“Ain’t feeling nothing. This old body’s about through. Another couple days, maybe a week, and I’ll be off your hands.”
“I’ll take care of you,” Tyler-Blaine promised, “just as long as you can stay alive, Uncle Rafe. I wish I could bring you into the house.”
“No,” the zombie said. “They’d find out. This is risky enough . . . Boy, how’s that skinny wife of yours?”
“Just as shrill as ever,” Tyler-Blaine sighed.
The zombie made a sound like laughter. “I warned you, boy, ten years ago I warned you not to marry that gal. Didn’t I?”
“You sure did, Uncle Rafe. You were the only one had sense. Sure wish I’d listened to you.”
“Better if you had, boy. Well, I’m going back to my shelter.”
“You feel confident, Uncle?” Tyler-Blaine asked anxiously.
“That I do.”
“And you’ll try to die confident?”
“I will, boy. And I’ll get me into that Threshold, never you fear. And when I do, I’ll keep my word. I truly will.”
“Thank you, Uncle Rafe.”
“I’ll haunt her, boy, if the good Lord grants me Threshold. First comes that fat doctor that made me this. But then comes her turn. I’ll haunt her crazy. I’ll haunt her till she runs the length of the state of California away from you!”
“Thanks, Uncle Rafe.”
The zombie made a sound like laughter again and crawled back into the scraggly woods. Tyler-Blaine shivered uncontrollably for a moment, then picked up the empty bowl and walked back to the sagging washboard house . . .
MARINER-BLAINE adjusted the strap of her bathing suit so that it clung more snugly to her slim, supple young body. She slipped the air tank over her back, picked up her respirator and walked toward the pressure lock.
“Janice!”
“Yes, Mother?” she said, turning, her face smooth and expressionless.
“Where are you going, dear?”
“Just out for a swim, Mom. I thought maybe I’d look at the gardens on Level 12.”
“You aren’t by any chance planning to see Hal Leuwin, are you?” Had her mother guessed? Mariner-Blaine smoothed her black hair and said, “Certainly not.”
“All right,” her mother said, half smiling and obviously not believing her. “Try to be home early, dear. You know how worried your father gets.”
Mariner-Blaine stooped and gave her mother a quick kiss, then hurried into the pressure lock.
Mother knew—she was sure of it! And wasn’t stopping her! But then why should she be stopped? After all, she was seventeen, plenty old enough to do anything she wanted. Kids grew up faster these days than they did in Mom’s time, though parents didn’t seem to realize it.
Parents didn’t realize very much. They just wanted to sit around and plan out new acres for the farm. Their idea of fun was to listen to some old classic recording, a bop piece or a rock ’n’ roll, and follow the music with scores and talk about how free and expressionistic their youth had been. And sometimes they’d go through big, glossy art books filled with reproductions of 20th-century comic strips and talk about the lost art of satire.
Their idea of a really Big Night was to go down to the gallery and stare reverently at the collection of Saturday Evening Post covers from the Great Period. But all that longhair stuff bored her. Nuts to art—she liked the sensories.
ADJUSTING her face mask and respirator, Mariner-Blaine put on her flippers and turned the valve. In a few seconds, the lock was filled with water. Impatiently she waited until the pressure had equalized with the water outside. Then the lock opened automatically and she shot out.
Her dad’s pressure farm was at the hundred-foot level, not far from the mammoth underwater bulk of Hawaii. She turned downward, descending into the green gloom with quick, powerful strokes. Hal would be waiting for her at the coral caves.
The darkness grew as Mariner-Blaine descended. She switched on her headlamp and took a firmer bite on her respirator. Was it true, she wondered, that soon the undersea farmers would be able to grow their own gills? That’s what her science teacher said, and maybe it would happen in her own lifetime. How would she look with gills? Mysterious, probably, sleek and strange, a latter-day mermaid.
Besides, she could always cover the gills with her hair if they weren’t becoming.
In the yellow glow of her lamp, she saw the coral caves ahead, a red and pink branched labyrinth with cozy, air-locked places deep within, where you could be sure of privacy. And she saw Hal.
