Jack the Bodiless

by Julian May

  “Of course!” she agreed brightly. “You see? You’re thinking positively already. Now get up, dear. I’ve got the plaque-reader all loaded with Alan Fry’s Wilderness Survival Handbook. It has an excellent chapter on hunting that you can read while you eat breakfast, and I’ll find some other books for you, too.”

  I groaned and rolled out of the sack. Books! But they’d helped me to rebuild the cabin and make snowshoes, and they’d taught Teresa how to snare and skin hares and cut the skins in a spiral to make the furry “yarn” for her rugs, and I’d learned from a book that it was necessary to keep the rifle out in the cold to prevent condensation of moisture and rusting when it was brought into the warm cabin, and Teresa had read somewhere that both dry and green firewood would be necessary for cooking and heating, a piece of practical lore I had never heard of. There were scores of other bits of information that we had gleaned from the fleck library and made good use of.

  So I would read, and then I would pray a whole lot, and then tomorrow I would go a-hunting.

  * * *

  We had chosen for our refuge one of the most glacierbound areas in North America. In almost every direction about Ape Lake, precipitous mountains and impassable icefields hemmed us in. There were only two feasible exploration directions for me to consider. The first was the Ape Creek corridor, which trended eastward into the deep interior of the Megapod Reserve. The second was a northwestern route beginning at the opposite end of the lake. It skirted the tongue of the vast Fyles Glacier, descended to the valley of a fairly large river called the Noeick, and eventually reached an arm of the sea.

  Recalling the cascades of Ape Creek, I thought at first that the other, northwestern route would be better. Ape Lake was at an altitude of 1400 meters. After traveling only 14 kilometers northwest, I would have descended 850 meters to the heavily forested river bottom, where there would certainly be wintering elk. Killing a single one of those large animals would solve our food problem completely—provided I could haul the meat back up to Ape Lake.

  But a study of the durofilm topographic map we had swiped from Bill Parmentier revealed those crowded-together contour lines that always ring alarm bells in the mind of the cross-country hiker. The route was extremely steep, and there was almost no forest cover that might harbor animals until I reached the river itself. Furthermore, traveling along that exposed and barren way would take me out of the snow shadow of Mount Jacobsen and into the teeth of the howling storms that swept in from the Pacific.

  The other possibility, a route leading from the eastern end of the lake down Ape Creek Canyon, showed the green tint of forest every centimeter of the way into the valley of the north-flowing Talchako River, some 18 kilometers distant. In most stretches along the canyon, the contour lines were reasonably far apart. Now that the temperature stayed well below freezing both day and night, the creek would surely have dwindled and frozen just as the other streams had, making it easier for me to descend. On the other hand, the canyon route would not take me down to as low an altitude as the other path would. Nevertheless I finally decided that I would have a better chance of finding a sizable animal sooner, going that way. What sort of game I would find in the interior was anybody’s guess; but the winter was not yet far advanced, and I hoped for a late-prowling bear, or perhaps a deer or two.

  I prepared to leave early on the following morning. I transferred a small mountain of firewood to the vicinity of the porch for Teresa’s convenience and ordered her to melt snow for water, rather than chancing the steep trail down to the lake. She prepared a dozen fat oatmeal cakes filled with dried fruit for my rations. I also took some packets of soup mix, which had little nourishment but would provide me with something other than hot water and tea to drink. In my backpack I carried a plass tarpaulin and lots of plass garbags, a little pot to boil water, the small axe, my biggest knife, the whetstone, a hank of rope, the ammunition, and the dome tent. I lashed my sleeping bag and pad to the pack frame and put a firestarter and Teresa’s Swiss Army knife with its saw blade into my pocket. When she wasn’t looking, I filled a spare canteen with the high-proof Lamb’s Navy Rum.

  “How long will you be gone?” she asked.

  “As long as it takes. Don’t try to farspeak me unless there’s an emergency. If they’re still searching for us, that might give you away.”

  She nodded, her face calm. She was wearing an oversized buffalo-plaid wool shirt, jeans let out at the waist, and unlaced boots over heavy socks. Her dark hair, once so sleek and shining, was lank now from being washed with soap, and pulled back into a ponytail. But otherwise pregnancy had made her bloom, and she looked so beautiful and young and vulnerable that I had to turn away from her quickly so she would not see my eyes brim up.

