by David Palmer
"Edwards Air Force Base," breathed Adam. "Of course, perfect."
"She said that," said Lisa from the back seat. We spun and stared. "She's awful scared," she continued solemnly. "I think we better hurry."
We arrived back at the little airstrip outside Fresno a few minutes after noon. Lisa's soft-spoken observation was all it took to revert Adam to a full-blown wild man. He fueled and preflighted the Cessna; and by 12:30 we were accelerating down the runway. Adam banked almost the instant the wheels cleared the ground, and seconds later we were on course for Edwards.
He climbed us to about seventy-five hundred feet; the operator's manual suggests that altitude as the ideal compromise between lessened air resistance and engine-power loss due to reduced oxygen. He fiddled with the mixture, manifold pressure, and propeller pitch until he was squeezing out the absolute maximum speed of which the plane was capable.
We've been in the air for about an hour; just under a half hour to go.
I'm not a compulsive histographer like Candy. I've been keeping her journal up-to-date in her absence because I know she would rather not have any significant gaps. But today's record is being made in hopes that keeping busy will enable me to retain what little remains of my sanity.
This is crazy, what we're doing—it simply is not rational!
But we're doing it anyway; and I think Adam really expects to find her at Edwards when we get there, or shortly thereafter.
I think I do, too.
But . . .
Sorry for the interruption. We're in the midst of a crisis; it's panic time among our little group. And justifiably so, I'm afraid.
All doubts have vanished; we know that we're listening in on Candy's thoughts through Terry—however he's doing it. And it doesn't take much imagination to figure out what's happening.
A few minutes ago Terry gasped (I know—whoever heard of a bird gasping?), "What the hell . . . ! That's atmosphere! What happened to the brakes! Oh, damn, this is going to be hot!"
"Mommy," said Lisa unhappily, "Candy's awful scared."
I wasn't much of a mother just then. I said, "Yes, dear, I know. Be quiet now and let us hear what's going on."
"Knock it off," snapped Terry. "Let's get that record wrapped up and safe first. Then be as hysterical as you like. Okay. In through the neck, snap on the helmet; now Kyril's waist ring, now the spare. There. Both PLSS thermostats cooling at max. Good, maybe it'll come through okay.
"Now me—oh, Lord, I'm scared . . . ! Pay attention!—right glove—stop fumbling; you've done this a dozen times in training! Oh, yeah?—with another pair of gloves on already? Okay. Left glove. Good. Now turn PLSSs down all the way.
"Whoa—gees building up already. Better get up somewhere near the middle of the transverse bulkhead, away from the hull. That hull's going to get hot!
"Idiot!—don't forget the record . . . ! Maybe I can wedge the EMU in between those bulkhead stiffeners. There. EMU—stay!
"Hey, where's my PLSS? Oh, that's no good; I better . . .
"What was that! What are they doing; firing the laterals in the atmosphere? Boy, that's thorough; what a paranoid bunch! I bet nothing in the Free World's entire defense arsenal could keep this sucker from completing its appointed rounds. Not at—what?—seven miles per second . . . ?
"Oh, damn—how high will I be when I pass over Vandenberg? Why didn't I think of that before? Too high and the shock wave won't reach the ground at all; they won't notice—they'll miss their only chance! The record can't warn Teacher if he never finds out about it . . . !
"No; they're bound to have radar looking west—watching for the tsunami, if nothing else; that would be their first indication that we failed. Yeah, they'll notice—they have to notice! And it'll take an Act of God to keep them away after that. Okay, the warning will get through—if it gets down intact.
"Wonder if I'm going to get down intact—damn, it's hot in here! I wish they'd quit banging away with those lateral thrusters; it's hard to hang on.
"Whoo-ee . . . ! Aerodynamic dodging! Wonder if that's programmed at ten gees, too. Got to admire somebody that determined. Those people—"
Suddenly Lisa screamed shrilly and clutched at her upper arm.
"Ouch . . . !" coughed Terry. "Lord, my arm . . ."
Adam's head jerked around, his face ashen. Our eyes met in helpless silence.