Uncertainty flooded her. Gosh, what if she had a baby? Hal had assured her it would be all right, but he was only nineteen. Was she right in doing this? They had talked about it often enough and she had shocked him with her frankness. But talking and doing were very different things. What would Hal think of her if she said no? Could she make a joke out of it, pretend she’d just been teasing him?
Long and golden, Hal swam beside her toward the caves. He flashed hello in finger talk. A trigger-fish swam by, and then a small shark.
What was she going to do? The caves were very near, looming dark and suggestive before them. Hal looked at her and she could feel her heart melting . . .
ELGIN-Blaine sat upright, realizing that he must have dozed off. He was aboard a small motor vessel, sitting in a deck chair with blankets tucked around him. The little ship rolled and pitched in the cross-sea, but overhead the sun was brilliant, and the trade wind carried the diesel smoke away in a wide dark plume.
“You feeling better, Mr. Elgin?”
Elgin-Blaine looked up at a small, bearded man wearing a captain’s cap. “Fine, just fine,” he said.
“We’re almost there,” said the captain.
Elgin-Blaine nodded, disoriented, trying to take stock of himself. He thought hard and remembered that he was shorter than average, heavily muscled, barrelchested, broad-shouldered, with legs a little short for such a herculean torso, with large and calloused hands. There was an old, jagged scar on his shoulder, souvenir of a hunting accident . . .
Elgin and Blaine merged.
Then he realized that he was back at last in his own body. Blaine was his name, and Elgin was the pseudonym under which Carl Orc and Joe must have shipped him.
The long flight was over! His mind and his body were together again!
“We were told you weren’t well, sir,” the captain said. “But you’ve been in this coma for so long—”
“I’m fine now,” Blaine assured him. “Are we anywhere near the Marquesas?”
“Not far. The island of Nuku Hiva is just a few hours away.”
The captain returned to his wheelhouse. And Blaine thought about the many personalities he had met and mingled with.
He respected the staunch and independent old Dyersen walking slowly back to his cottage, hoped young Sandy Thompson would return to Mars, felt alarm for the warped and murderous Piggot, enjoyed his meeting with the serious and upright Juan Ramirez, felt mingled sorrow and amusement for the sly and ineffectual Ed Tyler, wished for the best for pretty Janice Mariner.
They were with him still. Good or bad, he wished them all well. They were his family now. Distant relatives, cousins and uncles he would never meet again, nieces and nephews upon whose destiny he would brood.
Like all families, they were a mixed lot; but they were his, and he could never forget them.
“Nuku Hiva in sight!” the captain called out.
Blaine saw, on the edge of the horizon, a tiny black dot capped by a white cumulus cloud. He rubbed his forehead vigorously, determined to think no more about his adopted family. There were present realities to deal with. Soon he would be coming to his new home, and that required a little serious thinking.
29.
THE ship steamed slowly into Taio Hae Bay. The captain, a proud native son, volunteered to Blaine the principal facts about his new home.
The Marquesas Islands, he explained, were composed of two fairly distinct island groups, all of them rugged and mountai
nous. Once the group had been called the Cannibal Islands, and the Marquesas had been noted for their ability at cutting out a trading ship or massacring a blackbirding schooner. The French had acquired the islands in 1842 and granted them autonomy in 1993. Nuku Hiva was the main island and capital for the group. Its highest peak, Temetiu, was nearly four thousand feet high. Its port city, Taiohae, boasted a population of almost five thousand.
It was a quiet, easygoing place, the captain said, and it was considered a sort of shrine all over the hurried, bustling South Seas. For here was the last refuge of unspoiled 20th-century Polynesia.
Blaine nodded, absorbing little of the captain’s lecture, more impressed by the sight of the great dark mountain ahead laced with silver waterfalls, and by the sound of the ocean pounding against the island’s granite face.
He decided he was going to like it here.
Soon the ship was docked at the town wharf and Blaine stepped off to view the town of Taiohae.
