“I’d like that,” Tess said. She stood quietly for a few minutes. “It’s funny: I feel like I am finally getting my shit together—feeling more engaged in my life, happier, healthier, and I’m even getting some inheritance. Unfortunately, now all I have to worry about is the world is coming to an end.”
Richie chuckled. “It would a poetic end for modern man—death by computer virus.”
They were both trying to laugh the whole idea off, but the problem was that joking about it had the opposite effect. It made it almost seem scarier.
“Listen,” said Richie, “I’m sorry about Whitman. I don’t really know this cousin of mine too well. But I guess that’s that. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
Just then they saw the white bulk of the polar bear submerge, all but his head, and tread his big limbs in the underwater tank. They watched in silence for a while.
“Actually,” said Tess. “I am not in a wait-and-see kind of mood these days. I think I’m going to go to England to see Mr. Wayne Orbus.”
“What? Why?”
“I just really need to find out what’s going on.”
“Tess, you can’t do that—you can’t go alone. This is not a thriller and you are not the girl with the dragon tattoo.”
“It’ll be fine. What can happen?” She turned to him with a sardonic smile. Her life was already like some crazy mixed-up dream. Might as well keep going.
With his eyes still focused straight ahead on the dog-paddling polar bear, Richie hesitated and then sighed. “Maybe I could … I could probably get someone to cover for me at the bar for a few days.”
Tess stared at him in disbelief. “You’d really want to do that? But why?”
He turned to her and raised an eyebrow. “What, you think you’re the only person who’s allowed to try to save the world from imminent and total destruction?”
They looked at each other for a long moment and laughed, shaking their heads. The whole thing was so absurd.
“Shit, I’ve got to get to the bar by six forty-five,” Richie said, looking at his watch.
She thanked him and hugged him good-bye, and then wandered farther up into the park to find an empty seat on a bench. Watching several kids lining up at a stand to buy sno-cones, she reflected on how nice Richie had been to her through all of this. At least one good thing came out of all those hours I spent at the bar, she thought. I made a great friend.
Chapter Twelve
“Richie, wake up, we’re landing.”
He had slept the whole way to London. They hadn’t been in the air an hour before he had fallen asleep. Now he opened his blue eyes and sat up, running his fingers though his matted hair, which only made it messier. Tess smiled at him. This man was quickly becoming one of her best friends—even though she had rarely seen him outside of the Scrub-a-Dub-Pub—and she knew almost nothing about him. She had been looking forward to having a long conversation with him during the plane ride. But he had met her at the airport all disheveled and bleary-eyed, mumbling about having gotten no sleep the night before because of Jason. (Tess certainly did not want to ask him about that. She wasn’t ready to be that intimate, traveling companion or no.)
Tess had wanted to go to England right after the meeting at Homeland Security, but the cost of the flights at this time of year was totally outrageous unless they waited at least three weeks. Even then, for it to be remotely affordable they had to leave on Monday, June 25, and turn around and come back on Wednesday the twenty-seventh. After a bit of a fight with Richie (Tess finally got to see the ornery side of the easygoing bartender), wherein Tess pointed out to him that the money WOOSH was paying her should, logically, go to checking up on them, Tess had used her Visa card for both tickets, with the understanding that Richie would pay her back. But when they checked in to their hotel in Russell Square, Richie wouldn’t hear of it when Tess had suggested putting his room on her card, so Tess dropped it.
She had not slept at all on the plane, so she fell into her bed exhausted and did not wake up until the late afternoon. Richie, who had been out wandering around all day, wanted to go to an authentic British pub, having never been to England before. He wanted to kibitz with the bartender, Tess suspected. So they went down the street to The Lamb, where they sat at the bar, ordered fish and chips, and drank pints of beer. Richie was intrigued by the frosted-glass “snob screens” that dated back to the Victorian era, as well as by how much warmer the beer was served. (“It’s not room temperature, mate,” the bartender said, “it’s cellar temperature.”) They chatted with other customers about London, trying to keep their minds off the next day. They would have plenty of time to worry about Orbus on the train.