"Mom-mee-ee . . . !" wailed Lisa, rubbing her arm. But there was nothing I could do for her: Sometimes it's not much fun being a Corsican sister.
"Oh, that hurts . . . !" continued the bird. "Now Adam and I match. Surprised it didn't smash the inner helmet, too! How am I supposed to climb back up there with this? Hell, how could I hang on even if I—"
Lisa screamed again.
"Jees-sus . . . !" panted Terry "I feel like a pingpong ball in a doubles match! Good thing I'm wearing two—"
Lisa grunted as if the breath had been kicked out of her, then moaned inarticulately.
"Uh . . ." said Terry. "Where am I? My arm hurts. It's so hot. Oh, I remem—"
Lisa shrieked, then sobbed in silence.
"Oh!—wonder how many ribs that was. It hurts . . .
"What's that—my PLSS line . . . ! Quick, crimp it off—stop the lea—"
Lisa "oofed," her sobbing momentarily interrupted; then she continued. I felt so helpless! For both of them.
"Oh, that was a good one. Wonder what broke that time. Where's that life-support line? There, crimp it again—crimp it! Not that it matters—it's getting so hard to breathe. So hot. . . . Oh, damn, I thought maybe it would work; I wanted—"
Lisa hardly reacted at all that time; only an added moan on top of her crying.
"What a choice—cook, suffocate . . . beat to a pulp. . . ."
"Mommy," whimpered Lisa, hands at her throat, "I can't breathe . . . ."
"God . . . bless Mother and Father . . . Smith, and Momma and Daddy Foster and . . . Teacher . . . and Adam and Kim and Lisa. And Terry . . . oh—please take . . . care of Ter—"
The bird fell silent. He fluffed, hunched. His eyes went blank. He began to make a soft keening sound. Lisa stopped crying. I started.
"Terry can't feel her, Mommy," whispered Lisa in stricken tones. "She's not scared anymore."
That's when Adam slammed the throttle forward and lowered the nose. Our airspeed indicator is now pegged at the red line. In theory, the plane can break up if we go any faster. In practice, the exhaust-gas temperature readings are over the limit already.
But the dry lake is in sight. We can glide from here if we have to.
Only a few minutes more . . . .
There it is . . . ! Whatever it is. It looks something like a shuttle, but bigger. It's dead black. It's a threatening-looking machine somehow. It's well above us, approaching from the west, descending rapidly. There are no lights or windows. There are no markings.
Adam is diving the plane to pick up even more speed. It's right at our height now, crossing in front of us. Adam is turning to follow, losing ground.
We're over the dry lake bottom now. There's a good five or ten miles of smooth, flat surface ahead. It's well ahead of us now, beginning its flare-out. It's only feet above the ground. There's no sign of landing gear yet—it's down; it touched down on its belly. It's sliding smoothly along the lake bottom, trailing an immense plume of dust, slowing gradually.
We're overtaking it, skimming along just above the ground, bleeding off our dive-induced excess speed.
We're alongside now, and Adam is slowing us, maintaining formation.
Our wheels are down—isn't that thing ever going to stop . . . ?
Lisa is becoming agitated. She's begun to whisper, "Hurry, Mommy; hurry, Mommy," through her tears.
Terry just began to moan.
Adam glanced across at him, his face an absolute death mask. "That's the noise he made before," he remarked in a controlled, brittle, horribly offhand manner, "when her heart stopped after she pulled me out of the fire and stitched up my leg."
&nb
sp; We're almost stopped—I don't know what's going to happen, but Adam is still wearing that expression.
Hello. Mommy can't write now. She's hurt. Adam is too. I know Candy would want somebody to tell what happened. I'm the only one who knows what happened who isn't hurt.
I'm writing in squiggles too. I don't know why they call it shorthand. I learned how to write this way three years ago. Mommy doesn't know. I haven't been telling Mommy all the things I can do for a long time. I could feel her worry when I told her stuff sometimes. So when I felt her worry about something and she asked me, I pretended I didn't understand. She feels different now. Maybe I can tell her everything.
There was a book on the living-room shelves. It showed how to write shorthand. I already knew how to read and write English. I had to read fast while Mommy was taking a bath. She thought I was too young to read books without pictures. Candy writes this way in her books too. I practiced reading them. Nobody knew I could read them. I never wrote this way before. It feels funny.
