by David Palmer
EMERGENCE
David R. Palmer
* * *
EMERGENCE
A Bantam Book / November 1984
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1984 by David R. Palmer.
Cover art copyright © 1984 by Jim Burns.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by
mimeograph or any other means. without permission.
For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.
ISBN 0-553-24501-5
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue. New York. New York 10103.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
H 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
* * *
This book is dedicated, with love, to
Sherry,
my wife,
without whose patience,
understanding, support, and unerring feel
for what's right and what isn't, this
book would never have seen print;
and who never, ever doubted.
With deepest gratitude to Stanley Schmidt, Ph.D., who bought my first (and second) sale; Betsy Mitchell, who copyedited them; March Laumer, who offered my first professional encouragement; and Russell Galen, my agent.
With thanks to all the patient folk who indulged and aided me in the necessary research, including (but not limited to): Bill Tjalsma, Russian Language Department, University of Florida. Ralph T. Guild III, M.D.; Frances Boulus Guild, R.N.; Allan W. March, M.D. (all of Shands Teaching Hospital, University of Florida). John J. Boyle, M.D., Gainesville, Florida. Joseph Green, Education and Awareness Branch, NASA. Joe Angelo, Ph.D., USAF, Eastern Space and Missile Center, Patrick Air Force Base. Kerry Mark Joels, Gregory P. Kennedy, David Larkin, authors of The Space Shuttle Operator's Manual. Jane Beckham, Law Librarian, Marion County, Florida. Sarah Willard, Tulane University.
And special thanks to Lou Aronica at Bantam Books, Inc.: an editor whose exemplary taste and literary discrimination is matched only by his courage . . . !
* * *
Contents
VOLUME I
Emergence
VOLUME II
Seeking
VOLUME III—Part One
Quest
VOLUME IV
Destiny
VOLUME III—Part Two
Portents
VOLUME V
Revelation
VOLUME III—Part Three
Finale
VOLUME III—Part Four
Epilogue
* * *
VOLUME I
Emergence
Nothing to do? Nowhere to go? Time hangs heavy? Bored? Depressed? Also badly scared? Causal factors beyond control?
Unfortunate. Regrettable. Vicious cycle—snake swallowing own tail. Mind dwells on problems; problems fester, assume ever greater importance for mind to dwell on. Etc. Bad enough where problems minor.
Mine aren't.
Psychology text offers varied solutions: Recommends keeping occupied, busywork if necessary; keep mind distracted. Better if busywork offers challenge, degree of frustration. Still better that I have responsibility. All helps.
Perhaps.
Anyway, keeping busy difficult. Granted, more books in shelter than public library; more tools, equipment, supplies, etc., than Swiss Family Robinson's wrecked ship—all latest developments: lightest, simplest, cleverest, most reliable, nonrusting, Sanforized. All useless unless—correction—until I get out (and of lot, know uses of maybe half dozen: screwdriver for opening stuck drawer; hammer to tenderize steak, break ice cubes; hacksaw for cutting frozen meat. . .).
Oh, well, surely must be books explaining selection, use.
Truly, surely are books—thousands! Plus microfilm library—even bigger. Much deep stuff: classics, contemporary; comprehensive museum of Man's finest works: words, canvas, 3-D and multiview reproductions of statuary. Also scientific: medical, dental, veterinary, entomology, genetics, marine biology; engineering, electronics, physics (both nuclear and garden variety), woodcraft, survival, etc., etc.; poetry, fiction, biographies of great, near-great; philosophy—even complete selection of world's fantasy, new and old. Complete Oz books, etc. Happy surprise, that.
Daddy was determined Man's highest achievements not vanish in Fireworks; also positive same just around corner. (Confession: Wondered sometimes if was playing with complete deck; spent incalculable sums on shelter and contents. Turns out was right; is probably having last laugh Somewhere. Wish were here to needle me about it—but wouldn't if could; was too nice. Miss him. Very much.)
Growing maudlin. Above definitely constitutes "dwelling" in pathological sense as defined by psychology text. Time to click heels, clap hands, smile, Shuffle Off to Buffalo.
Anyhow, mountains of books, microfilm of limited benefit; too deep. Take classics: Can tolerate just so long; then side effects set in. Resembles obtaining manicure by scratching fingernails on blackboard—can, but would rather suffer long fingernails. Same with classics as sole remedy for "dwelling": Not sure which is worse. May be that too much culture in sudden doses harmful to health; perhaps must build up immunity progressively.
And technical is worse. Thought I had good foundation in math, basic sciences. Wrong—background good, considering age; but here haven't found anything elementary enough to form opening wedge. Of course, haven't gotten organized yet; haven't assimilated catalog, planned orderly approach to subjects of interest. Shall; but for now, can get almost as bored looking at horrid pictures of results of endocrine misfunctions as by wading through classics.
And am rationing fantasy, of course. Thousands of titles, but dasn't lose head. Speedreader, you know; breach discipline, well runs dry in matter of days.