He saw a supermarket and three movie theaters, rows of ranch-style houses, many palm trees, some low white stores with plate-glass windows, numerous cocktail lounges, dozens of automobiles, a gas station and a traffic light The sidewalks were filled with people wearing colorful shirts and pressed slacks. All had on sunglasses.
So this was the last refuge of unspoiled 20th-century Polynesia, Blaine thought—a Florida town set in the South Seas!
Still, what more could he expect in the year 2110? Ancient Polynesia was as dead as Merrie England or Bourbon France. And 20th-century Florida, he remembered, could be pleasant indeed.
He walked down Main Street and saw a notice on a building stating that Postmaster Alfred Gray had been appointed Hereafter, Inc., representative for the Marquesas group. And, farther on, he came to a small black building with a sign on it that said Public Suicide Booth.
Ah, Blaine thought sardonically, modem civilization is encroaching even here! Next thing you know, they’ll be setting up a Spiritual Switchboard. And where will we be then?
HE had reached the end of town. As he started back, a stout, red-faced man hurried up to him.
“Mr. Elgin? Mr. Thomas Elgin?”
“That’s me,” Blaine said, with a start of apprehension.
“Terribly sorry I missed you at the dock,” said the red-faced man, mopping his wide and gleaming forehead with a bandanna. “No excuse, of course. Sheer oversight on my part. The languor of the islands. Inevitable after a while. I’m Davis, owner of the Point Boatyard. Welcome to Taiohae, Mr. Elgin.”
“Thank you, Mr. Davis,” Blaine said.
“On the contrary, I want to thank your again for answering my advertisement,” Davis replied. “I’ve been needing a master boatwright for months. You have no idea! And frankly, I didn’t expect to attract a man of your qualifications.”
“Ummm,” said Blaine, surprised and pleased at the thoroughness of Carl Orc’s preparations.
“Not many men around with a grounding in 20th-century boatbuilding methods,” Davis said sadly. “Lost art. Have you had a look around the island?”
“Just very briefly,” said Blaine. “Think you’ll want to stay?” Davis asked anxiously. “You have no idea how hard it is getting a good boatwright to settle down in a quiet little backwater like this. No sooner do they get here than they want to go charging off to the big booming cities like Papeete or Apia. I know wages are higher in places like that, and there’s more amusements and society and things, but Taiohae has a charm of its own.”
“I’ve had my fill of the cities,” Blaine said, smiling. “I’m not likely to go charging off, Mr. Davis.”
“Good, good! Don’t bother coming to work for a few days, Mr. Elgin. Rest, take it easy, look around our island. It’s the last refuge of primitive Polynesia, you know. Here are the keys to your house. Number one Temetiu Road, straight up the mountain there. Shall I show you the way?”
“I’ll find it,” Blaine said. “Thanks very much, Mr. Davis.”
“Thank you, Mr. Elgin. I’ll drop in on you tomorrow, after you’re a bit more settled. Then you can meet some of our townfolk. In fact, the mayor’s wife is giving a party Thursday. Or is it Friday? Anyhow, I’ll find out and let you know.”
They shook hands and Blaine started up Temetiu Road, to his new home.
It was a small, freshly painted bungalow with a spectacular view of Nuku Hiva’s three southern bays. Blaine admired the sight for a few minutes, then tried the door. It was unlocked and he walked in.
“It’s about time you got here.”
Blaine just stared, not able to believe what he saw.
“Marie!”
SHE appeared as slim, lovely and cool as ever. But she was nervous. She talked swiftly and avoided meeting his eyes.
“I thought it would be best if I made the final arrangements on the spot,” she said. “I’ve been here for two days, waiting for you. You’ve met Mr. Davis, haven’t you? He seems like a very nice little man.”
“Marie—”
“I told him I was your fiancee,” she continued hurriedly. “I hope you don’t mind, Tom. I had to have some excuse for being here. I said I had come out early to surprise you. Mr. Davis was delighted, of course—he wants so badly to have his master boatwright settle here permanently. Do you mind, Tom? We can always say we broke off the engagement and—”
Blaine took her in his arms and said, “I don’t want to break off the engagement. I love you, Marie.”