  She kissed me on the cheek as I put on my backpack and said, “You’ll succeed, Rogi. It can’t end this way. Jack is positive that he’s going to live and accomplish great things. That means we will, too.”

  I tried to laugh. “Cocksure little beggar, that Jack.”

  “Oh, yes. His ego is extremely healthy. I’ve already had to lecture him about the perils of pride and self-absorption. It’s difficult for Jack to understand that I’m a separate person with an independent life—not simply a loving receptacle who exists only for his convenience. The very notion that other people will someday interact closely with him still frightens him. He—he tends to equate nonmaternal minds with danger. You can understand why.”

  “Well, I’m no threat. I don’t know why he’s too shy to even say hello to me.”

  “While you’re gone, I’ll try to teach him that it’s a human survival trait to socialize. To be friendly. He and I have so much to thank you for. I’ll try to get that idea across to him, too.”

  My gloved hand rested on the door latch. “If I’m not back in six days, I want you to farspeak Denis.”

  Her eyes widened. “No!”

  “You must,” I insisted. “But you can’t wait too long, or he’ll be off-world on his way to the inauguration. Denis might be able to think of some way to save you. He has an incredible mind, Teresa. Because he’s such a self-effacing man, people tend to forget that. Even his own children do. But his metaquotient in some faculties is even higher than Paul’s. He’s a better coercer, for certain, and I know he strongly disapproves of the more tyrannical aspects of the Proctorship. He might be willing to stick his neck out for you and Jack if you convinced him of the baby’s mental superiority.”

  “No!” she cried. “Denis is too cold! Those eyes of his frighten me. He’d think only of the family, just as Lucille did. I can only trust you and Marc!”

  “Marc’s not coming back.” My tone was bleak, final. “And I may fail.”

  Both her hands were clasped tightly over her abdomen, and she had shut her eyes against a sudden flood of tears. “You won’t fail! Go, Rogi. Go now. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  I shrugged, opened the door, and stepped out into the overcast winter morning. It took me a few minutes to put on my snowshoes. Then I took the Winchester down off the wall, loaded it, hung the rifle over my shoulder, and set off. The temperature was somewhere not too far below freezing. The smoke from our chimney rose only a few meters before flattening out, which meant that the atmospheric pressure was low and some kind of bad weather was on its way. The snow was about 30 cents deep, and I mushed along easily over the frozen lake toward the Ape Creek outlet. Dark clouds hid Mount Jacobsen completely and seemed to race on ahead of me, but I never thought of turning back. Having the wind at my back seemed a good omen, and if it did begin to snow heavily, I’d simply hole up in my tent and wait for it to stop.

  Five hours later, after I had managed to descend a couple of very steep kilometers into Ape Creek Canyon, the blizzard started.

  From the lake, I had climbed down steplike terraces of rock that had formed cascades when the creek was high. Now only a little water still flowed beneath the ice crust. The canyon widened abruptly at a point where a nearly frozen waterfall dribbled into a poo
l. This lay in a brushy clearing, with terrain that was much more level than the upper part of the canyon. Scattered around the basin were tumbled rocks, looking like huge sleeping beasts partially mantled with snow. Thickets of leafless alder mingled with the spires of tall subalpine fir and spruce at the forest’s edge. It must have been an idyllic spot in warm weather. With a storm beginning to roar down the canyon, I found it much less appealing.

  The falling snow thickened rapidly to the point where the landscape began to dissolve into amorphous white. I knew I could go no further until it stopped. The temperature was dropping rapidly and the wind blew harder and harder. I slogged back among the large trees, found a reasonably sheltered place, and trampled down a spot. Then I took off snowshoes, gun, and pack, and set up the dome tent, which had an integral floor. I heaped loose snow around it so that it would not immediately blow away, then spent a bad five minutes searching for the snowshoes and the Winchester, which had been completely buried by blowing snow while I worked.

  Zipped inside my shelter at last, I did what any sensible Canuck would have done: I crept into my sleeping bag, had a good nip of rum, and went to sleep.

