plus final mysterious touch: 25-foot-long bundle of aluminum tubing wrapped in brightly colored cloth, secured to trailer roof rack. No idea what. Not only won’t Adam say, but being smug about it: Says is surprise; something which, when need arises, will be indispensable. Probably; spends awful lot of time being right. But if keeps this up, may not live to announce “I told you so” when time comes!
Oh, something else — promise not to tell… Serious business now — really promise! Requires hold-breath-and-spit, used-sweat-socks-on-your-tongue-if-you-tell oath. Okay. But into really dangerous territory — have learned “Adam’s” real name.
Not surprised, of course — for first male encountered since end of H. sapiens really to be named “Adam” would require unlikely stretching of probability. And knew came from old family; knew parents influential. But never, in wildest imaginings, suspected depths of boy’s dreadful secret. Didn’t dream aristocracy willing to perpetrate such patent cruelty — to no apparent end beyond snooty continuity.
While prowling house, snooping into rooms heretofore unexplored, on lookout for last-minute stuff (sort of thing one always forgets and later wishes hadn’t), stumbled into what proved to be Adam’s parents’ bedroom. Not hard to identify: Walls, bureaus covered with pictures of them as couple, from wedding portraits on; plus baby pictures dating all the way back to wet, thoroughly dissatisfied, red face glaring from birth canal (family went at baby-picture-taking in big way!). Poked about until found album. Opened, looked at title page…
And there it was:
Melville. Winchester. Higginbotham. Grosvenor. Penobscott-Jones.
The Fourth…
Can you imagine? Terrible thing to do to cute, defenseless baby! (And was cute baby, too, once pointy-headed newborn syndrome subsided, wrinkles smoothed out, expression moderated to one recognizable as ancestor of present calculated innocence.) No wonder chose new name earliest possible opportunity.
Well, identity safe as far as I’m concerned. Nor will “Adam” ever learn I possess truth from me: Some knowledge simply too dangerous…
On other hand, blackmail long a respected component of diplomatic toolkit.
And “never” is long time…
Greetings, Posterity, from Beautiful East St. Louis. Having wonderful time; wish you were here. And other clichés. (Actually, trip quite dull [i.e., uneventful — may it so continue… ].)
Adam, reckless propensities under control, proving marvelously smooth, precise driver when not showing off (or perhaps satisfying show-off urges by displaying different aspect of motoring skills): Operates van-cum-trailer rig as though born with shift knob in mouth instead of silver spoon. Glides along roads without drama; slips through holes between obstructions where I would have sworn wasn’t room. Possesses uncanny eye for solidity of terrain; plus flicks neatly in, out of four-wheel-drive, low-low range, without stopping, losing momentum: Haven’t used winch at all — despite added load, trailer.
Must admit, however, fact we spent bulk of time slicing across continent in nearly straight lines, tooling effortlessly along railroad tracks at 60 mph, bypassing highway clutter altogether, may have bearing on ease of travel. Adam’s invention works just as advertised: Line up rig on grade crossing, lower guide wheels, set speed control, select cassette, plug into stereo, lean back, relax, enjoy watching scenery unroll.
Terry delighted to be back on road. Does so love riding in cars. But for first few miles on tracks, wasn’t at all sure he approved of no-hands driving. Stood uneasily on stand, shifting weight, bobbing head suspiciously, flitting to settle feathers. Peered out windshield with first one eye, then other. Occasionally muttered “How ’bout that” in worried tones. Seasoned traveler; knows improper driving when sees it…
Hard to believe, after own experience at post-Armageddon cross-country travel: Adam and I arrived in East St. Louis — just under thousand miles — only three days after leaving Baltimore! Could have made it in one, but not hurrying; rising when feel like it, eating well (love that kitchen!), performing kata, sparring, scrounging, quitting early, giving Adam time to practice on Moog, etc. But even at this rate we’ll be at Mount Palomar in another week. Isn’t that great?
Good night, Posterity.
Good morning, Posterity. Reality back — with a vengeance: Don’t know how could have forgotten how much fun rivers can be. Evidence suggests Ole Man Mississippi took advantage of flood-control engineers’ absence to flex muscles this spring. Must have been some thaw: One bridge left — clogged solidly with cars, trucks. High-water mark suggests crest wasn’t all that high, but something sure took rest out. Perhaps river recruited help — string of fully loaded barges careening along in melt-swollen current would fill prescription, and plenty available. But…
Adam cut speculation short by pointing out that figuring way to remove obstructions from bridge more relevant issue on which to focus curiosity — please pay attention.
(Been unbearably pleased with himself since rail-riding rig proved successful — and “unbearably” surely operative word. Despite this, haven’t destroyed him yet; treating situation as opportunity to strengthen character, exercise in self-control. So far.)
Good night, Posterity.
Bridge cleanup not so tough! Though surely looked as if might be to begin with: First vehicles in way all had dead batteries. Then refused to start upon being jumpered. Adam suspected watered gasoline — condensation from temperature changes, length of time abandoned.
(His reaction to frustration entertaining: Unaccustomed to failure [classes experience with me as “work in progress”]; regards even possibility might not triumph as personal attack on vaunted resourcefulness. Looks vexed. Grows a little defensive. Sometimes even pouts. But never gives up.)
Presently climbed onto commuter-bus roof, surveyed problem with hands on hips. Shortly got down, looking smug. Claimed had answer. But wouldn’t tell me plan; wanted to “surprise me.”
Located East St. Louis Yellow Pages, flipped through to “Machine Shops.” Underlined half dozen addresses, visited in order. Found what was looking for at third stop: vitamin-fed forklift truck — really big.
Managed to get monster running; returned to bridge (not quick trip; shop some miles away). Adam directed me to follow in rig as he assailed blockage. Ran forks under first car, lifted, set to side, moved on to next.
Progress quicker once got up onto bridge approach: Adam simply hoisted, tilted forks, pitched over side. Didn’t waste time, efforts: Cleared single-width path just wide enough for van, trailer. Soon into rhythm of forklift operation, drilled rapidly across bridge. Started crossing near noon; descended into St. Louis before dark.
Too late to continue then, so spending night on riverbank. Adam plans to locate railyard, pick up maps, get us “back on track” tomorrow (something about phrase seems to make him happy; wonder if be offended if I tore out his tongue…).
Goodness gracious — what a day! Whole complexion of travel now changed. Should have anticipated this; certainly would feel same way if were in their shoes. But shock, just the same.
All right — enough rambling; on to proper, orderly narrative while events fresh in mind:
Adam disappointed to learn St. Louis, despite (or because of) role as national-rail-network hub, impossible to get out of by rail. Same problem often encountered on roads near big cities: too much dead traffic. Endless switchyards, switch after switch set wrong; stopped trains, locomotives, isolated cars and/or car strings everywhere. Simply no room to move.
So found city map; began working our way out on streets. Not difficult, considering past experience, but not quickest travel thus far enjoyed. Adam’s driving skills even more apparent here, as squeezed around, between abandoned cars, trucks; popped into four-wheel-drive, low-low, to climb curbs; bypassing obstructions down alleys, along sidewalks. Necessary to use winch only once; then only to haul another car out of way, not unstick us.
Not bad, by and large; and afternoon found us well into semiresidential area, past worst of downtown congestion. Adam finding this type of driving sufficient challenge even at low speeds; plus remains ever conscious of trailer contents’ scatterability, fragility. Accordingly, were proceeding at entirely reasonable pace when, trotting in preoccupied manner from between two buildings, came rhinoceros…!
Prepoceros? Of course! But precise moment rhinoceros, size of house, discovered ambling across street directly in one’s path, bad time to debate probabilities.
Adam reacted well: Cut hard left, tried to dodge behind — and stupid clot stopped! Nowhere to go — slammed on brakes, skidded to stop nestled intimately against beast’s shoulder. No impact, just nudge.
“How ’bout that,” said Terry in awed tones.
Rhino turned head, squinted disapprovingly down over shoulder with mean little pig eyes. Snorted. Horn about four feet long. Looked sharp.
Adam calmly, deliberately eased van into reverse; backed slowly away, concentrating intently on trailer, visible in mirror. Kept rig lined up. Kept going.
Rhino stared. Snorted again. Louder. Then frowned. Turned. Pawed ground. Lowered head.
Calm, deliberate sternway gained momentum, acquired salient characteristics of earnest retreat — then precipitous route as rhino took several quick, purposeful steps.
Fast reverse driving not easy with trailer; requires concentration. Covered perhaps 200 yards without jackknifing before rhino slowed, snorted, veered off between buildings, disappeared.
Adam stopped, sat immobile, breathing like Thoroughbred after crossing finish line. Encounter spanned perhaps 30 seconds, but was wringing wet. Eyes blinked rapidly. Knuckles white where hands gripped wheel. No sound emerged when first tried to speak. Had indeed been concentrating.
He took deep breath, held momentarily, released in tremulous sigh. Then tried again: “Wouldn’t you think a city this size would have a leash law?” Grin unconvincing. “Where do you suppose that thing came from…?”
And just like that, I knew answer. Obvious, really; should have anticipated. And amazing thing is this was first encounter.
Rhinoceros trotting down city street, two miles from St. Louis Zoo. Coincidence? Haw! Isolated, unaided breakout? Not likely.
Trade places with zookeepers — warm, conscientious people who, if didn’t love animals, could make lots easier living, much better money, elsewhere. Utterly certain own deaths impending, how would react to animal friends’ prospects, locked in cages? Do nothing? Ensure agonizing deaths through starvation, thirst?
Not in million years…!
Safe assumption, therefore, most — possibly all — zoo animals now at large throughout country, probably world. Suggested as much to Adam.
“ ‘Lions and tigers and bears — oh, my!’ ” he quoted, with shake of head. “I’ll bet you’re right. Shall we detour and find out?”
Not keen on idea, but logic inarguable: Deliberately remaining ignorant of opposition bad strategy.
Proceeded to zoo. Conducted preliminary examination while driving, circling buildings. Exterior cages empty, but inconclusive: All connect to interior. Could be bodies inside.
Only one way to find out.
Reluctantly dug out, loaded M-16s, magnum pistols. Slipped holster belts around middles. Exited together, Terry on my shoulder (if failed to return, wouldn’t want him locked in, either).
Not elegant performance; probably looked like Abbott and Costello, engaged in burglary: back-to-back, tiptoeing with exaggeratedly sneaky steps, spinning one way, then another, trying to cover all directions at once (I was; Adam maddeningly at ease). Cautiously we scouted every building, rifles at ready, set for fully automatic fire, safeties off — so keyed up that, had even Daddy appeared suddenly, I probably would have cut him in half.
However, no untoward encounters; merely confirmed my very worst fears: All — repeat all — enclosures open, empty. Even cobras…
“Good grief, what kind of person can manage sympathy for cobras…?” I wondered aloud, trying to walk without placing feet on ground.
“Nice people,” Adam observed, peering around interestedly. “Cobras have feelings, too.”
“Well, yeah, maybe…”
Returned to rig; departed immediately.
Discussed development en route: “The ecology of the planet will never be the same,” I ventured. “Lots of those beasties will do just fine in their new homes.”
“Do you think so?” Zoology not one of Adam’s specialties. “I suppose animals from temperate climates will do all right, but what about ‘lions and tigers and bears’ from the tropics?”
Settled back in seat, took deep breath, delivered thumbnail zoological history/geography lesson:
Cobras (while notion makes my skin crawl) unlikely to be enduring problem anywhere temperate or cooler. Poisonous snakes in general not gregarious lot; solitary wanderers, seeking food, shelter alone. Rodent population explosion following H. sapiens’ demise guarantees all species’ small initial populations’ wide dispersal in totally strange environment: Ample food available wherever might roam. Further, tropical foreigners incapable of lying dormant; never survive winter.
Odds practically nil for compatible meeting, mating, species’ perpetuation before all dead of cold, old age, hunting accidents. Even given warmer climes to south, threat exists few years at most.
Warm-blooded predators, however, constitute distinctly separate problem: General rule suggests anything furry capable of producing winter coat. Know for fact, tigers found from rain forests to well above Himalayan snow line. One kitty actually named “Snow Leopard.” Lions roamed portions of Europe mere centuries ago; disappeared from Turkish mountains since Ottoman collapse.