I felt Candy hurt real bad. It hurt a lot. Then I almost couldn't feel her and she almost stopped being in Terry's mind. I got awful scared. Then I couldn't feel her at all and she wasn't in Terry's mind anymore. Then Terry got real scared too.
The spaceship came down like on television. Adam landed next to it. We got out. Terry wanted to go to Candy. He knew she was inside the spaceship. I couldn't feel her, but he could. He flew at the spaceship. It was very hot. He burned his feet and feathers. I pulled him away and held him so he wouldn't. He screamed and tried to get away.
Adam and Mommy ran to the spaceship. They opened the door. They burned their hands. They climbed inside. They got burned more. They found Candy. They carried her out. She was wearing a spacesuit. It was smoking. The glass thing on her head was full of smoke too. You almost couldn't see her face.
They tried to get the spacesuit off. It was too strong. Adam was crying and said bad words. Mommy was crying too. I could feel how scared they were. I was scared too. I couldn't feel her even that close.
Then Adam said the word that makes you strong. I didn't think it would work. It never made him strong before. But it did work and he was strong and he tore the spacesuit apart. There was another spacesuit inside that one. He tore it apart too.
Candy was asleep. They tried to make her wake up. She wouldn't. I couldn't feel her at all. Then Terry screamed because he couldn't feel her in his mind anymore. He wanted to be with her. I put him down. He couldn't walk because his feet were burned. I put him right by her head. He put his head against her cheek and cried.
Adam started kissing Candy and pushing on her chest. He did that a long time. He was awful scared. Mommy tied sticks to Candy's legs and arm and put bandages and needles and tubes and stuff on her.
Then the helicopters came and people got out. They were nice. One of the people is named Teacher. That's a funny name. He has nice eyes and lots of wrinkles and feels nice inside. He took Candy's wrist in his hand. He put his ear on her chest like Adam did. Then he got scared too. He looked at the bandages and tubes and stuff that Mommy put on Candy. He said Mommy did a good job. I don't understand why he cried if Mommy did a good job.
They tried to wake up Candy too. She wouldn't wake up. They put more bandages on her. They put bandages on Mommy too. They put bandages on Terry. They had to put them on him right by Candy because he wouldn't leave her. They wanted to put bandages on Adam. He wouldn't let them. He kept kissing Candy and pushing on her chest. He wouldn't stop.
Then I felt Candy wake up part way. I could feel her hurt. It wasn't as bad as before. Adam didn't know she was awake yet. She put her good arm around his neck. She kissed him back. He was surprised. Kissing like that feels funny.
Then Candy woke up all the way. She opened her eyes. She was surprised too because she was kissing Adam. That was funny. She said, "Hello, Melville" to Adam and he was more surprised. Mommy laughed. I never saw anybody laugh at the same time she was crying. I wonder who Melville is.
Candy wanted to talk to Teacher. Her voice was very weak. I couldn't hear what she said. Teacher didn't want her to talk. She said a bad word. Her voice wasn't weak that time. Then Teacher got down on his knees and put his ear close to her mouth and she talked to him.
He was surprised. He talked to some of the other people then. They went inside the spaceship and came out with somebody else. I thought it was somebody else. It was a book inside three spacesuits. Teacher thought it was very smart of Candy to put the book inside three spacesuits. I don't understand why that's smart.
I like Teacher. I like the way he feels. He likes Candy. He was glad to get the book. He said now everything will be all right. I am glad.
Teacher is glad Candy is back. I am glad Candy is back. Mommy and Adam are glad too.
Terry is gladdest of all.
* * *
VOLUME III—Part Four
Epilogue
Pay attention now, Posterity; do not intend to repeat myself:
Positively last time I travel coach . . . !
Finally out of traction, thank you; and burns healing nicely. Haven't required I.V. in better than month. Yesterday morning doctors (crème of AA medical community; all handpicked by, working under direction [gimlet eye] of, Teacher) even let me try walking—for first time since reentry. (Three, four months ago, I think. Maybe longer.) And no more Foley catheter; can go potty myself again—at last!