Tess had gotten his contact information from Dakota and called the phone number before they left the States. She informed the woman who answered the phone that her name was Tess Eliot and that she was working on a project for Wayne Orbus. She said that she and a friend were going to London for a wedding, and she was hoping to get a chance to meet with Orbus. After putting Tess on hold, the woman returned to say that “Mr. Orbus would be absolutely delighted” to see her if she could be prevailed upon to come to Suffolk. Furthermore, he would arrange to have “his man” pick her up at the train station in Ipswich on Wednesday morning at 10:15. Tess had been pleasantly surprised at this; she had been thinking they were going to have to just show up there uninvited.
And so the next morning they took a ten-minute taxi to Liverpool Street Station, where they got the 8:55 train to Ipswich. Tess was nervous; she wanted to talk strategy about what they are going to say and do when they met Orbus. “We need to just draw him out,” Tess said. “Let’s not make him think we are suspicious about anything. He can’t know I‘ve been sleeping with Peter, and that I think there has been foul play there. We need to make him believe we are his admirers.”
“You can be an admirer. I’m just along for the ride.” Richie seemed out of sorts. He didn’t seem to want to make eye contact with her. Maybe he was regretting coming.
“And I am so glad you are,” said Tess, squeezing his shoulder. How she wished they really were here for someone’s wedding—or a vacation.
It was cloudy and breezy when they got off the train at Ipswich. There, waiting for them as soon as they exited the station, was an honest-to-goodness black Bentley, with an honest-to-god chauffeur standing at its side. Tess had been expecting a jeep, or maybe a solar or electric car.
“Miss Eliot?” the man said to her, tipping his hat.
They were out of the town of Ipswich and in the country within about five minutes. The scenery was beautiful, bucolic, with well-tended farms, cows, horses, and the greenest green everywhere. It made Tess relive all the Jane Austen novels she had read and reread since she was sixteen; she wanted to stop and look behind every gate and hedge she saw. But as they went on and on, thirty minutes, forty minutes, and the country became wilder, Tess grew more uneasy. She began trying to read signs as they passed, should they have to try to find their way back to the station by themselves.
“So where are we going?” Tess finally said to the back of the driver’s head.
“Orbus Hall, mum. Not too far from Frizzler’s Green.” Tess thought she detected a bit of disdain in his voice, as in “What a silly question—why would anyone not know where Orbus Hall was?”
After almost an hour they turned onto a dirt lane with thick stands of trees on either side. After a few more minutes they came to an immense, medieval-looking iron gate, through which they could see a long gravel driveway. The driver got out and unlocked it with an enormous key he pulled from his pants pocket, and then he pushed some sort of lever, causing huge weights hanging high up on either side to slowly descend to the ground, which in turn pulled open the gates.
“I expected a fancy automatic gate,” Tess said in a soft voice to Richie. “Don’t you see,” answered Richie, “Orbus is planning to be off grid. Everything mechanical, nothing computerized.”
Tess nodded. They continued f
or at least five more minutes on the tree-lined driveway. Here there were manicured grounds, acres and acres of rolling green. They came upon a rectangular stone house on the right side of the driveway that looked very old, with small windows and ivy growing up over it. “Is that Orbus Hall?” asked Tess.
“No, that’s the carriage house, mum.” Again the disdainful tone.
They went around a bend in the road, and suddenly there it was, looming, and the first thing that went through Tess’s mind was, It’s Manderley! From Rebecca! Of course at second glance it wasn’t quite that big. It was, however a very grand stone manor, probably centuries old, three stories high, with dozens of windows. It looked stately, respectable, aristocratic—certainly not the home of an eccentric cult leader.
Tess and Richie got out of the car and before they could even get up the steps, one of the two massive front doors was flung open, and in the doorway was Wayne Orbus himself. By now Tess had expected at least one butler, if not two, to greet them, so this took her off guard.