Besides, most zoos housed relatively large big-cat populations; and are gregarious, particularly lions: Band together in prides, breed like rabbits. Perpetuation assured.
But pussycats not only problem: Grizzlies, wolves, cougars all native North Americans; absent Man, make selves at home anywhere.
And what about Kodiak bears? Comforting notion: 1,800 pounds of appetite. And polar bears — 11 feet long (not true bears at all; mink family — dispositions to match). Both regarded among deadliest carnivores on planet.
Vegetarians potential problem, too: Hannibal brought elephants across Alps; mammoths here before people. Doubt will enjoy winters, but most probably survive, multiply. Rhinos, too. Neither overtly aggressive; not truly dangerous per se (barring stupidity — not ideal subjects for teasing), but undesirable neighbors: To farmer visits equate with earthquake, flood, drought, locusts. Hope attentions dissuadable without bloodshed.
Sundry antelope types probably manage winters well as local ruminants — undoubtedly fare better in relations with new predator mix.
All of which certainly complicates outlook. Careful thought required for future. Must assemble projection of potential competition; learn strengths, weaknesses, formulate plans to cope.
During interim, M-16 probably adequate coper if cornered: Unlikely anything still standing after fully automatic setting empties 50-shot clip (expanding slugs) into ticklish spots. Other advantages: lightweight, accurate, reliable; spares, ammunition endlessly available; familiar now with teardown, maintenance drill.
Plus final advantage: Doesn’t knock me down (petty detail, but personally satisfying). Basic physics, of course: Violence going that way usefully limited (given 70-pound shooter) by violence coming this way. Equation rules out .457 Weatherby Magnum Double, African guide’s favorite equalizer.
“And if all else fails,” offered Adam, when I paused for breath, “we can try a stern expression and an assertive tone of voice: ‘Shoo!’ ”
Didn’t dignify by responding. Said, “We need to tighten up our travel habits.”
“Oh, yes, we’re guilty of the French traveler’s mistake.”
“I think we should start wearing sidearms from now on, and keep the M-16s close at hand — what?”
Adam smiled. “You’re right; we do need to tighten our travel security habits. We’ve committed the classical French traveler’s error. You know: Too loose la trek…”
Favored him with glare. “No more solitary wandering,” I continued firmly. “We go everywhere together…”
“Everywhere?”
“…and we go armed.”
“Oh. Pity.”
“Be serious!” Adam’s lack of concern more worrisome than newly discovered neighbors. How could be so casual, surrounded by slavering man-eaters…?
“I am.” Smiled again. Watched me, waiting expectantly.
Open mouth for scathing retort; then hesitated, closed again. Performed quick review of events since rhino hove into view — especially own conduct. Cringed at conclusion: Not once assembled, processed facts with brain switched on. Typical “fluttering, fragile ingénue” of worst gothic romance would be embarrassed to take credit for my performance past couple hours.
Ground teeth. Adam right. Again. Easily his most offensive habit.
Except for zoos’ immediate areas, chances of adversary encounter with escapee compares favorably with odds on lightning strike. Possible, yes. But for first few years — until get spread out, established, build up populations, risk factor simply doesn’t justify going to lots of extra trouble.
Yes, probably should carry M-16s whenever poking around inside strange buildings; yes, probably should cut out solitary explorations, period; yes, probably should take extra pains not to throw away food scraps close to campsite where smell might attract predators. Yes, should take commonsense precautions, in other words, practiced by any intelligent camper; but not lose head…
Initial reaction doubtless based on too many Class-D movies — plus absence of rational thought. Product of small-town living: Every Saturday evening throughout summers, Town Fathers stretched sheet across one end of grassy natural amphitheater in park; ran free show for migrant workers’ children: endless succession of marvelously bad old movies, always preceded by cartoons, oft-spliced old science-fiction/ horror serials. Probably have seen every Johnny Weismuller Tarzan movie ever made; along with Bomba, the Jungle Boy; Sheena, Queen of the Jungle; Tim Tyler’s Luck; Osa, Martin Johnson’s pseudodocumentaries about exploring “darkest Africa”; (plus Zombies of the Stratosphere; Flash Gordon, Buck Rogers), etc., etc. And everyone (free show attendees, anyway) knows jungle predators all live only to sink fangs into trembling flesh of heroine (nice girl, usually, most of whose problems brought on by disregarding instructions, behaving stupidly).
Almost as stupidly as self.
Spending night in outer suburbs. Judged proximity to zoo increases risk to point where additional security advisable. Adam concurred. Pulled whole rig into commercial garage; closed doors, windows. Verified (together, armed) nothing large enough to pose threat lurked in darkened corners.
Spending night with trailer door, windows closed, air-conditioning on. Structure probably sufficiently porous to eliminate CO threat, but Adam slipped hose over alternator exhaust, let out roof vent anyway.
This morning Adam checked Yellow Pages, located nearby burglar-bar service. Drove us over after breakfast. Dug through inventory, selected assortment of wrought-iron grilles, installed over van’s, trailer’s windows. Even windshield.
Over yesterday’s jitters (all right, hysteria) and agree with Adam: Bars silly overkill precaution.
On other hand, intangibles difficult to evaluate. Bars’ sturdy appearance reassuring when contemplating future possibility of looking out at something hungry looking in. Improved sleep quality, duration, might prove critical during future nonanimal-related crisis.
(Evaluation particularly difficult when consists largely of rationalizing decisions already made based on gut feeling rather than logic.)
Oh, Posterity, please be patient. Probably most difficult entry have ever faced. Emotional control fragile as crystal, unstable as if balanced on pinpoint. Forgive rambling if occurs. Will do best, but subconscious probably try to steer me away from subject.
Now camped on grounds of Mount Palomar observatory, southern California. Haven’t kept up journal since leaving St. Louis, ten days ago. Inexcusable conduct for histographer, true. But couldn’t write about what happened that day so soon after — and been unable to think about anything else.
First thing after bar installation, Adam identified rail line going proper direction. Soon on our way again, speeding cross-country, insulated from deteriorating road conditions, clutter. Interesting how rail system seems to have fared better than roads following Man’s End. Perhaps essentially flexible nature of steel mounted on wood, laid on equally flexible fist-sized rock roadbed…
Well, didn’t take subconscious long to start diversionary tactics. Sorry.
Were perhaps hundred miles from St. Louis, passing through small Missouri town, when heard eerie wailing sound. Adam, alert for defective track or open switch but otherwise relaxed, abruptly sat bolt upright, peering into mirrors. “What the hell…!” he muttered. Braked heavily, bringing us to quick stop.
Equally quickly, was out door, running toward rear. I saw nothing in right-side mirror, but exited as well. Ran toward trailer’s rear, intending to meet Adam, gain insight into curious behavior.
However, as rounded trailer, all became clear: Stopped behind us, lit up like Jefferson Starship stage, was state police car, driver’s door open. Man — tall, thin, seedy-looking, longhaired/bearded, breathlessly wild-eyed, teary-but-very-happy man, age indeterminate — sliding from behind wheel. Stranger fell sobbing upon Adam’s neck like long-lost brother, alternately hugging, pounding back, pumping hand as if never intended to let go.
(Proud of Adam then: Notoriously averse to emotional displays [even more so to long-unwashed B.O.], but accepted mauling nobly — remembered his own feelings upon first discovering not alone in world after all. Hint of long-suffering forbearance betrayed by posture apparent only to me — and only because know him so well.)
Presently man’s eyes fell on me. Stared for long moments, then gasped, “You’re a girl…!” Took quick step in my direction, reaching out as if to sweep me into embrace also — and stopped short. Glanced down at self, abruptly conscious of grooming deficiencies. Released Adam; drew back. Looked embarrassed.
“I must present quite a sight,” said in apologetic tone. “And smell,” added with grimace.
Continued earnestly: “It’s been quite a while since I’ve had anyone to dress up for. I’m afraid I’m out of practice. I’ll shower, shave, and change as soon as we get home.” Earnestness intensified, hysterical edge crept into voice: “I’m really a very respectable person once I’m cleaned up and wearing decent clothes. And I’ll cut my hair. You will come home with me, won’t you? We have so much to talk about. Please? Please…?”
Unexpectedly then, suddenly as had aborted initial lunge toward me, man clamped mouth shut, cutting off accelerating verbal torrent almost midword. Closed eyes; took long, slow, deep breath. Drew himself up. Disreputable air wavered, then evaporated: Clothing notwithstanding, self-assured, dignified gentleman stood before us. Voice, when resumed, was low, well modulated; delivery cultured, articulate: “Sorry; I must sound like a complete psychotic, raving on like that. I’ve been alone a long time. I was sure I was the last man on Earth.
“I’m Rollo Jones. My house is about 20 miles back. I’ve been chasing you since I caught a glimpse of you going by the shopping center.” Flashed sudden boyish grin. “You have no idea how uncomfortable a pursuit it was. Railroad roadbed is not made for high-speed driving in cars, even in something as durable as a patrol car.
“May I ask your names, ma’am and sir?”
Transformation amazing. By now could almost forget appearance, aroma — excusable anyway, under circumstances (though Adam hadn’t let self go, nor I). Before our eyes, frenetic derelict metamorphosed into educated, refined, eminently likeable person.
Introduced ourselves; ran through briefest mutual biographies. Rollo listened attentively; displayed genuine interest. Then surprised us: Owned recordings of Adam in concert, though never saw him perform — and knew both Daddy, Teacher professionally: As small-town medical-school president, physician, prior to Doomsday, had rubbed shoulders with both during seminars, etc.
And had never been sick.
Caught Adam’s eye, crooked brow. He nodded. On behalf of both I accepted invitation with thanks; agreed had much to discuss.
Continued on rails to next level crossing; retracted guide wheels (which Rollo admired extravagantly, to Adam’s embarrassed delight). Rollo familiar with local roads’ pitfalls; led way to his home. Drive took perhaps hour total.
Lived in big, comfortable-looking house amidst sprawling grounds; once nicely landscaped, now gone to seed. Rollo apologized for condition; explained house, upkeep furnished by school. Wife’s pride, joy; without her for inspiration, maintenance crew to do work, had little interest in appearance.
Met at curb by large, gaunt, battle-scarred, notch-eared, yellow- and black-striped tomcat, who greeted me with gruff courtesy but went into ecstasies over Adam: Head-dived at ankles, twined around feet until could hardly walk. Accompanied him to door, offered to follow inside. Rollo drew back foot; cat darted into bushes, favored him with unflattering personal remark.
“Sorry,” he offered, noting my expression. “That’s Tora-hōhi, my late wife’s cat. Tora-hōhi means ‘Tiger-breath’ in Japanese.”
Caught Adam’s slight headshake, but couldn’t spare attention to find out what he wanted. Sudden crisis in progress; required full attention:
As Rollo walked past, Terry growled deep in throat, hunched shoulders, fluffed plumage, bobbed head, narrowed pupils to pinpoints; then lashed out in great roundhouse swing, obviously with every intention of carving divot from whatever portion of man’s anatomy he could reach. Was astonished at normally blithe sibling’s reaction; first time ever saw him take dislike to obviously refined, well-educated person on sight. Probably the smell, raggedy appearance. (Couldn’t blame him, really; long time since Rollo bathed, changed clothes.)
Intended victim hadn’t noticed. Still apologizing for treatment of wife’s cat: “I’m not a cat person myself, and it’s never liked me, either. It considered us rivals over Sally ever since it was a kitten. The dispute never escalated to open warfare; we just settled, over the years, into a pattern of mutually respectful antagonism, which became a family tradition. That cat would be horrified by now if I displayed unseemly solicitude or affection toward it. It would view it as a clear violation of the armistice.
“And since Sally died, I haven’t been able to allow it in the house, because it — well” — Rollo grinned ruefully — “it took to expressing its opinion of me — on my pillow…!
“Besides, I didn’t think it would be fair to ‘spoil’ it in view of circumstances. If something happened to me, it would be better off already accustomed to foraging for itself.” Rollo eyed the cat appraisingly. “So I booted it outside and tapered off feeding it. It’s doing pretty well so far; I haven’t fed it in months, and it’s still in pretty good shape.”