Then found book on Pitman shorthand. Changed everything. Told once by unimpeachable source (Mrs. Hartman, Daddy's secretary and receptionist) was best, potentially fastest, most versatile of various pen systems. Also most difficult to learn well. (Footnote, concession to historical accuracy: Was also her system; source possibly contaminated by tinge of bias.) However, seemed promising; offered challenge, frustration. Besides, pothook patterns quite pretty; art form of sorts. Hoped would be entertaining.
Was—for about two days. Then memory finished absorbing principles of shorthand theory, guidelines for briefing and phrasing; transferred same to cortex—end of challenge. Tiresome being genius sometimes.
Well, even if no longer entertaining for own sake, still useful, much more practical than longhand; ideal for keeping journal, writing biography for archeologists. Probably not bother if limited to longhand; too slow, cumbersome. Effort involved would dull enthusiasm (of which little present anyway), wipe out paper supply in short order. Pitman fits entire life story on line and a half. (Of course helps I had short life—correction: Helps brevity; does nothing for spirits.)
Problem with spirits serious business. Body trapped far underground; emotional index substantially lower. Prospects not good for body getting out alive, but odds not improved by emotional state. Depression renders intelligent option assessment improbable. In present condition would likely overlook ten good bets, flip coin over dregs. Situation probably not hopeless as seems; but lacking data, useful education, specialized knowledge (and guts), can't form viable conclusion suggesting happy ending. And lacking same, tend to assume worst.
So journal not just for archeologists; is therapeutic. Catharsis: Spill guts on paper, feel better. Must be true—psychology text says so (though cautions is better to pay Ph.D.-equipped v
oyeur week's salary per hour to listen. However, none such included in shelter inventory; will have to make do).
First step: Bring journal up-to-date. Never kept one; not conversant with format requirements, Right Thing To Do. Therefore will use own judgment. One thing certain: Sentence structure throughout will have English teachers spinning in graves (those fortunate to have one).
English 60 percent flab, null symbols, waste. Suspect massive inefficiency stems from subconsciously recognized need to stall, give inferior intellects chance to collect thoughts into semblance of coherence (usually without success), and to show off (my twelve-dollar-word can lick your ten-dollar-word). Will not adhere to precedent; makes little sense to write shorthand, then cancel advantage by employment of rambling academese.
Keep getting sidetracked into social criticism. Probably symptom of condition. Stupid; all evidence says no society left. Was saying:
First step: Bring journal up to present; purge self of neuroses, sundry hang-ups. Then record daily orderly progress in study of situation, subsequent systematic (brilliant) self-extrication from dire straits. Benefits twofold:
First, will wash, dry, fold, put away psyche; restore mind to customary genius; enhance prospects for successful escape, subsequent survival. Second, will give archeologists details on cause of untimely demise amidst confusing mass of artifacts in shelter should anticipated first benefit lose rosy glow. (Must confess solicitude for bone gropers forced; bones in question mine!)
Enough maundering. Time to bear down, flay soul for own good. Being neurotic almost as tiresome as being genius. (Attention archeologists: Clear room of impressionable youths and/or mixed company—torrid details follow:)
Born 11 years ago in small Wisconsin town, only child of normal parents. Named Candidia Maria Smith; reduced to Candy before ink dried on certificate. Early indications of atypicality: Eyes focused, tracked at birth; cause-effect association evident by six weeks; first words at four months; sentences at six months.
Orphaned at ten months. Parents killed in car accident.
No relatives—created dilemma for baby-sitter. Solved when social worker took charge. Was awfully cute baby; adopted in record time.
Doctor Foster and wife good parents: Loving, attentive; very fond of each other, showed it. Provided good environment for formative years. Then Momma died.. Left just Daddy and me; drew us very close. Was probably shamelessly spoiled, but also stifled:
Barely five then, but wanted to learn—only Daddy had firm notions concerning appropriate learning pace, direction for "normal" upbringing. Did not approve of precocity; felt was unhealthy, would lead to future maladjustment, unhappiness. Also paternalistic sexist; had bad case of ingrown stereotypitis. Censored activities, reading; dragged heels at slightest suggestion of precocious behavior, atypical interests.
Momma disagreed; aided, indulged. With her help I learned to read by age two; understood basic numerical relationships by three: Could add, subtract, multiply, divide. Big help until she had to leave.
So sneaked most of education. Had to—certainly not available in small-town classroom. Not difficult; developed speedreading habit, could finish high school text in 10, 20 minutes; digest typical best-seller in half, three quarters of hour. Haunted school, local libraries every opportunity (visits only; couldn't bring choices home). But town small; exhausted obvious resources three years ago. Have existed since on meager fruits of covert operations in friends' homes, bookstores; occasional raids on neighboring towns' libraries, schools. Of course not all such forays profitable; small-town resources tend to run same direction: slowly, in circles. Catalogs mostly shallow, duplicated; originality lacking.
Frustrating. Made more so by knowledge that Daddy's personal in-house library rivaled volume count of local school, public libraries put together (not counting shelter collection, but didn't know about that then)—and couldn't get halfway down first page of 95 percent of contents.