“Tess! Tess Eliot! Welcome!” he called out in a booming voice, waving at them, wearing the biggest smile she had ever seen. It went almost ear to ear, and he opened his arms wide for a hug. So much for British reserve. He looked very much the same as he had in the video—bald, with those unbelievably rapscallion eyebrows—but he was dressed in an elegant tweed jacket, complete with patches on the elbows.
They were shown through about three consecutive living rooms into a pretty sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows (obviously this room was a modern improvement to the house), which opened onto a formal garden with hedges and a square pond in the middle. Tess looked around for signs of a cult lifestyle but all she saw were tasteful, understated furniture and carpets, paintings of horses and ancestors, and antique vases and bowls dotted here and there. All the kind of things one would expect in a house like this. A severe woman in a high-necked brown dress brought in tea on a tray and set it on the coffee table.
“Well,” said Orbus, pouring from the pot, still smiling, “I was so very delighted when you called. I have heard such tremendous things about you from Dakota. I confess, I have not yet read much of the book you are writing for our little organization, but what I did read, I thought was absolutely brilliant. You’ve captured something really important, Tess! Really, quite marvelous. We are so fortunate to have obtained your services. You can’t imagine the people you are going to be helping. I credit Dakota Flores for finding you. Capital woman.”
She had always been a sucker for a British accent, but Wayne Orbus also had a way of looking you straight in the eyes when he spoke; he never wavered or looked off at the table (or at your chest), and Tess found herself sinking into the pleasurable feeling of being appreciated, liked, accepted. His eyes really were an extraordinary blue, like bright marbles. She was glad to be in this man’s presence, she felt suddenly everything was going to be okay. She had been worrying for nothing, she probably just had not been looking at things right; this man was a total darling! Then Richie cleared his throat, and Orbus turned to him, and she snapped out of it somewhat. Oh boy, did Wayne Orbus have major personal power. On the other hand, why should that surprise her?
“And you, my good fellow, you were gentlemanly enough to accompany our Miss Eliot on her journey across the pond? Perhaps you are also interested in the mission of WOOSH? What is your field? You look like an extraordinary man—intelligent, capable. In fact, you look like someone who has innate talent in his hands—a craftsman, perhaps?” He was beaming at Richie.
Richie smiled back, looking pleased and surprised. “Well, actually, I do dabble a bit in furniture making.” Tess could tell Richie was succumbing not only to Orbus’s charisma but also to his accent. His response sounded more clipped than usual, almost British. So it wasn’t just women Orbus charmed.
They talked about the weather (it being cooler here than in America) and what they had been doing in London (which Tess had rehearsed in her mind beforehand, as of course all they had done was get off the plane and have fish and chips and then come here) and then Orbus asked if they would like to see “his operation.” Here we go, thought Tess.
They went out the French doors and he led them through garden after garden—some with masses of flowers, some just trimmed hedges and fountains—until they finally reach a huge flat field, where they could see two airplanes and about a dozen small car-like vehicles. Beside the field was another old house. (How many houses does Orbus have? Tess wondered.) This one was smaller, but had more of a castle aspect, and there was a little footbridge up to the front entrance—was that a moat?
“Well, there’s no drawbridge at least,” Richie said quietly in her ear.
Orbus dropped back to walk side by side with them now. “Over on the east side of the property, there are the garages, and the stables that have been converted into barracks—which we will be needing very soon—and I have another field where we will be setting up yurts. But these,” he said with pride, “these are my ornithopters and my cyclemobiles.” Orbus gestured grandly toward them with his arm. The airplanes were delicate-looking, with huge wingspans, and cockpits underneath which appeared to be big enough for only one person. Orbus led them over to inspect one of the cars. Tess recognized it as the type of car she had seen in the WOOSH brochure. It was very compact, maybe a little longer than a Smart Car, made mostly of some kind of wood, with some kind of fabric for the seats and roof. “All of my inventions are designed to be human-powered,” he said, smiling. “As you can see”—he opened the door of the car—“there are pedals on the floor, on both sides. The more people pedaling, the faster the car goes, and the more weight it can pull.” The pedals looked a lot like bicycle pedals. There were some for the backseat passengers as well. “Just think about what great physical shape everyone will be in when we build our new future.”