(Matter of opinion, I thought; but decided to keep lip buttoned for once. Also wondered at use of impersonal pronoun: “It” seemed unnecessarily rude.)
Really do like cats myself, though not rabid “cat person” per se: Terry comes first, period; and cats, birds uneasy bedmates — not that idiot twin afraid of, particularly at risk from, normal domestic housecat. Has encountered before. Generally clicks bill loudly, suggestively; settles feathers in menacing fashion; cat remembers pressing business elsewhere, departs unhurriedly. All very civilized. Has even been friends with one well-behaved neighbor cat over the years.
“I really can’t imagine why it still bothers to hang around,” Rollo continued. “Our relationship is quite limited. Whenever I leave the house it glares at me — no, amend that: Sometimes it sits on the window ledge and glares in at me, too.”
Adam surprised me. Never had pets while growing up; no experience with cats. Last person would expect to be cat person. But blurted out then, “I don’t know what ‘good shape’ means in a cat, but he looks awfully thin to me. Could we bring him in, just for the evening, and feed him? I’ll watch and make sure he doesn’t do anything he shouldn’t.”
Rollo debated momentarily, glanced at me, then smiled. “Sure, why not.”
Once inside, Rollo disappeared to clean up. I returned to van briefly to fetch Terry’s stand; set up in living room in unused corner. Then we waited for Rollo.
Tora-hōhi jumped into Adam’s lap without hesitation. Adam looked surprised as cat butted him authoritatively in stomach, performed three formal turnarounds, then settled down firmly to accompaniment of soft, rusty-sounding purring. Volume increased by full order of magnitude when Adam hesitantly scratched under chin. Sounded like cement mixer.
(Knew then Adam genuine cat person; has “touch”: One of those people who unerringly scratch right place every time. Tora-hōhi knew, too: Adam hooked.)
“ ‘Tora-hōhi’ doesn’t mean ‘Tiger-breath,’ ” said Adam softly. Expression, as scratched cat’s neck, chin, stroked here, there, in response to unconscious clues, invited comparison with mother in Michelangelo’s “Madonna and Child.” “I competed in the Ozawa Competition in Tokyo a couple years ago. I never got fluent at Japanese; I just learned enough to get by — but we kids did learn all the wrong words. ‘Tiger-breath’ would be ‘Tora-kokyū.’ I think ‘hōhi’ means ‘fart.’ I wonder if Rollo knows he’s got it wrong. I’m going to call him ‘Tora-chan.’ That means ‘Tiger-dear.’ ” Broke off to scratch particular spot behind cat’s left ear. Tora-chan responded by snuggling even closer, stepping up already impressive volume, closing eyes as expression of total satisfaction overspread diabolical visage.
Smiled to myself: Adam unaware, of course, but had just announced intention of adopting crusty old warrior, regardless how relations might go with Rollo. Of course, had little real say in matter — such decisions belong to cat alone.
Rollo reappeared about an hour later, announced: “Is this better?” And received no answer because both Adam and I staring open-mouthed.
Had accomplished nothing less than transfiguration: Was clean, smooth-shaven, hair cut roughly but adequately; wearing clean, quietly stylish, casual clothes. Smelled good, too: aftershave (Coty’s musk, I think).
Appearance now matched demeanor: Rollo poised, elegant; tall, slim, quietly handsome; perhaps mid-40s; touch of gray at temples; high forehead, cheekbones; firm, dimpled chin; astonishingly blue eyes; lots of laugh lines — cut singularly impressive figure.
Told him so. Looked pleased. Then suggested we adjourn to kitchen; intended to whip up festive dinner. Followed, bringing Terry’s stand.
Adam fed Tora-chan, who ate until sides bulged. Rollo produced old litter pan from broom closet, filled, offered to cat. Tora-chan glared, but took advantage. Adam fascinated by performance: Had never known cats bury own waste. Also bury anything too spoiled to eat, garbage in general, Rollo added by way of information.
Then Tora-chan noticed Terry. Jumped up on counter next to stand; sat, stared. Twin clicked bill several times; fluffed, settled feathers; stared back without rancor. Tora-chan considered pros, cons; decided had better things to do. Returned to Adam’s lap. Then pooled energies with bird, glaring as Rollo hustled around kitchen, making dinner, small-talking nonstop (over long months’ isolation, had built up substantial conversational pressures).
Couldn’t understand Terry’s attitude; Rollo so nice — apart from not being cat person, of course. And even there, had — well — not totally unreasonable justification for conduct. Perhaps brother’s opinion based on initial appearance, smell; or spur-of-moment approval of cat — offended by Rollo’s treatment of new friend at door.
But, though never known him wrong about stranger, inclined to be less conservative myself now that meeting Adam turned out well; now I had partner, reliable backup if crisis developed.
Besides, wanted meeting Rollo to turn out well; wanted for friend. Embodied most good qualities friend should have: intelligent, understanding, good-humored — funny (for five dreadful minutes he and Adam engaged in pun-ishing contest: Adam won, but issue in doubt right up to final groan).
Plus, as predinner conversation turned into dinner conversation, developed that Rollo had been everywhere, done everything: Peace Corps physician for years in Africa, India, South America. Spent year traveling as resident physician with Ringling Brothers Circus. Vacations included photo expeditions through Malaysia, Australia, Alaska. Had driven race cars in Europe (Adam’s eyes bugged; already assembling list of questions), semis during summers while in school; flown sailplanes in Lee Wave over Minden, Nevada; snorkled Caribbean, South Pacific; climbed K2 in Himalayas. Wrote textbooks, had own TV show on local station, was two-term state house representative. Finally got into private practice, teaching, then administration. Both Daddy, Teacher had guest-taught at his school at one time or another.
This led to discussion of Teacher’s work, H. post hominem theory, physical characteristics of new breed. Rollo listened intently to précis of events leading to species’ discovery. Asked occasional questions. Finally shook head in amazement: “Damn, I wish I could have participated in that study. McDivott invited me to take part years ago, but I was just heading off to Save the World in the Peace Corps. Wonderful…”
Then we got into my, Adam’s survival, meeting; trip to this point, zoo-animal problem; clues unearthed thus far, purpose, hoped-for ultimate destination. Rollo impressed: Offered long, low whistle at narrative’s conclusion. Opined were braver than he, out exploring by ourselves. His reaction to tragedy was dig hole, climb in, pull in after him: Withdrew, feeling sorry for self, grieving over loss of wife.
Rollo met her there at school. Twenty years his junior, she “…kept me young and interested — and our sudden marriage caused all kinds of entertainingly wicked gossip for first few months. When nothing materialized, it all petered out on a disappointed note.
“We never did have any children — much less that nine-pound preemie everyone expected. It wasn’t a question of age; 25 would have been a fine age for Sally to begin bearing children; and, by microscopic examination, it looked as if I’d be fertile until they hammered down the headstone. We were waiting for me to retire so we both could be full-time parents. I had a bunch of investments that would have matured in another two years. We did take the precaution of freezing a quart or so of my semen, just in case my prognostications proved overly optimistic…
“Which brings us to our next topic…”
Leaned back, sighed, patted his tummy, still amazingly flat despite quantity put away. “Golly, that was good. I wonder what I did right.” (Adam stared vacantly at ceiling; Rollo hadn’t noticed him sniffing pots during preparation.)
“…which is, of course, Candy.” Rollo smiled fondly at me. Smiled back; such a nice man. Turning then to Adam, Rollo sat up straight, folded hands on edge of table, assumed serious mien.
“Sir,” he began, “it appears that you are in sole possession of something we both want. In the absence of law, it becomes necessary to settle the matter between us personally. The question is: Shall we resolve it like the gentlemen we purport to be, or must we fall back on the time-honored method?”
Adam’s expression the very picture of noncomprehension. Rollo regarded him soberly. “In other words, will you share Candy with me or must we fight over her?”
Adam’s eyes snapped open. Understood now — and so did I…!
Mouth open, retort quivering on tip of tongue; but Adam beat me to it. Did good job, too; covered every point would have raised myself, plus angles hadn’t thought of (and language more diplomatic than I would have employed): “Candy is not my property. She is no one’s property. I doubt if she ever will be anyone’s property. I have no authority over her, nor is my permission required for any arrangement anyone might or might not reach with her. If you want to discuss sharing anything with her, you will have to talk to her.”
Rollo pursed lips thoughtfully. Then nodded approvingly. “Fair enough, sir. And spoken like a gentleman. Thank you.”
Turned to me. “I’m sorry; I misapprehended the relationship between you. I think I have it now.
“All right; are you willing to share Adam with me, or must we fight over him?”
If Adam startled before, completely dumbfounded now. Mouth flapped soundlessly. And surely doing no better myself.
Situation static for long moments. Rollo stared, aspect implacably serious, waiting for reply. Then eyes twinkled. Seconds later snickered, went directly thence to belly-laughing. Tears running down cheeks before managed to stop.
Personally saw nothing funny, but held counsel, pending explanation.
“Oh, I am sorry,” he puffed at length. “I wish I had a picture of your faces just then.
“Okay…” Rollo sobered finally; mood darkened, became almost somber. “I gave you both a shock. I did it deliberately to make sure that I had your undivided attention. I was teasing, of course; sex is the Oldest Funny Subject, and it’s easy to get sidetracked. Besides, it sometimes helps to joke when the issue is serious. And this is very serious.
“You two are too young to understand just how serious sex can be in an adult world. But believe me when I tell you: No subject lies closer to the raw, untamed primitive in every man. Men have killed, and will kill again, over sex. Sex is serious business: That’s a boiler-plate given; an unalterable fact of life. Don’t forget it. Ever.
“Now, I don’t know whether you two have become sexually involved yet or not — frankly, I don’t care. That’s history; it’s none of my business. What is my business is the fact that I am a healthy adult male. I’m in the prime of life. I was married for five wonderful years to an equally healthy adult woman, whose sex drive was as well-developed as mine. We enjoyed an enthusiastic, extremely active, and marvelously fulfilling sex life…”
Paused, eyed me bleakly. “I miss her — and it — very much.”
Adam later reported was tossup whether my eyes or mouth open wider.
Rollo nodded sympathetically; continued gently: “Yes, that’s precisely what I’m getting at. And yes, you are younger than anyone with whom I’ve contemplated sexual relations. But not by much.
“I got involved with a girl almost your age during the time I was stationed in Ujjain. She was a street child: no parents, no means of support, starving, regularly raped. I took her in to protect her — that’s what I told myself. And for a good two months that’s just what I did. Then one night she turned up in my bed and matters continued predictably from there. She claimed she was 14 when we first became intimate — I have my doubts. ‘Love’ was not involved on either side; we were merely very fond of each other and had complementary needs: Hers were for food, shelter, and protection; mine were for companionship, someone to take care of, and a sexual outlet.
“When I was transferred, two years later, I left her with friends, a good family, with a trust fund to take care of her — in India, back then, it didn’t take much money to accomplish such things. Thereafter she married well and, by the time of the attack, had three children. I’ve never experienced any guilt at having ‘taken advantage of a child’; and if she harbored any resentment, she never gave any indication of it — then or since, and we corresponded regularly.
“In fact, she brought the subject up herself once in a letter shortly after the birth of her first son — women’s lib hadn’t gotten very far in India by then; sons were important. She observed that she had me to thank for her happiness: her husband, her son — her very life. It bothered her that she would never be able to repay the debt she felt she owed me; it disturbed her even more that she could never make me understand the magnitude of that debt.
“I mention her as an example of the variability of the concept of right and wrong, depending on place and time. That was there and then: It was socially acceptable.
“Now, before the attack — here and recently — I’d have been leading the tar-and-feather brigade myself if I got wind of someone my age suggesting sex with someone your age: It would have been wrong within the social structure that existed.
“However, this is here and now. That social structure no longer exists — and with it have disappeared the laws and mores of which it consisted. Right and wrong no longer have meaning except where specific individuals meet and apply them to issues affecting them both. All that remains is the principle of enlightened self-interest, when dealing with reasonable people, and superior-versus-inferior force otherwise.
“One of the key elements of enlightened self-interest is the principle of supply and demand. Anyone possessing a commodity for which there is a demand is in a position to set her own price.
