“Don’t worry, Nate. I didn’t forget. I’m going home.”
Before Jett could shout for him to wait, metal fragments erupted from the hatch behind him and he ducked for cover. When it was safe to look back for Ralph, it was too late. Ralph was gone. Then the Crazies came through the hatch in force.
DISCHARGED
Elizabeth’s blood pressure stabilized after rising and falling unpredictably for hours. Her red blood count was down, her white count elevated, and there were high levels of lactic acid in her system. She was groggy, easily confused, and was having periodic long- and short-term memory problems. In short, she was nearly dead tired.
The doctors ordered sedation, but Elizabeth refused, and Wes agreed. Sleep prolonged by drugs could put her on the ship for ten or twelve hours and drain her even more.
Once the doctors were satisfied that her condition was stable, they released her, since there was no treatment for her condition. She left with the name of a psychiatrist in her pocket who specialized in sleep disorders. Elizabeth dropped the psychiatrist’s name in a trash can in the lobby.
She rode in Wes’s Explorer with the seat partially reclined, her eyes closed. Wes glanced at her regularly as he drove. Even with her eyes shut, she looked as if she desperately needed sleep. Her lids were red and puffy, her face swollen, every wrinkle accentuated. There were dark circles around her eyes and she lacked muscle tone, making her look ten years older than she was. Since having the dream Elizabeth hadn’t eaten well. Every glance at her worried him more.
“Elizabeth, maybe you should stay at my place for a few days.”
Elizabeth’s eyes opened and a slight smile came to her lips.
“Doctor Martin, are you trying to seduce me?” she asked, smiling.
“I’m just worried.”
“I was only joking. I know the way I look.”
“You shouldn’t be alone,” Wes said.
“You’re thinking of Margi, aren’t you?” Elizabeth said.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“So if I stay with you I won’t be taking a bath alone?”
Wes felt his cheeks flush.
“Maybe you could stay with me?” Elizabeth suggested.
“I could.”
They drove in silence for a way. Elizabeth shut her eyes when cars passed, as if the bright headlights were painful. After a few minutes she turned to him.
“How long do I have?”
“It depends on your dreams. If they aren’t too detailed when you link, you might make it another month. I won’t link you with Anita and Wanda again.”
“If you did?”
“A single session could kill you.”
“We started out to save Anita, remember? To find the source of the dream and stop it. If it means I have to go back into the dream, then I will.”
“Ralph will come home and help us,” Wes said.
“We don’t know that,” Elizabeth argued. “We can’t wait that long anyway, or I’ll be too confused to be of any help.”
“I won’t send you back!”
Elizabeth gave up. It was another sign of how weak she was. She had never let him win an argument before.
The only hope for getting out from between the rock and the hard place was a retarded man lost somewhere on a ship.
CAVE
Ralph searched the ship’s compartments, holds, and gangways, climbing between decks, looking for the way out. He ignored the bodies in the deck and bulkheads, focussed on getting home. He was dimly aware of Dr. Kellum’s ship model, but he was beyond the map now, navigating with his unique spatial sense, searching for patterns in the midst of chaos.
He was aware of shadows and sounds but encountered no one. His concentration was intense and focussed, his conscious mind blank. Like a human stealth bomber, he was undetectable by McNab’s sensors.
As he entered a boiler room, an adjacent storage compartment caught his attention. Undogging the hatch, he found the compartment filled not with steamfitting gear, but green mist. He remembered watching Dr. Kellum’s pole prodding the other green mist, but he didn’t have the pole. Ralph also remembered something bad on the far side of that mist, something that had made one of the sailors sick. Ralph intuited danger, but remembered his promise to go home.
Home could be through this door.
Taking a deep breath, Ralph entered the mist.
Ralph was in a cave—not your standard cave. Solid rock, yes, but also electrically lit. Then he remembered Dr. Birnbaum’s experiment in Mammoth Cave—that cave had lights in it.