  For some reason, my slumber was as deep and restful as a child’s. I don’t remember my dreams, but they were innocuous. Every now and then I would half waken to the roaring of the gale in the trees and the sharp hiss of snow against the taut fabric of the tent, then drift back to sleep again. In time, the sound of the wind became muffled and the snow hiss stopped, and I knew that the tent was buried. But not to worry: the little screened window at the back was open a little at the top for ventilation, and loose snow has plenty of air in it. So I slept on and on …

  … Until utter silence woke me up.

  It was pitch black inside my shelter and the storm was over. I had slept with most of my clothes on, and if anything, I was too warm. The felt liners of my Pak boots and my mitts were shoved down in the bottom of the sleeping bag along with my food sack and water canteen. I retrieved the lot, put on my damp parka, ate a soggy oatmeal cake blind (ugh!), and drank some water. Then I began to dig myself out, since nature called. The snow had drifted more than a meter and a half deep, but it was so soft it was easily pushed aside. A snowshoe, plied with care, made a good shovel. I stomped and scraped a ramp, peed into a snowy alcove, put the snowshoes on, then moved onto the fresh snow surface.

  Up there it was bitterly cold. To my surprise, the night sky was bright. The aurora borealis glowed overhead like enormous curtains of green and scarlet light. As I watched, enthralled, they rippled and even seemed to rustle, and then a great expanding lance shape of white radiance thrust up from behind the ridge on the opposite side of the canyon, piercing the colored draperies. It was followed by another beam, and then a third and a fourth, like celestial searchlights. I gave an exclamation of awe. The trees now cast sharp shadows on the new-fallen snow, and the entire little basin was lit up as though a full moon were shining.

  And not 15 meters away, on top of a great heap of nearly snow-free rocks, I saw something move. Something large.

  I stood petrified. And then I caught a faint whiff of a pungent animal odor—and the thing on the rocks stood upright on two legs, the aurora silvering its shaggy pelt. It was huge, a good half-meter taller than I, and I knew in an instant what it was.

  Careful to make no sound, I ducked back down into the tent, seized the rifle, and shook off my right mitt. Flipping off the safety, I crept back up the snow ramp, lifted the weapon to my shoulder, and lined up the sights. The creature was still there, facing away from me, looking as tall and as massive as a grizzly bear.

  But it wasn’t a bear. It was a member of an endangered species: Gigantopithecus. The Bigfoot. The largest primate that had ever lived. A creature that was telepathic, as I was, but with a mind still innocent, as mine decidedly was not. As I drew a bead on the Megapod, I completely forgot all the high-minded musings that had occupied me when I first came to Ape Lake. I thought only of how much meat that great frame carried—meat that would keep Teresa and Jack and me alive.

  I would have killed it. At that range, even a duffer like me wouldn’t miss. And I had no qualms of conscience at all. It was an animal and I was a desperate human being, the most dangerous species in the universe. But just as my finger was tightening on the icy trigger, the aurora burst into a fantastic display of purple and green and white shapes, like multicolored ghosts gliding about the sky.

  And the Bigfoot raised its arms, and my mind heard it utter a formless telepathic cry of wonderment and joy.

  Slowly, I let the barrel of the Winchester sag. The sky phantoms danced above us and the stars sparkled and the great creature crooned its silent hymn from the rocky eminence. I tried to lift the rifle again, then gave it up and snapped the safety back on. The small sound echoed in the crisp cold air like a cracking twig, and the Bigfoot swung around abruptly and looked at me.

  I waved.

  It vanished.

  Sighing, I returned to the tent, had another oatcake and a snort, and went back to sleep.

  The next morning, it was snowing again, but lightly. I ’shoed over to the rocks where I had seen the giant ape and found nothing, not even tracks. Perhaps the thing had a den deep inside the pile.

  “Snooze in peace,” I told it. “Reason tells me that you’re groceries, but my heart says, ‘Nay, nay.’ One simply cannot eat a fellow operant.”

  After breakfast, I packed up and continued my journey down Ape Canyon.

  Below the little basin, the bed of the creek steepened once again. With the snow much deeper now, I had to proceed with greater care and much more slowly. So far, I had not encountered any formidable obstacles to travel—but I hadn’t seen any game trails, either, except for the tracks of something that might have been a mink or a marten in a place where the creek had a small area of open water.