“But price is a very delicate question, and requires knowledge of all the factors potentially bearing upon the transaction. One of the more important of those factors is the presence or absence of competition, and the importance of your offering to the marketplace. If your commodity isn’t particularly critical and there’s plenty of other outlets, setting your price too high merely means no demand. However, where you have a monopoly, you can set any price you like; and if it’s a really vital commodity, your customers will manage to scrape up the price, somehow.
“Or…” — Rollo fixed me with gimlet eye — “… if they perceive that you’re taking unfair advantage of your position, they may simply take it from you. By force.
“I’ve started out discussing abstracts,” he continued quietly; “but you know as well as I do that we’re talking about two specifics: you and sex. Like it or not, to every male over the age of ten you represent supply — a commodity. It’s not fair, I’ll grant you, but it is a fact: Through no fault of your own, you are in the position of holding the key to satisfying a need — an extremely urgent need. Unless you administer that commodity in a manner perceived by your market as fair and reasonable, you’re going to find yourself in frequent trouble, at best — at worst, and much more likely, you’re going to find out what it’s like to have control over your commodity taken from you. Yes, by force.”
Rollo noticed me slowly edging chair back from table. Possessed no inkling of real capabilities, intentions, should events continue in direction indicated; probably thought was preparing to bolt. But immediately sought to quiet fears.
“Please don’t get the idea that I would use force,” he stated emphatically. “I wouldn’t — ever. Sex with Sally was such a joy, so much just plain fun for both of us — I got at least as much pleasure from watching her enjoyment as from my own physical sensations — that I’d rather give it up entirely than have an unwilling partner, or even a grudging one.”
Paused, then, eyes closed. Expression unreadable, but impression of an empty space somehow materialized next to him. Briefly Rollo looked terribly alone.
Moment passed. Opened eyes; shook himself all over. “But,” he continued resolutely, “I am certainly in the minority in that regard. Hell, I’m probably unique.” Smiled wanly.
Assurance had desired calming effect: Relaxed, settled back in chair, watching alertly. Never truly concerned over outcome had Rollo offered to supplement advocacy with violence, but happier knowing demonstration unnecessary.
However, still on guard. Lecture circular so far, but surely headed somewhere. Had feeling already knew punch line.
“Now, during the brief time I’ve known you I’ve come to several conclusions: One, you are the de facto leader of this little party, despite being a few years Adam’s junior; because, I suspect, you know more about survival and life since the attack, and because you have specific goals in mind. Right?”
Adam nodded slowly, face a mask.
“Two, you’re terribly intelligent — both of you are; you’re at least as bright as I am. My advantage is limited to education and experience, and I wonder how much of an edge they really are. I’m pretty sure that you’ve already sized me up and you were thinking of asking me to join you in your search for the AAs — at least you were before this discussion began. Now you’re having second thoughts. But you know I’m widely traveled; have a broad practical background in life in general and survival under primitive conditions. You also know I’m a doctor. You know how valuable I’d be as a member of your party.
“Now, I would like to join you and help. However…” Rollo paused, choosing words with care; “I cannot and will not endure your company on a celibate basis if, after speculum examination, it is my professional opinion that you are physically capable of accepting me as a lover. If you can’t, fine; if you wouldn’t enjoy it, neither would I. Then I’ll take care of my physical tensions as I’ve been doing since losing Sally, and conduct myself as a member of the party anyway — and without reservation.
“But if you can and won’t, the distraction of your presence, constantly near and unattainable, will simply drive me around the bend; and I’m not going to subject myself to that kind of frustration.
“Yes, I know: If I had a decent bone in my body, I’d wait a while. The fact that you met Adam, and now me, lends credence to Soo Kim’s thesis: There are people out there, somewhere, and surely there’ll be women my age among them; it’s just a matter of finding them. But who knows how long that might take — I could be dead tomorrow. You, on the other hand, are here now; and I’ve been a disciple of the ‘bird-in-the-hand’ school for a very long time.
“I know that’s not a chivalrous attitude, and I’m not proud of it; but I am a realist, and I know myself.
“Mind you” — he grinned ironically — “there’s nothing particularly personal in this. Yes, I do like you, so far as I know you, and I admire you even more. Added to which, you’re cute as a button and can only get prettier. But — and I’m sure this won’t do your ego any good, and I’m sorry, but I’m not going to lie to you — under these circumstances any live, functional female would have the same effect.
Rollo paused again, fixed me with those earnest blue eyes. “So if, after due deliberation, you feel that my presence as a widely traveled, all-around experienced man-of-the-world, who has considerable background in dealing with the new wildlife problems, and my training as a doctor, would be of sufficient benefit to you in your travels to justify the cost, I’m yours — with all that implies: I’ll come with you, and stay as long as you want me to — for life if you choose — and fight and die for you if it comes to that, or for Adam — but only as your invited, wanted consort. And I’ll accept any reasonable timesharing arrangement with Adam that you might dictate.
“Nor will I insist on assuming leadership of the expedition, merely because I’m oldest and, therefore, presumptively the wisest. I’m not at all certain that I am wiser than you. More experienced, better educated, yes. And I’ll share it with you if you ask. But wiser? Insufficient data.
“Now, I would suggest to you that it is the right of every woman to establish the value of her consent. Every woman since Eve has. And I defy anyone to fault her for including practical considerations in the transaction. Down through the centuries numberless women have determined that a pledge of support, companionship, and security — which translates as ‘protection’ in primitive societies — for themselves, their children, and/or brothers and sisters, constituted a fair exchange. Many, if not most, assuming the man involved possessed even a vestigial sense of honor, lived happy, fulfilled lives. It was not uncommon for such women to come to love their partners in these marriages-of-convenience very much, and to find themselves ultimately quite satisfied with the bargain.”
Could see Adam out of corner of eye, face expressionless. Probably mentally kicking himself — wishing he had thought of this approach…!
“I’ll add one more thing; then I’ll shut up and abide by your decision,” said Rollo finally. “I’m good husband material: I’m gentle, understanding, and thoughtful; and nothing makes me as happy as making my woman happy, in or out of bed. As a single husband, I made Sally happy; as Number Two of two, I’ll do my best to make you happy.
“As far as sex is concerned, if you come to me in good faith, you’ll enjoy yourself. That sounds conceited, I know, but it’s an honest opinion based on long experience — and if you don’t like it, after a fair trial, I won’t insist that you continue: That would eliminate half your attraction for me. And I’ll stay with you anyway, as long as you want me to. But I’m confident that you will enjoy it: My specialty was gynecology and sexual counseling — there’s very little that I don’t know about evoking and satisfying the female sexual response.”
Well! — how’s that for subtle…? Most outrageous proposition ever heard about, read, let alone encountered.
And how about “nothing personal” angle! Or “any live, functional” etc.!
(Though is better than being lied to. I suppose. Probably. Maybe. Hmm…)
Well, consider matter logically: Was gentleman about it, under what must be profoundly trying conditions (could have hit Adam over head, had me all to self [surely thought so anyway]). But fact did think so made genteel approach all the more commendable. Yes, Rollo basically good person; possessed most qualities prefer in friend. Plus versed in survival skills; knew way around life-in-wilderness; bumped heads in past with immigrant carnivores. And doctor — presence invaluable, if not downright critical, in situations all too easy to envision.
But hate logic…! What right had logic to butt in at time like this…? None — that’s what! Yes/no decision supposed to be matter of emotion alone, uninfluenced by crass realities. Logistics supposed to work themselves out afterward, as part of Happily-Ever-After scenario — everybody knows that…
However, “everybody” not faced with my problems, responsibilities. Nor this choice. Oh, dear, such difficult choice, too. If alone, would decline with thanks, without hesitation. But Adam to think of, with whom share Chinese obligation — mutual, true; but mutuality doesn’t discharge debt; if anything, reinforces.
Debated question from every angle. Weighed pros, cons. Reviewed argument in detail. Had to admit was tidy, matter-of-fact, economical, pragmatic — and eminently correct, however offensive correctness might be in this setting! Looked for out — looked hard. But while couldn’t quite bring self to agree with pat reasoning, neither could find anything to get teeth into to disagree, at least not legitimately.
Presently realized question not really debatable; not for conscientious, responsible partner. Benefits potentially accruing to Adam of having intelligent, experienced adult (and doctor) join expedition placed personal reluctance in perspective: a bargain; no other conclusion possible. After all, no big deal — every girl does it.
Just a question of when.
And with whom…
Well, having made decision, resolved to give it best shot. Simple question of equity: Rollo’s commitment total; pledged time, efforts, plus contributing wealth of knowledge, experience. Doubtless find life in jeopardy before events reach dénouement. Entitled to fair return on investment.
(Harbored no genuine doubt as to physical ability to deliver own side of transaction.)
And never once considered possible out offered by suggestion would lose interest if I didn’t enjoy. Cheap-shot evasion. Fair is fair; promise is promise. Would try to be as merrily enthusiastic a partner as fondly remembered Sally.
Maybe better…
(Oh-oh…! Occurred to me then [speaking of fair]: Could hardly accept Rollo’s attentions, continue to exclude Adam, whom had known longer, and of whom, by this time, was very fond.)
Took deep breath, released slowly to establish control over emotions, voice. Stood, took another deep breath, opened mouth…
And before could announce decision, became suddenly, shockingly, horribly moot. Rollo, bustling about kitchen, cleaning up after dinner, got too close to Terry’s stand. Twin’s head shot out, huge bill halves closed, chopping golf-ball-sized gobbet from left tricep, shirt sleeve and all. Bobbed head gleefully, eyes glinting in malicious triumph, as flung bloody mess across kitchen; then crouched, wings half-spread, red-splattered bill gaping wide, poised to strike again.
Rollo gasped, eyes widening in shock. Spun, roaring with pain, rage. Drew back fist — containing heavy iron frying pan…! Would crush fragile avian skeleton like eggshell — Rollo about to murder my baby brother!
“Time slowed” ancient cliché. But happens — and happened then: Suddenly everything happening in slow motion. Had ample time to study every tiny detail as situation developed. Enough time to notice sequential tensioning of Rollo’s muscles, starting with abdominal, then chest, neck, shoulder, upper arm, forearm, as lethal swing began, pan accelerated in arc toward helpless sibling. Time to notice Adam’s expression of growing horror; mouth slowly opening to shout warning, protest: “No-o — ”
Enough time to realize own body suddenly in motion. But without conscious volition; moving of own accord: Combat computer, conditioned-reflex matrix, engaged, in control. Mere passenger now in own body; relatively sluggish conscious mind powerless to interfere, alter outcome during next few milliseconds.
Felt, then heard own kiai rip from throat; watched self cross nearly ten feet separating us midair, spinning counterclockwise. Left heel intercepted Rollo’s forearm; limb folded in unnatural place, direction. Pan ripped from fingers, continued tangentially, well clear of intended victim.
Rollo’s neck corded, beginning motion that would turn rage-contorted features toward me. Muscles governing still functional right arm twitched; hand slowly formed claw, started my direction.
Already wasn’t there. Landed in stable cat stance, still passenger. Stepped under, past reaching limb; side-kicked spot just below hip. Femur broke with sound like snapping ax handle. Impact drove Rollo against wall, position from which could not fall away from blows.
Which continued as blocked still-reaching claw with forearm, ducked back under to front, unleashed hail of alternating lunge and reverse punches to clavicles, sternum, larynx, each powered to break bricks, driving through frail body tissues as if so much Jell-O.
Rollo began sideways motion to right, falling along wall toward damaged leg; but combat computer interpreted as flanking attempt. Clockwise spin-kick swept legs from under, sundering left knee at point of impact. Back-fist lashed out from continuing rotation, catching alongside jaw. Maxilla, mandible disintegrated with grinding sound.
Rollo hit perhaps another dozen times before conscious mind overtook events. Regained control as combat computer finished triphammer series of right-handed front-fist blows to upper thorax. Braced against rebounding from impacts by wall down which was sliding, Rollo absorbed blows’ total force internally: Ribs snapped like balsa; underlying structures turned to pulp.
Time resumed normal pace. Tail end of Adam’s cry echoed through kitchen: “—o-o-o…!” Rollo arrived on floor with mushy squish. Pan clattered against far wall, fell to floor.
