by David Palmer
"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.
&n
bsp; 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.