Stepping over a floor light, he located a concrete path. It forked; he turned right on another lighted path. Overhead lights illuminated side caves, stalactites and stalagmites, and wall signs which he found unreadable. The cave widened, and he entered a small underground shopping mall featuring an information booth, a souvenir shop, and a restaurant. There were people here stacking chairs, sweeping and mopping the floors. Ralph approached a young woman emptying the cash register at the souvenir shop.
“Hihowyadoin?” Ralph said.
Surprised, and frightened by Ralph’s appearance and size, she backed up a step.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“My name’s Ralph, what’s yours?”
“Meaghan,” she said. “You shouldn’t be down here. The cave is closed.”
Ralph looked around, and then his arm shot out and he thumped himself on the side of the head, startling Meaghan again.
“How could I be so stupid?” Ralph said. “I gotta go home now anyhow.”
Meaghan looked at Ralph with growing concern.
“Is there anyone with you? Did you get left behind?”
Ralph puckered his lips and stared into space for a few seconds.
“Nope. No one with me.”
“How did you get here?” Meaghan asked.
“I came down that way, from back over there and around that way sort of,” Ralph said, pointing here and there.
“Never mind,” Meaghan said. “You can wait while I finish. I’ll help you get home.”
“Well okee-dokee then,” Ralph said. Then, spotting the candy display, he said, “Got any gum?”
Meaghan handed over a package of Juicy Fruit.
“No more freebies,” Meaghan said.
Ralph grinned his widest grin and ripped off the top of the package.
GUIDE
Evans didn’t trust his guide. They were deep within the Norfolk, just aft of the machine shop again. Evans checked the compartment as they passed. There was no farmer inside with a broken arm, nor any bucket of metal pieces, but it was the same machine shop—Evans was sure of that. The bizarre topography of Pot of Gold meant that there were many identical machine shops. Passing the same one again and again was a sign of progress, but were they getting closer or farther from the generators?
“What level are we on now?” Evans asked.
“Level?” the sailor said, feigning ignorance.
“I won’t ask again.”
“Level seven, I think,” the sailor said.
“Count out the levels as we go,” Evans ordered.
“I haven’t been to the generator level since the Crazies took it. I’m not sure I can find it.”
“Then you’re no use to me,” Evans said.
“I’ll find it. Give me a chance.”
“Once I get to the generators I’ll let you go,” Evans lied.
A short distance later the sailor turned a corner, jumped through an open hatch, and sprinted. It was a crew berth, with hammocks hung on both sides. Concentrating on the sailor’s fleeing back, Evans pushed with his mind. As if swatted by an invisible hand, the sailor was slammed onto the deck.
Evans stood over his guide, waiting for him to turn over. The sailor lay still. Evans used the toe of his silver boot to lift one side of the body. The sailor flopped back down when released. Frustrated, Evans sat on a hammock, rocking gently, waiting. If the sailor was alive, the forces inside Pot of Gold might heal him.
Evans waited, hating the quiet time. Idleness made room in his mind for recollections of when the Specials had attacked him. The details of that first mission, from its beginning at Rainbow to his final exit from Pot of Gold, were burned into his memory.
They had entered Pot of Gold in the same way that Jett’s team had, but they hadn’t known that their guns were useless. His power was their only weapon, and they were outnumbered and showered with metal shards, crossbow bolts, and fireballs. He was knocked senseless in the fight. When he came to, they had a knife to his throat. He didn’t dare use his power. Two other members of his team were alive, and together they were led through the cruiser Norfolk to the hangar deck, then pushed through the jeering crowd gathered for their trial.
Prophet was there, acting as prosecutor, judge, and jury. The trial was short, Crazies cheering and shouting. Then came the executions. The other two went first; tied to metal poles, they were roasted alive. Even with the knife at his throat he was ready to strike out with his power before they led him to the burning stake. Then Prophet spoke directly to his mind, telling him that because he too had a gift from God, he wouldn’t die. Evans’s release would be a sign to the outside world that the people inside Pot of Gold were truly God’s people.