Terry bobbed head, said, “How ’bout that.”
I uncoiled shakily, staring at ruin at feet. Looked up to meet Adam’s gaze. Stunned expression mirrored my own.
Essayed speech: “I didn’t mean… he would have killed…”
Tora-chan approached. Sat, surveyed body for long moment. Then stood, inspected mashed face; sniffed along broken length, head to foot. Moved off-side front paw along floor toward body, flipped upward: Same motion employed when covering mess in litter pan.
Tora-chan finished, glanced up with unmistakable cat smile. Purred. Performed luxurious head-dive on my ankle.
Next thing I remember is waking fully dressed following morning in own bed in trailer. Hugely depressed, but several minutes before remembered why. Adam supplied intervening details:
Went into shock, catatonia — whatever: nonresponding, physically inert, eyes-open stupor. Adam concluded immediate elimination of evidence, separation from scene best therapy.
Wiped Terry’s bill, placed bird on shoulder. Picked up stand, called Tora-chan.
Then, moving cautiously, watching closely lest Weapon still armed, took me by hand, led to trailer. Stripped me, pushed into shower, washed off blood, adhering meat scraps. Dressed me in clean clothes. Debated old outfit briefly; judged icky beyond salvage, plus now probably haunted. Pitched in toto.
Placed me in van. Then drove as if demons pursued. Continued far into night, until accumulated shock, nervous exhaustion, fatigue called halt — nearly conked out at wheel.
Put me to bed; started to get into own. But delayed reaction arrived then: Pitched such hysterical fit that Adam (hasn’t said, but probably at considerable personal risk) sedated me. Finally climbed in with me, held me until asleep before adjourning to own bed.
Ten days now since killing. Beginning to come to grips with guilt.
Adam big help: Pointed out, and cannot disagree, am no more responsible for Rollo’s death than unfamiliar firearm with which had managed to shoot himself. Am Sixth Degree Black Belt. And female. Terry my sibling/child-substitute.
Rollo’s murderous lunge triggered maternal protective instinct, which in turn set off conditioned-response matrix at starkest level. Probably wouldn’t have reacted with such single-minded, nonstop efficiency if merely swung at me — but my retarded baby brother…!
Besides, had hurried me.
Okay. Absorbed that; do believe it. Intellectually.
Problem is, haven’t resolved it yet on gut level. Still hurts. Lots. Rollo nice man, basically good — certainly no saint, but frank about it. Made straightforward offer, value for value, yes or no, my choice. No doubt would have lived up to his end.
Adam thinks Terry sensed Rollo had violent temper; hence instant antipathy. Possibly. Equally possible: Just plain terribly painful bite — sure looked it. Adam disagrees; been hurt accidentally himself by people, once seriously. Managed without going musth.
Granted. But even if true, character flaw only; not capital crime. Nothing for which deserved to die. And could have prevented harm to Terry without killing, but for programmed response.
Therein lies hard-to-swallow part: Killed innocent person — unnecessarily. No getting around it: Unnecessarily. Unavoidably, true, given circumstances; but still unnecessarily.
And still dead.
Worse, little nagging voice in back of head keeps suggesting may not have been completely unavoidable. Maybe subconsciously wanted to let programming run amok because had me cornered. Don’t think so, but disquieting notion.
In any event, will not happen again. Been drilling past ten days with modified kata, sparring routine. Working to eradicate all automatically lethal responses. Programming deep-seated; will take time to effect changes. But am walking time bomb as things stand; waiting to explode, hurt, kill people upon cue — even inadvertent cue! Lots of work involved, and accomplishment not without risk.
But necessary: Intend never to kill again…!
Have gone through Mount Palomar facilities with great care. Nothing about contents to suggest AAs’ presence in recent past. But sweep not entirely unproductive: Found Cal-Tech staff directory in one office — containing name, address of Tarzan File AA living in Pasadena! Will follow up on that tomorrow morning, unless…
Posterity, you simply won’t believe what Adam did today. Remember bundle of tubing, cloth, traveling on trailer roof? Well, found out what it is.
I had complained, following search of observatory, that if AAs’ secret rendezvous only hundred yards off road, would never find it in densely wooded, mountainous terrain. Suggested we track down U. S. Geological Service and Forest Service section maps; uncouple trailer, explore logging roads in van alone. Might turn up something.
Adam agreed in principle, but said had better idea — and did…!
Whereupon, removed mysterious bundle from trailer roof and, in space of probably 30 minutes, unfolded, unrolled, then assembled airplane — full-sized, man-carrying, aluminum-tubing-and-fabric ultralight. Disappeared briefly into trailer; emerged carrying breadbox-sized, metal-bound wooden case from which took miniature engine, propeller, snapped into place.
“Another benefit of growing up rich and neglected.” Eyes twinkled as mixed gas, oil; filled tank. ” ‘Mom, all the other kids have ultralights this summer!’ It was an election year, you see; she didn’t have time to check into the story — which was true…” continued impishly, squirming past fuselage tubes, settling into pilot’s seat; fastening five-point harness; strapping on helmet; checking control surface movement as wiggled stick, pedals, “… depending on what neighborhood you canvassed and what numbers you considered a representative sample.”
Yanked on pull-cord; engine snarled into life with literally deafening racket (started life as two-stroke motorcycle engine; Adam, per usual practice, modified for additional power, reliability; replaced muffler with “tuned” megaphone exhaust — result sounded like steroid-fed chainsaw). I jammed fingers in ears. Tora-chan dived under trailer; nothing showed but two orange-glowing spots of outrage. Terry’s reaction, on other hand, surprisingly mild: Merely flapped wings to indicate disapproval — usually that much noise inspires feather-head to go for help.
“Actually,” Adam yelled, pulling down goggles, “I think she thought an ultralight was about three feet long and flown by radio-control.” With which he rammed throttle to stop, pulled back stick, accelerated to about human running speed, lifted gently from parking lot, soared out over Cleveland National Forestlands, leaving me standing wide-eyed, chin resting on toes.
Managed to follow part of flight with binoculars: Brightly colored midge visible for many miles from catwalk encircling 200-inch reflector’s dome. Adam checked every logging road, cowpath, nature trail within 25-mile radius of observatory. Looked especially closely for indications of isolated structures — facilities not accessible by road, or whose construction and/or placement suggested attempted concealment.
Gone three hours, but eventually floated lightly from sky, touching down at walking pace, gently as falling leaf. Killed engine, removed helmet.
“If they’re out there, they’re well hidden,” he shouted into silence; then added more softly, “Am I talking too loudly? I usually do after flying this. You’re supposed to use acoustical earplugs, but I always forget.”
Too close to dark to continue by time he returned, so spending night in observatory parking lot.
Adam glowing all over; simply irrepressible: bursting with puns, teasing, good humor — never seen anyone appreciate own cleverness so much…
Oh, well, minor irritation, really. Of more concern is change in self: Since watching Adam fly ultralight, have felt unaccustomed longing, yearning, wish, want, desire, yen, attraction, need, craving — no-holds-barred pathological obsession! For first time, understand Mr. Toad’s reaction to initial sight of motorcar…
Oh, Posterity, been such exciting two days…! But shall adhere to histographers’ discipline; set down events as transpired, without giving hints, muddling chronology — possibly losing later-important details in process.
So: Departed Mount Palomar early this morning; set course for Pasadena. Got as far as Riverside before routine shattered:
Adam rounded corner in usual gentle fashion — and small child on bicycle shot from behind abandoned car, directly into path, mere yards from bumper. Adam yanked steering wheel; almost simultaneously locked up brakes. Somehow missed child; stopped partially jackknifed on spot had occupied heartbeat previously.
Kid continued across street, darted between two buildings, out of sight.
As one we sprang from van, landed running. Adam, well in lead, covered good 200 yards, calling out reassuringly, before misjudging height of obstacle, snagging toe midvault, crashing heavily to ground. And since karate training still not implanted in reflexes, fell wrong: on left elbow. Bone’s snap even louder than anguished gasp, curse.
Arrived on scene. Cautioned, “Don’t move”; restrained bodily. Adam’s karate discipline manifested then; late, but still useful: White, sweating but calm, lay still as examined. Explored as gently as possible, but still elicited grimaces, gasps. Upper arm visibly shorter, plus had grown extra elbow.
“Humerus,” was verdict.
Even in agony Adam couldn’t resist: “Not to me,” he puffed through gritted teeth. Then spark faded, leaving only pain: “I thought so. Can you set it?”
(Rollo could, mocked little voice inside skull. But ignored it; concentrated on Adam [fixing broken arm challenge enough without compounding problems by indulging in guilt trip].)
“I know how to do it; I’ve never set one myself, of course. And you aren’t going to enjoy it. The ends are overriding; you know what that means.”
Adam knew. Grew even whiter.
Helped him to feet, supporting arm to immobilize. Returned to trailer. Strapped upper arm temporarily to torso then adjourned to nearest hospital. Located plastic splint — and mouthpiece.
Helped Adam onto table, strapped down. “I don’t know anything about anesthesia. I’m more likely to kill you that not if I give you anything.” He nodded, staring at ceiling, already sweating in anticipation.
“Now, the only way I can overcome the muscle spasms holding those bone ends overlapped is by tapping my hysterical strength. Once I start, I’ll have to forge ahead and finish in one pass, regardless how much it hurts. Otherwise I’ll burn out and you’ll end up with a short, crooked arm, or worse.”
“I know,” he replied tightly. Inserted mouthpiece, set teeth. Took deep breath, closed eyes, indistinctly grunted, “Do it!”
Placed knee in armpit. Grasped elbow firmly in right hand; clamped forearm under own armpit. Placed left hand over break, and…
Hesitated, struck by idea. Might work or not. Never tried before. But success depended on Adam believing: Positive attitude intrinsic to execution.
Assumed confident aspect, said, “Whoa…! Adam, we don’t have to do it the hard way…!”
Adam opened eyes, peered up at me cautiously. Removed mouthpiece; bodily tension eased imperceptible fraction. “How else?”
“Hypnosis!” I announced in what hoped was triumphant tone. “I forgot — you’re a great hypnotic subject. We’ll just put you under and anesthetize your arm. You won’t feel a thing.”
Adam looked dubious. “It hasn’t worked with the hysterical-strength tap.”
“Of course it hasn’t worked; you’ve been fighting it,” I stated positively. “You know you have — you’re scared of hysterical strength because of what happened to me. You achieve as deep a trance as I do, but you block the suggestion. If you want it to work, it will.”
Relieved to see hint of hope nudge in alongside pain in Adam’s expression. Knew seed planted, taking root; but didn’t give him time to think about it. Kept momentum building: continued sales pitch, preinduction psychology:
“Remember my telling you how Daddy did double duty, working as a GP as well as a pathologist? Well, he didn’t like drug-assisted deliveries because of the effect on babies; he used chemicals only when a woman absolutely couldn’t reach a useful trance state in classes during the months leading up to the delivery. Otherwise he used hypnosis exclusively. I often helped during deliveries, and I never once saw a woman evince discomfort during delivery under hypnosis — and childbirth is the standard against which all other pain is gauged, remember.
“Now, you’re already past the hard part: You achieve a full somnambulistic-level trance. Unless you fight the suggestion, it will work!”
Adam visibly relieved. “You’re right. But I don’t think I can do it myself, hurting like this; it’s hard to concentrate on anything but the pain. But I can follow your voice. Will you put me under?”
Of course would. And did. Adam responded immediately to preprogrammed induction code; slid into profound trance state as promptly as if session merely another in regular series dealing with focusing ki, tapping hysterical strength. Pain-drawn features eased even before turning attention to anesthesia: Total concentration characteristic of deepest trance state precluded sparing attention to notice pain.
However, could hardly count on incidental effects to protect against bone-resetting agony. So proceeded with anesthesia induction: Reminded Adam how sleeping in wrong position sometimes puts arm “to sleep”: complete sensation lack, plus motor paralysis. Explained acupressure point just under armpit responsible. Placed finger on supposed location; told him 30 seconds’ firm pressure there would put arm to sleep for minimum of two hours; repeatable as necessary.
Pressed firmly and — no wonder primitive societies regarded hypnotism as magic — whole body sagged as relief from pain canceled subconscious adrenaline alert.