  It snowed dismally on and off all day long, accumulating another ten cents or so. Ape Creek curved in a northerly direction now, skirting the little peak I had named Mount Jeff. I might have traveled four or five more kloms downstream by the end of the day. I found a place where there were wind-scoured rocks, pitched the tent, and built a fire. The oatcakes were not much more palatable warm than they had been cold, but a potful of hot chicken soup warmed my belly nicely. I lay in my sleeping bag at the open door of the tent, sipping the rum drop by numbing drop, watching the fire die and the snowflakes sift gently down. As boozy contentment took hold of me, I wondered if I was going to die. Freezing to death is supposed to be an easy way to go. Much easier than starvation. Lucky me. Poor Teresa …

  But then I snapped out of my morbid reverie, remembering that I had not decided to accompany Teresa to this place of my own free will. I was ordered to do so by the Lylmik entity I called the Family Ghost, who had said that my participation in the adventure was necessary.

  Necessary! To what? To the thing’s cosmic chicanes, of course. I was quite certain that Teresa’s unborn child was the key factor in my spectral hassler’s schemes; this meant that she would live to see Jack born. It was logical that I would probably live as well, so that she would not have to go through her ordeal alone in the dead of winter. Un point, c’est tout, Oncle Rogi! The luxury of freezing to death was not to be mine after all.

  Still, I was getting mighty tired of clambering down this canyon. The farther away from Ape Lake I went, the more trouble I’d have returning. One more goddam blizzard, and I might not be able to get back at all …

  “Mon fantôme!” I called out. “Are you there?”

  The last flaming chunk of wood in my campfire subsided into the ashes. Only embers remained, making little sizzling sounds as the snowflakes pelted them.

  “Ghost! I know you can hear me. It’s getting colder and colder, and this rock-scrambling on snowshoes is pooping me out. I’m only a poor old man—a hundred and six years old! If I go much farther, I’ll have big trouble hauling back any game I find. You shag me out some kind of edible critter tomorrow—you hear me? No
more fooling around. You want me to do this job you handed me, then gimme a break! Big game! No shit! Tomorrow! Right here! Without fail!”

  Feeling much better, I capped the rum canteen, zipped the tent flap, and slept.

  In the morning, it was very cold and cloudy, but the snow had stopped. When I went down to the creek for water, I discovered that something had been there before me. Tracks led upstream on the opposite bank, and I could see a thin plume of smoke or steam arising from a stand of small fir trees about a hundred meters away.

  I got the Winchester, crept up my side of the creek, and spotted him browsing among the firs. Aim for the front of the body, where the vital organs are, the Wilderness Survival Handbook had said. And the book even included a line drawing of an animal with a bull’s-eye on it for the sake of idiots like me. I slipped off the safety, took aim at the proper spot, and fired.

  The young bull moose dropped dead into the snow.

  It must have weighed upwards of 450 kilos. Even if I made a sled, it was going to take several grueling trips to get all the meat back home. But what the hell. I’d done it! Giddy with success, I got out the axe and the knives and the tarp and the plass bags, and tried to remember what the book had said about butchering. I was a little hazy on the details, but I figured I’d manage somehow.

  Before I started, I chanced one triumphal telepathic shout, imperfectly directed along Teresa’s intimate mode:

  Foodgloriousfood!

  And another thought-beam pierced my brain like a tiny dart, smack between the eyes:

  Gotcha Uncle Rogi!

  Denis had finally found me.

  20

  SECTOR 15: STAR 15-000-001 [TELONIS] PLANET 1 [CONCILIUM ORB]

  GALACTIC YEAR: LA PRIME 1-378-566 [6 DECEMBER 2051]

  ON 4 DECEMBER BY EARTH RECKONING, ANNE REMILLARD had requested—no, ordered!—that Marc do his family duty by tourist-guiding small groups of his newly arrived cousins about Concilium Orb, orienting them to the legislative center of the Galaxy. She had delivered this stunner with oh-by-the-way casualness as the two of them were leaving the Human Polity office block on Monday, heading for the tube station along with a great mob of operant human bureaucrats.