With the stench of burned flesh still in his nostrils and the sounds of the screams still ringing in his ears, Evans wanted to believe Prophet. Evans told them where the exit would appear, and Prophet and his followers took him to that deck, waiting for the opening. When Dr. Lee opened an exit, Prophet motioned him forward. Raising Evans’s hopes was the cruelest act of all.
“Go with God,” Prophet said with a smile.
Then, just before Evans stepped into the exit, Prophet called to him.
“One more thing. Tell them what happened to the other blasphemers they sent with you.”
“I will,” Evans said.
“Better yet, show them!”
With that, his clothes burst into flame. As he started to scream, he was knocked into the exit. Fire couldn’t be sustained inside Pot of Gold without a Special, but on the outside it burned hot and bright. Evans found himself on a metal platform in Rainbow, engulfed in flames. He had enough wits to drop and roll, but he continued to burn until a technician put out the flames with a fire extinguisher. That was only the beginning of the pain.
He suffered for months, wrapped in gauze, begging for more painkiller. But with third degree burns as bad as his, the dosage of medication necessary to stop the pain would have killed him. Later came the skin grafting, which was nearly as painful as the burning. During those months he nursed his hatred of Prophet and the Specials. Then came years of being treated as a freak or an object of pity. That too fueled his hate. When the opportunity to return to Pot of Gold came, he quickly accepted. For Evans, this wasn’t about the Nimitz, it was about revenge.
The sailor stirred. Evans remained on his hammock, rocking. Finally, the sailor rolled over, his nose bloody and crooked. Seeing Evans, his face went white.
“I should kill you,” Evans said.
“I can find the generators,” the sailor assured him.
“Then do it.”
Getting to his feet, he wiped his bloody nose with his sleeve.
“Move,” Evans ordered.
The sailor led him back to the corridor, and soon they were in the routine again of walking between decks, working the sensorimotor combination that would ultimately take them to the generators.
PHONE CALL
Wes pulled into a visitor’s slot at Elizabeth’s condominium, then realized he was more than a visitor. Backing out, he parked in a resident’s slot, taking his suitcase from the back seat. He had never stayed overnight before, and although he was coming now as a nurse, not a lover, he felt that once he stepped inside, their relationship would be different.
The door was unlocked, and Wes entered without knocking. Elizabeth kept her condominium tidy, but managed to avoid giving it the sterile feel that comes from over-organization. She had chosen warm colors—softer hues of blue, mostly—but no dominant theme. Her home was a reflection of her work and her interests. On her bookcase were pictures of family, and of women and children she had helped as a social worker. The books in the case were a mix of sociology and social work texts and self-help books, most with a feminist theme.
“Welcome, roommate,” Elizabeth said from the couch.
She was sitting up, her legs covered by a quilt. Her eyes were set in dark hollows, purplish bags hanging below. Her eyelids drooped as if she was falling asleep.
“You can put your things in the office,” she said.
Elizabeth used the smaller of her two bedrooms as an office, which was furnished with a desk, a leather easy chair, and a sofa. The office was tidy compared to Wes’s, whose piles of old journals and photocopied articles covered his desktop, every chair, and most of the floor. There was a small stack of papers on the corner of Elizabeth’s desk, a cup filled with pencils and pens, and another with paperclips. A computer sat on a side table, another pile of papers next to it. Above her desk Elizabeth had hung her diplomas, each mounted in a matching oak frame. Three mounted posters from the Mount Hood Festival of Jazz decorated the wall above the sofa. Wes’s diplomas were in a cardboard box in a closet. Once, he had bought tickets to the Mount Hood Festival of Jazz, but spent the weekend in his lab debugging a program.
Elizabeth was in the bathroom when he came out, so he went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. The condominium was a couple of years old, but the kitchen looked brand new. The cabinets, counters, and appliances were bright white; the floor was patterned with blue flowers. Wes had never been asked to dinner here, and Elizabeth had joked about not knowing how to cook.