More importantly, spasming muscles in damaged arm went limp; perhaps could perform resetting without triggering own hysterical strength. Only one way to find out.
Replaced knee in Adam’s armpit. Took elbow in right hand, left hand over break; again clamped forearm under own armpit. Then pulled firmly but with control. Stretched limb until felt broken ends grind clear of each other, opposing bulges disappear beneath left hand. Eased tension, allowed ends to settle into what hoped was apposition.
Studied result. Reduction apparently successful: arm grossly straight, same length as right. But palpation ineffective in final determination, and no knowledge of x-ray. Hoped okay. Best I could do.
Slipped plastic splint halves into place. Strapped upper arm to side; bent elbow 90 degrees, strapped forearm across abdomen.
Gave wake-up code. Adam sighed, stirred — then froze, body tense, apparently awaiting pain’s resumption. When failed to materialize, opened eyes cautiously, looked around. “Done?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Fixed?”
“I think so. It’s straight and they’re both the same length. Ask me again in six weeks.”
Adam regarded me searchingly. “Are you all right? After what happened the last time you used hysterical strength…” Assured him metabolic supercharge unnecessary; had not suffered.
Unstrapped him from table; let sit on edge for while, waiting for residual dizziness, nausea to pass.
Presently shuddered. “That was not fun. It doesn’t hurt now, but it sure did before.” Eyed left hand where protruded from strapping. “This is like waking up after sleeping wrong. But it’s scary — I assume my hand will work again once it’s worn off?”
“As soon as you want it to wear off. You can keep it numb for as long as it bothers you by renewing the acupressure block. But you’ll be playing piano again as soon as the splint comes off.”
Adam nodded; then looked up abruptly. “We’ve got to find that kid. He was clean — that means he’s not alone: A kid that size doesn’t bathe except under duress.”
Good point. (Does have unique talent for isolating essential details.)
“I suppose we can drive up and down the streets, blowing the horn and yelling until we find them.”
Adam shook head. “A kid on a bike covers more territory than a tomcat — it would take forever.
“If it weren’t for this” — he indicated splinted arm — “I’d fly a search pattern. That would bring them out — I doubt if planes are a routine sight these days.”
Felt heart miss beat, but tried not to let elation show. Asked nonchalantly, “Does it take long to learn to fly?”
Adam regarded me thoughtfully. “No; flying is almost instinctive — though the ‘almost’ is important; the differences can kill you. But with your brains, reflexes, and coordination, you shouldn’t have a bit of trouble.”
Thought briefly. “We should find someplace wide and flat. Most parking lots are roomy enough for ultralight operation, but an airport would be better for instruction.”
Checked couple gas stations, found Riverside city street map; then drove to airport.
With one-armed coach’s advice, assistance, unfastened bundle from trailer roof, assembled toy plane in about an hour. Adam explained, demonstrated controls, radio helmet (didn’t bother to point out base-station transceiver amongst goodies on trailer’s electronics wall when he flew; just let me worry!), verified operation. Strapped me in, started engine. Then coached by radio, step-by-step:
Slow taxiing first, gradually increasing speed to learn steering transition from differential braking to rudder; then high-speed taxiing to get feel of all controls biting airstream. Followed by more high-speed taxiing, lifting, lowering, alternate wings to acquire feel of aileron/rudder interaction. Then still more high-speed taxiing, raising, lowering nosewheel to learn elevators.
Big Moment finally arrived: Allowed me to increase power fraction beyond setting used for high-speed taxiing. Main gear lifted from runway — was flying…!
Not high, of course; Adam kept me skimming up, down runways, yard above ground, for hours: lift-off, touchdown; shallow right, left turns — endless repetition. Never exceeded 30 knots. Slow-flight practice continued until could detect imminent stall power on or off; whether normal or gee-induced, accelerated variety (cute phenomenon, that: stalling speed mounts as gee forces increase aircraft’s effective weight); ease in, out of stalled condition without height, control loss.
(Fascinating, wrong assumptions otherwise well-educated person can harbor: From exposure to cars, had assumed knew what controls do. Not so. For instance: Fore-and-aft stick movement governs pitch, thereby airspeed — period. Had heretofore assumed increased, decreased altitude. Throttle setting does that. Likewise, did not realize ailerons initiate bank, then back pressure on stick causes actual turn. Rudder’s sole function is to prevent yaw (skidding) caused by aileron drag — or induce deliberate yaw in sideslip when attempting to descend steeply without building up airspeed for short-field landing.)
Adam finally satisfied: For past hour had executed all maneuvers to perfection, plus performed “unusual attitude recoveries” (with more altitude under wheels) without incident. Gave me news by radio as concentrated on flying circles about point. (Tricky: To keep radius constant, necessary to increase bank angle when downwind, ease off upwind — adjusting constantly all the way around.)
Landed grinning ear to ear (Mr. Toad correct: “Glorious, stirring… poetry of motion… only real way to travel!”)
We spent night at airport. Next morning I topped up fuel; Adam inspected ship minutely. Finally I launched to fly search pattern.
Adam navigated from ground: I reported landmarks below; he plotted position on city map, gave headings to fly. (Alternative was wrestling with three-foot-square sheet of paper in open-bodied aircraft — ’tis to laugh.)
Flew at perhaps 300 feet; low enough to spot signs of current habitation: smoking chimney, laundry hung out, crop cultivation in midst of residential area, etc.
And flying is, as knew would be, marvelous (“Here today — in next week tomorrow… O bliss!”): In absence of Man, California skies now clear, crisp; visibility unobstructed, breathtaking (“Always somebody else’s horizon! O my! O my!”). Yielded to impulse; essayed snap roll.
“ ‘O stop being an ass,’ ” Adam snarled, patience exhausted. “I read it, too. Pay attention now; if you kill yourself I’ll never speak to you again.” Promised to behave. Leveled off, headed for initial search area, where had almost run over child.
Adam’s map ruled off in grids. Examined each methodically, flying slowly, giving anyone on ground ample time to drop everything upon hearing rackety engine (loud, indeed — acoustical earplugs genuine necessity), run outside, be seen.
Covered about six grids before happy discovery. Person ran from house as I passed, waving violently (do mean violently: jumping up, down, shrieking — actually heard faint cries at altitude, through engine noise, helmet, earplugs).
Circled back; pinpointed location for Adam, who jumped into rig, set off by road.
Then scouted landing conditions. Let down to 100 feet, performed slow flyby, studying surface; noting presence, absence of wires, poles, fences, ditches, etc. Detected nothing prohibitive; looked safe.
Set up approach assuming same wind direction, speed as at airport. Drifted down gently, skimming low over house at end of block, slowed to near stall, let big fabric wing float us down. Touched down 50 feet from very excited person — two excited persons: one large, one small.
Killed engine, unstrapped, extracted head from helmet, pulled out earplugs, stood…
And promptly swept off feet by hug-attack, replete with cryings, incoherent wet sobbings — more huggings, cryings, etc., etc. Managed to discern assailants both female. Happy to see them, too; but of course third, fourth encounters (respectively) with Somebody Else Alive: Old hat, you know; retained semblance of control.)
(Oh, all right; did get slightly teary…)
Eventually emotions subsided enough to swap preliminary information: Bigger one Kim Melon, age 25; smaller, daughter Lisa, age six. Family survived depopulation intact — husband, too, but accidentally killed shortly thereafter. Small boy seen earlier was Lisa (“I’m not a boy…!”)
Adam arrived; greeting hysteria resurged briefly. Adam bore up bravely…
(Have I described Kim yet? No? Perhaps summary helps shed light upon Adam’s fortitude. Kim could serve as Judging Standard for California Golden Beach Girls: “five foot two, eyes of blue.” Slim, willowy, long-legged. Waist-length natural Swedish-blond mane. Pretty face — correction, beautiful face — double-correction, movie-star face. Plus last name describes salient physical characteristics with unintended hilarious accuracy. Pact with Devil not uncommon result when mortal female encounters Kim’s type. Heck, probably feel that way even if weren’t eleven; but as things are…)
Effect predictable: Adam suddenly very tall for his height; gained inches in chest expansion between one breath and next. Aged years demeanorwise in eyeblink. Casually mentioned is 18 (straight-faced) about half-dozen times during first five minutes: “… the same age my father was when he met my mother — she was a few years older, too.” Etc.
Would have been proud of me, Posterity: Smile never faltered; not once offered to help by reminding of stray facts somehow omitted during suave repartee. Not even when, during one of those casual mentions of his age, managed to drag in mine, and that I was “…a wonderful young person, incredibly talented in so many ways, but of course not old enough for a serious relationship…”
Glad chose path of forbearance, however: Later that evening, as Adam, beaming each time caught her eye, slaved away in trailer kitchen (invited to dinner first thing), preparing culinary triumph calculated to inspire wonder, dazzle palate (melt heart, dissolve inhibitions), Kim leaned close and, without moving lips, whispered, “I wish Adam would quit trying so hard. I’m sure he’s really a nice boy, but it’s awfully hard to tell. Any ideas?”
Several possibilities came to mind right away. Kim got giggles listening. Then offered own suggestions, most of which better than mine. Best of lot impractical at moment: Where would we get whoopee cushion on such short notice…?
Think I’m going to like her.
Know I’m going to like her, Posterity! We fit like peanut butter, jelly. Never had sister; never realized what was missing. But have one now. And doesn’t try to be big sister; not know-it-all; treats me as equal. Most comfortable person have met outside immediate family — but knew right away would work out: Terry adored both on sight. Tora-chan approved, also.
Especially Lisa: Tora-chan spends as much time lap-sitting with, purring at, following her around as he does Adam, his official new daddy. And Terry thinks she’s neatest thing since frozen pizza. Watches every move whenever in view. Already picked up several phrases from her; letter perfect, too, complete with lithp in right platheth. Unusual: Normally requires couple months to polish up, tack on new word, phrase.
On other hand, baby brother may be turning into idiot savant: Not sure when this started, but recently noticed vocabulary expanding. Just this afternoon, for instance, produced brand-new, quite elaborate word string, startlingly apt for circumstances — and can’t imagine when, where might have heard it.
Was inspecting Adam’s splint for proper fit, position, etc. Terry, on my shoulder, said, “Not too tight? Not chafing? How’re your fingers? Warm? Pink?”
Really amazing performance. And so appropriate. Always has had elephantlike memory for phrases, voices, related situations, of course. Maybe dredging past; perhaps something heard Daddy say.
Whatever source, am thoroughly impressed — practically took words right out of my mouth…
Been here about a week now, getting to know one another. Happy interlude, pleasant company.
Adam finally relaxed to point where presence isn’t embarrassing — and surprised to learn makes no difference to Kim: Likes him just as is (or perhaps despite). Treats as equal, too.
Finished basic history exchange; low-key story-swapping sessions as days passed. Adam told approximately same story I got; but sticking to age-18 bit. Kim accepted with earnest, wide-eyed gravity; so sincere, may even really believe him. Hard to tell.
But doubt it. Kim nobody’s fool. Top electrical engineer specializing in computers Before. “Show me proof!” her unspoken motto. Cheerful, optimistic soul, expecting best in everyone — but without shred of naïveté; enters into relationships with eyes open, missing nothing.
Both only 17 when married, still in high school. But continued education, with only briefest Hold for Lisa’s arrival two years later. Achieved prominence in complementary fields (Jason master programmer); worked closely together whole professional lives.
Neither ever sick.
Lisa, therefore, presumptively double-hominem — whatever that means…! And according to Kim, been raised, albeit unwittingly, in purest AA fashion. Results predictable: terrifyingly precocious child.
Fundamentally too trusting, however — though slightly less so after brush with disaster. Stranger appeared one day not long ago while Kim out scrounging. Delighted to see someone new after so long, Lisa invited in. Proved, judging by subsequent behavior, classic AB sociopath:
Kim returned Just In Time — Lisa screaming, clothes off, man just at Point of No Return.
“I don’t know how I did it.” Amazement showed in voice. “Other than the War, and then losing Jason, I had led the most tranquil existence you could imagine up to that point; I never even had to raise my voice as a child! This guy was a foot taller than I and outweighed me by a good hundred pounds. But I saw what was happening and I grabbed him by the hair and threw him across the room — literally!