Truly was a mess:
More bones broken than intact. Epidermis essentially one large hematoma—which underlay widespread first-, second-degree burns. Also concussed. Etc. (Lots of "etc.")
Pretty well out of things during initial weeks. Fortunately. Memory of that period consists primarily of impressions:
. . . Pain.
. . . Darkness.
. . . Intermittent awareness of intruding kindly hands, gentle for most part, but often doing things that hurt; fleeting hazy glimpses of faces; nearby voices speaking occasional hearty encouragement—frequent muffled sobbing in background.
. . . Adam. Swathed in bandages at outset. No idea when slept, if ever; but seemingly there every minute, quietly performing endless little chores required by intensive-care patient, or sitting at bedside, holding hand.
. . . And, of course, Terry. Don't think twin slept any more than Adam. (That's one possibility; other makes me nervous—Teacher promises study of phenomenon soonest possible opportunity.) Anyway, never opened eyes without finding brother peering intently from bedside stand, reaching out gently to nuzzle cheek, offer greeting: "Hello, baby! What'cha doin' . . . ?"
Though personal universe limited in beginning to Pain, Presence & Absence of, vaguely remember gaining impression baby brother moving more cautiously than usual—plus seemed to be wearing fuzzy white slippers. By time own condition improved to point where data registered as anomalous, footwear gone, irrepressible sibling madcap self again: dancing back and forth on, chinning upside down from, perch; wrestling endless with bell (lifelong obsession: clapper got in there; must come out); chattering merrily, singing, whistling, laughing, etc.
As well, once my recovery status permitted such, enjoying visitors (Terry so loves company). And we had lots: Vandenberg community census approaching 2,000—must have seen each at least once during past months.
(The lengths some girls will go to, to be popular. . . .)
Prognosis suggests complete recovery; no sequelae: no physical impairment, no motor/sensory dysfunction—no scarring from burns; not even hypopigmentation. (Was awfully lucky.)
Nor, happy to report, psychic trauma over killing Kyril . . . .
Yes, regret necessity. Very, very much.
Sweet man. Bright, fun, good company. Also cuddly. Dear friend.
Gallant foe.
Miss him. Intensely.
But his job conflicted with mine. Mortally: Under circumstances, "him-or-me" synonymous with "them-or-us."
Chose us.
And would again, thousand times over. Million times over! Along
with entire tribe, root and stock . . . !
Genocide ugly concept. Not arguing point. But Khraniteli chose ground rules, set stakes. In no position to complain when plans backfire.
Teacher will do best to avoid massacre, of course. But equally certain: Will not expose tiny hominem population to slightest risk of another brush with extinction. Khraniteli who survive next encounter will be product of most careful screening imaginable—plus can expect to spend balance of days under tightest supervision.
Goodness . . . . That's enough for now. Suddenly it's kind of tired out.
(Been sick, you know.)
Good night, Posterity.
Progress! Teacher studied x-rays, conferred with colleagues, pronounced repairs complete: skeleton intact, skin whole. Sent me home to family.
Which now includes Gayle. Kim, with Adam's concurrence (ha!), asked if wished to move in with us. Did. So now have three sisters. Cozy, homey, fun. (More fun still: Adam badly outnumbered; stays rather distracted. . . .)
Lisa has another new friend, by the way: small boy, approximately same age. Nice lad—despite growing up under handicap: Parents named him Leslie Vivian Sweet. But not teased about it. Possibly because first showed up several weeks ago—riding full-grown male Kodiak bear . . . !
Charming beast; answers to name of Baloo.
Leslie's father zookeeper in San Diego. Baloo born at zoo but fell sick; had to be taken home for special nursing. Became Leslie's constant companion for whole year. Attempted return to zoo utter failure: Both pined inconsolably for weeks. Zoo authorities, father finally yielded to inevitable: Baloo remained family member until Armageddon; protected small charge thereafter until stumbled onto hominem community.
No one has slightest fear of shaggy giant, despite obvious horrific potential: Gentle as puppy, affectionate toward everyone; does everything boy says—plus everything he doesn't say . . . .