The refrigerator door was covered with children’s drawings held in place with a rich variety of magnets. A drawing of Wes’s lab with people wearing EETs was on the top layer of pictures, with Anita’s uneven signature in the corner of it. Wes could identify the stick figures in the drawing by hair color and position. Elizabeth’s figure had hair colored fire-engine red, his own hair was the brown of tree bark, and Monica’s was black. Shamita was drawn at her station with her head bent down to her computer screen, her hair in a bun. Funniest of all were Len and Wanda, who were drawn in the background, with Wanda’s oval body laying on a cot, a huge cigarette in her hand, smoke rings rising from her lips and circling Len’s head. At the top of the picture was Margi, a stick figure with an EET helmet, lying on a cot.
There was a coffeemaker pushed under one of the cabinets, and after trying three cupboards Wes found a can of coffee and started a pot.
“Do you want some coffee, Elizabeth?” Wes asked, hearing her come into the living room.
Elizabeth was on the couch with her legs curled under her, the quilt over her lap, a glass of wine in her hand.
“You shouldn’t drink wine,” Wes told her.
“When I was twenty-three I went to visit my grandfather in the hospital,” Elizabeth said. “He had called and asked my grandmother to bring him a piece of her apple pie. She made it with brown sugar. Grandmother brought the pie, but the nurses wouldn’t let him eat it. They said it wouldn’t be good for him. He was terribly disappointed, but we gave in and took it home with us. Grandfather died that night.”
Now she leaned toward him and looked at him with some of the old fire in her eyes.
“All he wanted before he died was one more piece of grandmother’s pie, and they took that last little pleasure from him. I want this glass of wine, and no one’s going to stop me.”
“Want me to make apple pie?” Wes asked.
“With brown sugar?” she said, smiling again.
“Sure. I hope you have a recipe. I haven’t a clue about what else to put in.”
“Apples.”
“Oh yeah,” Wes said. “Does the crust form when you cook the pie or do you make that separately?”
The phone rang and Wes answered, leaving Elizabeth to sip her wine.
“It’s Doctor Birnbaum,” Wes told Elizabeth. Elizabeth unfolded her legs, sitting up.
“It’s Ralph,” Dr. Birnbaum said. “He called. He got away and he called me.”
Wes repeated the news to Elizabeth and saw the spark in her eyes again.
“Is Ralph with you?” Wes asked.
“No, you’ve got to go get him, Wes. I can’t do it, not in this wheelchair. Please bring him home.”
“Where is he?”
“In a motel near Carlsbad, New Mexico. Someone found him wandering around in the cave after it had closed.”
Wes repeated the information for Elizabeth.
“Let’s go get him,” Elizabeth said.
Trying to stand, she swayed, then dropped back to the couch. Holding her head in her hands she breathed deep and slow.
“I’ll take Len, Elizabeth. We’ll bring Ralph home.”
INFORMER
One of seven foundation trustees, Robert Daly had been a board member for ten years and would be board chair in two years’ time, when the current chair’s term ended. Daly had begun his professional life in California real estate; he had turned desert into middle-class neighborhoods, investing the profits in shopping malls, office buildings, and technology stocks. Having made his fortune, he lost interest in empire building, and like other men and women reaching middle age, counted up the years he had left in life and decided to spend them more wisely than he had his youth. Not satisfied to be remembered as a rich man, Robert Daly’s ambition morphed into a desire to shape the world in his image. With his fortune valued at a half-billion dollars, Daly disengaged himself from running his various enterprises and became active in politics.
A major contributor to the Republican party, he funded the campaigns of conservative candidates and backed a variety of initiatives, including those to limit property taxes and to cut off welfare payments to illegal immigrants. For a time his political activities satisfied his need to make a difference in the world, but he was soon frustrated by the uncertainty of political influence. Candidates he helped elect were more interested in being reelected than in sticking to principles. Even his work through the initiative process was frustrated by liberal activists using the courts to block implementation of his measures. Accustomed to wielding power as the chief executive of a private corporation, he was quickly disenchanted with his country’s political system and the myriad of ways in which it could be subverted.
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