“He jumped up — I’ve never seen such an expression on a human face — and charged me. It was obvious that his intentions were the same; he’d just found a new victim — first victim…!
“I sidestepped his rush without thinking. And while he was turning around, I picked up a poker from the fireplace and hit him over the head with it. He fell and I kept hitting him until he was dead. It took a week to get the mess out of the carpet.”
Kim completely untroubled by lingering doubts. Eminently satisfied with cause, result of her killing. Wished own case so clear-cut. Told her so. Then related incident.
Kim listened quietly, thoughtfully, sympathetically to facts. But cut off subsequent breast-beating soliloquy: “Stop that — stop it right now! You have nothing — nothing! — to feel guilty about! With your training you could have done nothing else -
“But…!” Blue eyes flashed impatiently. “If you could have — if you had it to do over again and the only way you could save Terry was by killing Rollo — or someone else you knew no better — and you had time to plan every single action in advance, what would you do?”
Mouth opened, then closed without reply. Whole universe shifted on moorings. Most disturbing perspective, but question in that form completely self-answering, of course: Yes! — in hot millisecond would kill to save baby brother — dozen times over…!
“You don’t have to shout,” Kim remonstrated, smiling. “You’re only three feet away.”
Felt so much better! Killing weighed on me, even though had rationalized intellectually with Adam’s help. But Kim, with unerring instinct for bottom line, spotted flawed reasoning underlying residual guilt; skewered with single question; fixed it on gut level, where really counts.
Future resolve unaffected, however: Intend to do level best never to kill again. Still working to eliminate lethal automatic responses from combat computer. Rough stuff still available if circumstances mandate, but want use contingent upon conscious evaluation, decision. No more accidental discharges.
Kim disagrees. Stated emphatically, upon adding her (Lisa, too) to training schedule, wants entire arsenal, undiluted. Feels minuscule accident risk inadequate justification for blocking instant access to most potent techniques. Haven’t argued; teaching them same program I learned originally, as requested. Even Lisa working on baby drills targeted (once acquires sufficient mass, strength, coordination) at unthinkingly lethal potential.
But I’m not.
Wish party included animal behaviorist. Perhaps could furnish simple, reasonable explanation; thereby preserve my sanity: Terry’s vocabulary still expanding in exponential increments: words, phrases, sentences — paragraphs — few of which could have heard often enough to implant in memory. Don’t know what to make of it. Always been good talker, of course (for Hyacinthine Macaw; not best-talking psittacines, just one of most loyal, loving, intelligent). And recent performance nothing short of phenomenal, no question. Maybe even anomalous.
But hardly justifies Adam’s present reaction: Has convinced himself is in on ground floor of major Unnatural Happening (as distinct from minor Unnatural Happening?).
Latest speculation: Terry and I mind-linked — “It’s the only possible explanation; he says almost everything you do half a breath before you get it out.”
Nonsense began day Terry spouted relevant new word string as I checked Adam’s splint. Observed patient’s awed expression then, but failed to recognize significance. If had, would have nipped in bud. Explanation obvious, reasonable, logical — mundane:
Of course anticipates me regularly: Been with me almost every waking moment since egg: developed sophisticated conditioned-reflex matrix based on my behavior. Picks up clues too subtle for observer lacking long-term close association; achieves fair degree of accuracy guessing what I’ll do, say next.
But missed boat; no letup since.
And driving me mad…
At least Adam more at ease with Kim now. Signs unmistakable.
This morning she related experience with gasoline generator upon utilities’ collapse: Located, hooked up to house wiring; enjoyed benefits for two weeks — until failed. Checked, noticed oxidization buildup on commutator surfaces; attempted to clean with alcohol to no avail.
“Of course not,” Adam interrupted; “no generator will work after being doused with alcohol.”
Kim looked puzzled; advice clearly at odds with training. “Why not?”
“Because,” he pontificated, “a potched watt never toils.”
Kim joined me in retaliatory tickle attack without moment’s hesitation.
We (Kim and Lisa, too; somehow inclusion into party never in doubt) proceeded to Pasadena, located AA address from Palomar Cal-Tech directory. Site examination produced sketchy clues pointing to Jet Propulsion Laboratory.
Adjourned to thence, invested several days searching. Results ambiguous. Fairly recent activity evident, certain areas only: Footprints in deep dust contain shallow dust; elsewhere coating undisturbed. Plus Kim says much equipment she saw during recent touristy-style visit missing.
Oddly enough, only relevant information found by Lisa. Scrap of paper crumpled on office floor: Apparently someone’s crib notes of meeting at secret (ah-hah!) AA facility sometime after attack — meeting attended by all available AAs, families.
Attack no surprise to AA community. Knew how would be conducted but not when. Informed Defense Department to no avail. Though knew mechanism possible (Daddy’s research), and Other Side undoubtedly possessed technology, officialdom judged probability of use — and attendant implication that goal was worldwide elimination of everyone not within own ranks — incredible: “That’s not war; that’s insane! We can’t base policy on that — nobody would do that…!”
AAs living out of suitcases for weeks prior to attack; irreplaceable belongings either already in shelters comparable to Daddy’s, boxed, ready to load, or lined up in orderly fashion, ready to snatch-and-run on moment’s notice. Instant missile phase ended, all on way to retreat -
(All but self…! Daddy never hinted — other than How-Bad-Things-Are lecture, shelter checkout shortly before went to Washington. Likewise, Teacher knew attack would find me home alone — wonder why let me rot in shelter, and months afterward. Surely could have told someone, left message…)
Per usual, nothing in document suggested location of AAs’ retreat. Apparently putting in writing contrapolicy. Frustrating, but makes sense: Is secret, after all…
Contents little more than summary of regretful broodings about events leading to that point; checklist of writer’s immediate duties in data-, equipment-gathering expedition to certain installations about Cal-Tech campus, outlying research facilities, collecting stuff hidden When Balloon Went Up (to protect from random looting and/or vandalism). Plus intimation that booty awfully useful when things quieted down after “poor old H. sap” gone, and certainly critical during “instant emergency.”
But not a clue concerning how useful. Or where.
Adam still at it: Watches Terry like Rhine Institute test monitor — or first-time séance attendee. Anytime baby brother utters anything unexpected, relevant, clever, complicated — whatever — Adam pounces immediately, blows all out of proportion. Has everybody else doing it now, too — i.e., Kim.
But Lisa to blame for current intensity of Terry-watching fever: All sitting around living room one evening, chatting about nothing in particular. More particularly, Kim and I ragged Adam as attempted to spin improbable yarn about past. Terry observed antics beatifically from stand while Tora-chan drowsed in Adam’s lap. Lisa ostensibly paying no attention, reading book.
“…was the loneliest summer of my life. If I worked for him, Father would allow me to solo occasionally or play with the orchestra during concerts. I got paid for performing, but not for the office work. I didn’t mind too much: As a performer, I was known; and most of the young ladies in the vicinity could be considered my groupies.”
Kim rolled eyes heavenward; Terry offered raspberry just as about to myself. Lisa giggled.
Adam continued unperturbed: “Unfortunately, I was assigned to conduct an inventory of the physical properties belonging to the orchestra — everything in the building. A lot of legwork was involved, but I had access to the computer so it didn’t look too difficult to list, categorize, and account for everything.”
“Have you read any good books lately?” Kim asked sweetly.
“NOOO-nooo-no-nonono…!” yelled Terry, bobbing head delightedly.
“Good stories are hard to come by,” I replied, controlling expression firmly: Intended beginning own response with “no.”
Lisa giggled again.
“After counting everything,” Adam continued, eyeing us severely, “and inputting the whole monumental collection into the computer, I started up the analysis and cataloging program. The system processed it; then suddenly erased all the data.”
“Gaw-awl-ly…!” quoth Terry. I blinked, closed mouth: Beaten to punch again.
Noted Lisa trying not to giggle.
“I called service; they came right out. The hardware man checked and pronounced everything healthy. The programmer analyzed the system’s behavior, reloaded the software, rechecked everything, and assured me that all was well.”
“Well, well, well…” intoned bird. Didn’t attempt to conceal reaction this time: Glared at featherhead; prefer to kibitz for myself.
Lisa engrossed in elaborate study of fingernail.
“I reinput the inventory, started the program — and exactly the same thing happened again!”
“How ’bout that…!” offered Terry. Adam, ostensibly staring preoccupiedly at ceiling, now watching bird out of corner of eye. Kim paying attention, too. All of which very funny: Terry’s reply that time his own for sure; hadn’t intended to comment.
“I called the service people back, and they did exactly what they had done previously, then left. I re-reinput the inventory and — ”
“The same thing happened again!” Kim and I chorused — again half a breath behind Terry.
Kim’s, Adam’s eyes met momentarily. Lisa giggled again. I affected indifference.
“It happened six times in a row,” Adam continued distractedly, attention now wholly fixed on bird. “And I was getting pretty tired of it. But finally the analyst announced he’d identified the problem.
“Our system was running on their third-generation software, which apparently contained a glitch that only surfaced under certain conditions. Our inventory provided them.
“They’d just finished writing their fourth-generation software, and they decided to try it on our system. After loading it, they hung around and watched while I input the inventory one last time — I hoped.”
“Then what?” Chorus this time included only Foster twins, Terry still half a breath in lead. Kim sat this one out, watching.
Adam’s hesitation visible; almost lost track of story. Almost.
“That did it — or very nearly. It processed the inventory electronically and didn’t erase it, but wouldn’t print it.
“The programmer displayed an incomprehensible screen full of numbers and symbols, studied it for a few moments, then nodded.
“ ‘That’s it,’ he gloated. ‘You see’ — he highlighted a section — This is assembly language, our fourth-generation software, and here’s the print program.’
“He went back into the third-generation program briefly and displayed the sort section. ‘Here,’ he said proudly, ‘is where that glitch resides that’s been wiping your library. It’s this command right here.’ He pointed to a single symbol.
“ ‘We intended to use that command, updated to fourth-generation, to order send-to-printer. But somehow we left it out when we actually wrote the program.’ ”
Adam radiated air of malicious anticipation. “I’m sure by now you’ve all figured out what the problem was.”
Had, embarrassed to confess. Kim hadn’t, though; result of gentle upbringing: Basically nice person; thought processes unaccustomed to such depravity.
Adam smiled cherubically, savoring moment; then began: “We needed the…”
“ — heir of the byte that dogged us!” shrieked Terry, as I opened mouth. I glared as bird exploded in manic laughter, head bobbing gleefully, dancing back and forth on perch.
Adam’s expression went from wicked delight to outraged disappointment — then genuine startlement. Kim’s eyes grew round, as well. Both stared at bird as if suddenly had started ticking. Lisa passed “giggle”; went straight to “belly laugh.”
“That didn’t come from memory,” Adam stated flatly.
“Nor from random word-string assembly,” Kim added apologetically.
“You guessed the punch line,” Adam continued darkly. “He got it from you.”
“He has been taking the words right out of your mouth a lot lately,” Kim offered uncomfortably.
Adam pressed on resolutely: “It hasn’t happened with me or Kim; you’re the only one he anticipates — or speaks in stereo with, often as not. That bird is reading your mind!”
“He is not,” I protested, probably somewhat peevishly. Explained again how years of close association had given baby brother private insight into clues pointing to imminent actions, words.
Adam began scathing retort; Kim placed hand over mouth. “But even if he had heard it before,” she said gently, “doesn’t it strike you as unlikely that he would pick just that moment to say it?”
Opened mouth to reply; then closed thoughtfully. Kim asks hard questions! “That’s kind of difficult to explain, I’ll admit,” I began. “But I’m sure…”
“This is silly,” interrupted Lisa, hands on hips, expression radiating undisguised impatience with stupid grown-ups. “Everybody knows Terry knows what Candy thinks. And if Candy thought about it, she’d know what Terry thinks, too.”
Palpable silence descended, broken, finally, by Terry’s comment: “How ’bout that.”
Adam now staring at Lisa: “ ‘Too’…?”
Lisa snickered; suddenly lost interest.
“ ‘Too’…?” repeated Adam. Glanced at Kim, whose expression showed sudden disapproval of new conversational direction. “You don’t suppose…”
“No, I don’t,” she responded firmly. Tone suggested wisdom of dropping subject.