Daddy pathologist; books imperviously technical. So far over head, couldn't even tell where gap lay (ask cannibal fresh off plane from Amazon for analysis of educational deficiencies causing noncomprehension of commercial banking structure). Texts dense; assumed reader already possessing high-level competency. Sadly lacking in own case—result of conspiracy. So languished, fed in dribbles as tireless prospecting uncovered new sources.
Single bright exception: Soo Kim McDivott, son of American missionary in Boxer Rebellion days, product of early East-West alliance. Was 73 when retired, moved next door two years ago. Apparently had been teacher whole life but never achieved tenure; tended to get fired over views. Did not appear to mind.
Strange old man. Gentle, soft-spoken, very polite; small, seemed almost frail. Oriental flavoring lent elflike quality to wizened features; effect not reduced by mischief sparkling from eyes.
Within two weeks became juvenile activity focus for most of town. Cannot speak for bulk of kids, but motivation obvious in own case: Aside from intrinsic personal warmth, knew everything—and if exception turned up would gleefully drop everything, help find out—and had books. House undoubtedly in violation of Fire Code; often wondered how structural members took load.
Fascinating man: Could, would discuss anything. But wondered for a time how managed as teacher; never answered questions but with questions. Seemed whenever I had question, ended up doing own research, telling him answer. Tool a while to catch on, longer before truly appreciated: Had no interest in teaching knowledge, factual information—taught learning. Difference important; seldom understood, even more rarely appreciated. Don't doubt was reason for low retirement income.
Oh, almost forgot: Could split bricks with sidelong glance, wreak untold destruction with twitch of muscle. Any muscle. Was Tenth Degree Master of Karate. Didn't know were such; thought ratings topped at Eighth—and heard rumors they could walk on water. (But doubt Master Mac would bother. Should need arise, would politely ask waters to part—but more likely request anticipated, unnecessary.)
Second day after moving in, Master was strolling down Main Street when happened upon four young men, early twenties, drunk, unkempt—Summer People (sorry, my single ineradicable prejudice)—engaged in self-expression at Miller's Drugstore. Activities consisted of inverting furniture, displays; dumping soda-fountain containers (milk, syrup, etc.) on floor; throwing merchandise through display windows. Were discussing also throwing Mr. Miller when Master Mac arrived on scene.
Assessed situation; politely requested cease, desist, await authorities' arrival. Disbelieving onlookers closed, averted eyes; didn't want to watch expected carnage. Filthy Four dropped Mr. Miller, converged on frail-looking old Chinese. Then all fell down, had subsequent difficulty arising. Situation remained static until police arrived.
Filthies taken into custody, then to hospital. Attempted investigation of altercation unrewarding: Too many eyewitness accounts—all contradictory, disbelieving, unlikely. However, recurring similarities in stories suggested simultaneous stumble as Filthies reached for Master; then all fell, accumulating severe injuries therefrom: four broken jaws, two arms, two legs, two wrists; two dislocated hips; two ruptured spleens. Plus bruises in astonishing places.
Single point of unanimity—ask anyone: Master Mac never moved throughout.
Police took notes in visibly strained silence. Also took statement from Master Mac. But of dubious help: Consisted mostly of questions.
Following week YMCA announced Master Mac to teach karate classes. Resulted in near-riot (by small-town standards). Standing room only at registration; near fistfights over positions in line.
Was 16th on list to start first classes but deserve no credit for inclusion: Daddy's doing. Wanted badly—considering sociological trends, self-defense skills looked ever more like required social graces for future survival—but hesitated to broach subject; seemed like probable conflict with "normal upbringing" dictum.
So finally asked. Surprise! Agreed—granted dispensation! Was still in shock when Daddy asked time, date of r
egistration. Showed article in paper: noon tomorrow. Looked thoughtful maybe five seconds; then rushed us outdoors, down street to Y. Already 15 ahead of us, equipped to stay duration.
Daddy common as old slipper: warm, comfortable, folksy. But shared aspects with iceberg: Nine-tenths of brains not evident in everyday life. Knew was very smart, of course. Implicit from job; pathologist knows everything any other specialist does, plus own job. Obviously not career for cretin—and was good pathologist. Renowned.
But not show-off; was easy to forget; reminders few, far between. Scope, foresight, quick reactions, Command Presence demonstrated only in time of need.
Such occurred now: While I stood in line with mouth open (and 20 more hopefuls piled up behind like Keystone Cops), Daddy organized friends to bring chairs, cot, food, drink, warm clothing, blankets, rainproofs, etc. Took three minutes on phone. Was impressed. Then astounded—spent whole night on sidewalk with me, splitting watches, trading off visits to Little Persons' room when need arose.
Got all choked up when he announced intention. Hugged him breathless; told him kismet had provided better father than most workings of genetic coincidence. Did not reply, but got hugged back harder than usual; caught glimpse of extra reflections in corners of eyes from streetlight. Special night; full of warmth, feelings of belonging, togetherness.
After Daddy's magnificent contribution, effort to get me into class, felt slight pangs of guilt over my subsequent misdirection, concealment of true motivation. True, attended classes, worked hard; became, in fact, star pupil. But had to—star pupils qualified for private instruction—yup!—at Master's home, surrounded by what appeared to be 90 percent of books in Creation.