“What is it made of?” asked Richie, putting one hand gently on the thin roof of the car. Tess could tell he was more spellbound by the inventions than by Orbus.
“Balsa wood and canvas, mostly, with a light aluminum frame. If you do not have to worry about being on the road with cars and trucks that use petrol, your safety considerations become vastly different.” He pointed over to one of the planes. “The Orbus Ornithopter also has foot pedals and a series of complicated pulleys and gears, which actually cause the wings to flap in the precise way that a bird does. I wish you could be here on one of our test-flight days! It’s like a festival around here!” Tess had never in her whole life seen any human being look so joyful as Wayne Orbus. She found herself wishing she could be here for those days. Maybe, after all, Orbus was one of the good guys.
He turned and led them toward the stone outbuilding. “The Orbus family founded one of the major bicycle companies in the U.K., among other things,” he explained, “so I already owned a lot of the patents used to make these machines. Flying under your own steam, using no fuel, that was my father’s dream, and we have achieved it! Obviously, you especially, Tess, can understand that what is now just a novelty will soon become a necessity, by 2013. Anyone who owns one of these machines is going to have an advantage.”
Tess smiled. “Of course,” she said. They crossed over the footbridge. The water in the moat was dark and brackish. Orbus took out a set of keys and opened the front door of the building.
“This is the original house, dating from the sixteenth century,” he said. “But it’s in a bit of disrepair, and so we use it now for the laboratory.” The second they were through the door, they could smell the mustiness of age and could hear a loud humming, undeniably an insect hum.
Shit, Tess thought. This is much more like the horror movie I was expecting.
“Ah, I see you are put off by the sound. Everyone has that initial reaction, but if you spend any time around insects, you really grow to understand how intrinsic they are to the world. Everything depends on them; they are our friends, not things to fear. And we can learn a lot by studying them.”
They were in
a dim central hallway with a high vaulted ceiling. Orbus led them into a room off to the right. It was a bright office, with many shelves of books and a large oak desk as well as an upholstered couch and some armchairs. Perfectly normal. No insects flying around. Tess glanced at Richie and could tell he was as relieved as she was.
Orbus gestured for them to sit, and he took his place behind the big desk. “I assume Dakota told you that yours is one of several handbooks we have commissioned that we feel will be essential aids after December. Now, I know your purview is manners and mores, but I do hope you might have occasion to mention … oh, you know, some of our green philosophy—living in harmony with the animals and insects of the planet, that sort of thing. I assume you’ve heard of my predilection for the beetle. Wonderful creatures. I raise them here. They are truly cosmic beings—creators as well as destroyers.” Orbus picked up a large paperback from the top of a pile of books and showed it to Tess. It had a friendly-looking cartoon beetle on the cover. Tess nodded and smiled. He put it back down on the pile. And then, miraculously, three books underneath, Tess spotted it. She could read the title on the slender spine, even though it was sideways: Fix Your Silk Stockings with a Wyoming Walking Beetle.
Tess wanted to grab Richie and yell. Instead she managed to look dispassionately interested in the books on the desk. Feigning puzzlement, she reached out, saying, “Excuse me, may I see this book? I have ancestors from Wyoming.”
“Be my guest,” smiled Orbus. In one motion she slipped the book out of the pile as smoothly as if she were doing the magician’s traditional tablecloth-pulling trick.
It gave her a surreal feeling to finally hold this book in her hands. The jacket, tattered at the edges, featured an old-fashioned graphic of a smiling woman in an apron sitting at a table with a stocking in one hand and a plum-size beetle in the other. The pages were yellowed, almost brown, with age. She could sense both Richie and Orbus watching her. She tried to look casual as she flipped through the pages. It was, after all, too much to think the document was going to still be in it. And what would she do if it was? She couldn’t exactly grab the paper and put it in her purse, saying “Oh, good, my great-great-grandmother’s long lost recipe for meat pie!” What plan, really, did she have in coming here?
Etiquette for the End of the World Page 21