But Adam on scent now; not deflected by subtlety: “She is a double-hominem child.” Paused dramatically; then continued in hushed tones: “Who knows what talents might be lurking behind those huge, fathomless black eyes…
Lisa glanced up, sighed, returned attention to book. Kim snorted inelegantly.
“That’s dumb,” observed Terry — as I opened mouth to say that very thing.
Well, trail’s end: Treasure hunt fun while lasted. Nothing left for short term but fall back to Plan A: Resume address-by-address examination of AA homes, work settings.
Between Kim, Adam, self, have dreamed up bunches of alternative approaches for locating AA headquarters in long run: For instance, Adam and Kim putting heads together over trailer’s electronic wall innards; plan to hoodwink some innocent component into serving as band-searching beacon. Device to dial endlessly up, down spectrum, pausing briefly to spout message beseeching reply on specific wavelength, to which, of course, receiver tuned, with relay-actuated recorder poised in case nobody listening when response comes in. Are confident of success. Lack only couple more transistors, chips, whatnots.
But immediate options exhausted.
Have decided, following discussion, to follow AA trail up West Coast, loop over northern end of Rockies, touch base throughout Midwest, finally concluding initial search back home…
Shucks, by this time, after posting all those leaflets, lovely little town, surrounding area, probably completely repopulated — with AAs themselves, likely as not, having stumbled across advertisements. On arrival will surely find thriving, industrious, cheerful little farming community — all wondering what’s keeping me…
Here we are in Fresno — what’s left of it — and here we seem to be stuck. Despite distance from San Andreas Fault, earthquake must have been humdinger: Roads — even open country! — impassable north and west. Terrain broken, fissured, stepped, generally messed up something awful. Unless backtrack, loop all the way around Rockies, seems to be no way to get from here to San Francisco, Sacramento, etc., next AA addresses.
Kim keeps looking around, Giving Thanks lived no closer to epicenter — ride was quite rough enough 300 miles away in Riverside. Assuming managed to survive immediate tectonic violence (slim odds, judging by conditions hereabouts), unlikely would have had place to live. Not much left standing.
We poked up every road on USGS map, even set out across open country, cutting fences as necessary — got nowhere. Repeatedly. Every road and/or off-road compass bearing blocked by fault damage. Major displacements involved, too: Haven’t found passage for even van alone, never mind with trailer. Rock shelves just 50, 100 feet high; bottomless fissures gape 100 yards wide or more — both running miles across terrain, usually intersecting with others to form impassable barriers, culs-de-sac.
Adam started grumbling about finding bulldozer, making own road; quit when couldn’t find one sufficiently intact to operate.
All of which finally led (“O bliss!”) to scouting by air. Just returned from second survey flight. News to west, north, all gloom: Simply no way through. Devastation astonishing. Would be difficult even afoot. Tomorrow will head east; perhaps find logging/fire road around mess through Sierra Nevadas.
This is Kim reporting: Candy is missing. She was close to eighty miles out, having traced a series of apparently usable fire trails well into Sequoia National Park, when she reported that her engine had lost power and she was losing altitude. She triangulated her location for us as well as she could by taking compass bearings on landmarks in the few moments before intervening mountains cut off her signal. Adam managed to get a bearing on her, as well, during that time, using the RDF processor incorporated into that amazing electronics wall of his, so we have a fairly good fix on her location.
However, if the coordinates are correct, she went down in an area that is both rugged and heavily forested with mature sequoias.
Jason was a Civil Air Patrol volunteer and participated in many high-country air searches. I have seen the CAP’s film on recommended techniques for ditching in trees. The theory is that if you land in the treetops in a full stall, impacting at about a forty-five-degree nose-up attitude, you touch down at the slowest possible speed, and present as broad an area as possible to the foliage, so that kinetic energy is used up in smashing through the branches on the way down. It is not uncommon for trees’ resistance alone to stop the descent, the ship ending up trapped in the branches. This is preferable to falling all the way to the unyielding ground, which entails a substantial impact even after deducting the retarding effects of the foliage. But either way, chances for surviving such a landing are better than one might expect.
Unfortunately, the film dealt with normal forest conditions, with trees between fifty to eighty feet tall. A mature stand of sequoias ranges between two and three hundred feet in height. Sequoias generally resemble enormously outsized pines: Trunks are massively thick, as much as forty feet in diameter, and lower halves are usually bare of branches. Top halves are sparse Christmas-tree parodies, with gnarled limbs immensely thick for their length, and little secondary and tertiary branching.
The structure of a sequoia forest offers little hope for a successful treetop ditching: There is nothing resembling the approximately level “roof” of an ordinary forest; a stand of sequoias is a sea of huge, upward-jutting cones. And as bigger trees crowd out lesser neighbors by blocking their sunlight, victors in the competition are usually less closely spaced than normal trees. Foliage generally overlaps, obscuring the sky from the ground and vice versa, but only down in the mid and lower reaches; and the branches which accomplish this are far too thick to break and absorb energy from impact with so light and fragile an object as a falling ultralight, except out at the very tips.
If Candy manages to locate a relatively closely-spaced stand of sequoias and achieves a letter-perfect pancake landing in the upper-middle branches, and if they slow and trap her plane without undue damage — and they might, as light as it is for its size — she has a chance.
Of course, that will strand her at least a hundred feet above the ground, at whatever point the branches cease. Her survival kit includes many things; but rope is heavy, and when dealing with ultralights, compromises must be made. So even if she is uninjured, getting down will be a challenge.
If she did not succeed in remaining in the treetops, however, I see no likelihood that she could have survived the passage through the branches, or the final free-fall to the ground. Repeated collisions with those huge, unyielding limbs on the way down would have demolished her miniature airplane like a balsa model. What remained would have plunged the last hundred feet like a stone.
I don’t know how much of this Adam is aware of. I have not discussed it with him yet. I can’t even think about it without crying.
Besides, this has not been a good time to discuss anything with Adam. Since this morning I have helped where I could and remained quiet and out of the way otherwise. Adam has been an absolute wild man: I have never seen anyone so quietly, intensely, efficiently, and constructively hysterical.
In the space of two furiously busy hours he located a generally undamaged private airfield, found an old Cessna 180 still intact, and, working like a one-armed tornado, with my small assistance, got it running.
During the next hour, operating the control yoke with his good arm and the rudder pedals with his feet, with me serving as his other hand to operate the mixture, throttle, prop-pitch, trim, and flap controls, he taught himself to fly the big old taildragger, accustoming himself to the considerable handling differences between it and the tricycle-geared ultralight. Then we assembled provisions, medical supplies, and survival equipment, including lots of rope, loaded it aboard, topped up the tanks, and took off — all five of us; we couldn’t leave the animals.
We found the location that Candy had triangulated for us. From that point we extended a ten-mile radius, and within that area we began a careful search, flying slowly only a few hundred feet above the treetops.
At the outset I risked suggesting to Adam that he not waste time trying to make out anything on the ground. Chances of spotting her there were minimal to nonexistent. From the air we could see only a fraction of the actual surface; the trees were just too thick. More likely was picking up a flash of color from that brilliantly rainbow-hued wing fabric snagged in a treetop.
Adam nodded absently. He was flying by conditioned reflex, his entire concentration below us, but I think he heard me.
We crisscrossed the area repeatedly, the three of us scanning the terrain until our eyes smarted, endlessly trying to raise her on the radio. After scouring the initial twenty-mile circle without detecting a sign of her, we doubled the radius. Later we tripled it.
I think Adam would have had us out there yet, peering down through the darkness, had we not begun to run low on fuel at about the same time that we ran out of daylight. As it was, even I forgot that it was going to take close to half an hour to get back to the field, and that sunlight lasts longer at altitude than on the ground. It was still possible to make out landmarks below us, but I was glad the old plane’s landing lights worked. We touched down in a gloom hardly distinguishable from dead of night. Utilities are out in this area so the runway lights no longer work, even if someone had been here to turn them on.
While I made dinner, Adam sat and glared unseeing into space. The intensity of his feelings was almost palpable. I have never seen an expression so bleakly, ragingly frustrated. His features contained no remnant of boyishness.
He ate what I put in front of him without, I think, knowing that he did so, and with no change in expression.
After dinner, Tora-chan vaulted into his lap and butted him in the stomach. When that failed to produce the desired chin-scratch, the cat upgraded his effort to a full formal head-dive. Still nothing. Then he sat down in Adam’s lap, gazed up at his face with a puzzled expression, and said, “Mee-ow-oo…!” But the boy never twitched; he remained where he was, immobile, unresponsive to outside stimuli.
I debated jolting him out of it physically, and was on the verge of giving it a try, when suddenly, unexpectedly, he stood and, in a firm, decisive, completely rational tone, said, “Come on, let’s break camp. We can be at park headquarters by midnight, if those roads Candy reported really are passable.”
I was caught completely by surprise. I thought he was in shock withdrawal, but he was thinking, furiously, accurately; evaluating every facet of the situation, together with our options.
Almost incidentally, as we prepared to leave, he brought me up-to-date on his thinking: “Searching by air is a waste of time. It would take a miracle to spot her in those trees. And even if we did, we couldn’t help her from the air, anyway. So we’ll save time by getting there on the ground as quickly as possible. The landmarks she used are unmistakable, and my RDF line hits the intersection of her compass bearings dead center, so we have an accurate fix on where she went down. We’ll get right up there and conduct a ground search.
“We’ll get some bullhorns at a police station — there are bound to be some still operational — and pick up trail bikes from a motorcycle shop. We’ll pull the trailer in as close as we can get it; then push on in the van. If necessary, we switch to the trail bikes. Or we walk -
“Oh…” Adam broke off, looking concerned in a preoccupied sort of way. Obviously this was the first time all day that my presence had even partly registered, beyond my potential usefulness in prosecuting his search-and-rescue mission. “This is going to be rough. I can’t drag you and Lisa into it. I’ll leave you at the park headquarters in the trailer, and come back for you as soon as I find her.”
He was still only half-aware of whom he was talking to or he never would have suggested anything so stupidly sexist. My reply put a stop to that right then, and got his full attention, as well:
“You and what SWAT team are going to leave us behind…!” I snapped.
Adam’s eyes focused suddenly. He saw me. I heard Lisa giggle behind my back.
“What…? Oh, no-no, I didn’t mean — ”
“I know you ‘didn’t mean,’ ” I replied more gently. “But Candy’s my friend, too. I’m entitled to help.”
“What about Lisa?”
Adam tends to be a little conservative, not to say naïve, when judging the fragility of those whom he considers “children.” Lisa was only slightly less forthright than I was about correcting him. “You’ll never find her without me,” she announced solemnly.
Adam stared. Then he smiled wanly. He interpreted her declaration to mean that he’d better not try to leave us behind, and thought she was trying to cheer him up.
But I know my daughter. That was not bravado or sloppy syntax; Lisa meant it literally. I found myself studying her thoughtfully. She pretended not to notice. She and I will have to talk about this, very soon.
We did arrive at the park headquarters shortly after midnight; Candy’s advice about the roads was accurate.
I ordered Adam to bed as soon as we stopped. He didn’t argue, and he let me put him under, using the trance-induction formula that Candy had implanted. Once the trance had taken hold, I converted it to normal, deep sleep.
I wish someone could do that for me. One reason I’m making this entry is that I can’t sleep. I keep seeing Candy, riding that gossamer-and-toothpicks ultralight down into the sequoias, the airframe breaking up into smaller and smaller pieces as it bounces off those huge upper branches, one after another — finally plummeting unimpeded to the ground.
Another reason is that I write a pretty fair Pitman.
But the main reason I’m doing it is common decency: Adam can hardly be allowed in Candy’s journal while a chance remains that she’s alive. It wouldn’t be fair to let him peek at her intimate reflections, especially her opinions of him, when she may have to face him again. Yes, he would swear never to violate her confidence by looking anywhere but the page on which he’s writing, and he’d mean it and believe it himself as he promised. But I’m curious myself about what she’s written about me, and I’m not In Love with her; though I doubt if I could feel any closer to my own sister, if I had one.
Dear God — please let her be all right…!