She clung to him fiercely for a moment, abruptly stepped back. “Then we’d better arrange for a marriage ceremony soon, if you don’t mind. They’re very stuffy and small-townish here—very 20th-century, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I know what you mean,” Blaine said.
They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
30.
MARIE insisted upon staying at the South Seas Motel until a wedding could be arranged. Blaine suggested a quiet ceremony before a justice of the peace, but Marie surprised him by wanting as large a wedding as Taiohae could produce. It was held on Sunday at the mayor’s house.
Mr. Davis loaned them a little cutter from the boatyard. They set sail at sunrise for a honeymoon cruise to Tahiti.
For Blaine, it had the sensation of a delicious and fleeting dream. They sailed across a sea carved of green jade and saw the moon, yellow and swollen, quartered by the cutter’s shrouds and tangled in its stays. The sun rose out of a long black cloud, reached its zenith and declined, scouring the sea into a gleaming bowl of brass.
They anchored in the lagoon at Papeete and saw the mountains of Moorea flaming in the sunset, more fantastic than the Lunar mountains. And Blaine remembered a day on the Chesapeake when he had dreamed, Ah, Raiatea, the Mountains of Moorea, the fresh trade wind . . .
A continent and an ocean had separated him from Tahiti, and other obstacles besides. But that had been in another century.
They would have spent more time in Papeete, but as they walked down the waterfront, they saw three zombies crouching in the shade with begging bowls. The zombies stared as they passed, then followed them. Blaine gave them alms, but the zombies still followed, mute and reproachful.
Finally Blaine stopped, turned and said, “All right. What do you want?”
The zombies didn’t answer. They simply shook their heads and stared at his strong wrestler’s body.
“Is it because of Smith?” Blaine shouted at them.
Their eyes glowed when they heard the name, but they refused to reply.
“Let’s get out of here,” Marie said. “The damned zombies have a worldwide organization. They probably know all about you and Smith.”
Blaine and Marie went to Moorea, rode horses up the slopes and picked the white hare Tahiti. But they came across a single frail and withered old zombie who watched them intently with reproachful eyes. And when Blaine asked him about Smith, the zombie nodded briefly.
They returned to their boat anchored in the bay below and set sail for the Tuamotos.
But there was no escaping from the silent, passive persecution of the zombies. On Atua, ten zombies came to the dockside and stood in a long line by the boat. Blaine walked out with a machinist’s hammer in his hand, looking for trouble, hoping the zombies would attack him. He wanted something solid to fight against. But the zombies simply stared. They appeared as fragile as withered leaves, ten dry husks that a child could scatter, as helpless as scarecrows. But they were invulnerable in their helplessness, as strong as death.
Blaine put the hammer back in his pocket and returned to the boat.
The zombie network had spread word of Blaine even to the tiniest atolls. Sometimes singly, sometimes in groups, the zombies gathered wherever Blaine landed. The silent chorus watched his movements with great, dying, reproachful eyes; the powerless, invulnerable furies waited with a terrible, soul-destroying patience. And Blaine knew what they were waiting for.
Blaine and Marie sailed back to Taiohae. Marie started housekeeping. Blaine began to work at the boatyard, and waited.
BLAINE’S job at the boatyard was interesting and varied. The island cutters and ketches limped in with bent shafts or nicked propellers, with planks that had been splintered against a hidden coral head, with sails blown out by a sudden gale. There were underwater craft to be serviced, boats belonging to the nearby undersea pressure farms that used Taiohae as a supply base. And there were dinghies to build, and an occasional schooner.
Blaine handled all practical details with skill and dispatch. As time went by, he started to write a few publicity releases about the yard for the South Seas Courier. This brought in more business, which involved more paperwork and a greater need for liaison between the Point Boatyard and the small yards to which it fanned out work. Blaine handled this, and took over advertising as well.
His job as master boatwright came to bear an uncanny resemblance to his past jobs as junior yacht designer.
But this no longer bothered him. It seemed obvious to him now that nature had intended him to be a junior yacht designer, nothing more nor less. This was his destiny and he accepted it.
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