Mote in Andrea's Eye

by Wilson, David

  Now, as he climbed the short flight of tiled steps, breathing the medicine-scented air and feeling the almost tangible antiseptic cleanliness of the place drip off the walls and stick to the soles of his shoes, he didn’t know if he was anxious or terrified to see what their actions had wrought.

  The young corpsman led him down the second story hall, through swinging double doors and up to a desk. At the desk, an older, matronly looking woman in green scrubs sat watching a tiny black and white television. It was tuned to the news, and reports of the incoming storm were splashed across the screen.

  “Edna,” the corpsman said softly.

  The woman turned, and the young man gestured at Keith. “This man needs to see the old man who was brought in. The pilot? It’s been cleared all the way to the commander of the base.”

  The woman glanced back at her television screen for a moment, and then nodded. She rose and stepped around the counter, holding out a hand to Keith. “I’m glad to see someone come in for that poor man,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s talking like he’s crazy. They say that he flew a plane into the air terminal, but I don’t see how that’s possible. His eyesight isn’t that good—probably lost his glasses somewhere—and he thinks it’s still some time in the 1960s. I thought he’d never quit going on about the ambulance they brought him in. And he keeps asking for a woman—Andrea?”

  Keith nodded. “Can you take me to him?”

  She nodded, hesitating to see if he was going to offer any further comment. When Keith remained silent, she waved the corpsman off and turned on her heel. “Follow me, Mister—”

  “Scharf,” he replied. “Keith Scharf. I’m an old friend of Phil’s—I think he’ll be glad to see me.”

  The corpsman watched them hurry off down the hall, then turned and returned to the front desk. Most of the patients had been evacuated earlier, moved to facilities further inland, but some of those who were more mobile still required evacuation, and he had a lot to coordinate before the end of his shift. He knew the entire facility would be closed the following day, and he didn’t want to forget something that could come back to haunt him. Somehow the look in Mr. Scharf’s eyes reminded him this was possible.

  ~ * ~

  Phil was asleep when they entered the room. The nurse, Edna, moved very quietly, and she swung the door to the room open with practiced ease, making only the slightest of clicks when she turned the knob. She followed Keith into the room, and he didn’t object. It was going to be one hell of a strange conversation, but he didn’t see any harm in having it overheard. Likely she’d leave with the impression that both he and Phil were insane, but that was fine as well. The important thing was to be certain Phil was okay, and if possible to get him out of here and back to the compound with as little fanfare as possible.

  Keith didn’t want to be caught on Highway 17 through the Dismal Swamp when the first winds from the hurricane hit—the road was dangerous enough without a storm. It was the only one he’d seen in his life with a warning sign at one end proclaiming the number of deaths on the road over a period of years. A sort of I-told-you-so to motorists with a macabre flair.

  He stepped to the side of the bed slowly. At first he thought it was a mistake. The face of the man on the pillow was old. A shock of brilliantly white hair shot off at a jaunty angle from the top of his head, and a gray stubble of beard framed the man’s weathered face. Then Phil opened his eyes, those brilliant, blue eyes, and there was no doubt.

  “Oh my God,” Keith said. “It’s you.”

  Phil blinked once. He squinted up at Keith, obviously having trouble placing the face. Then, as his mind grappled with the problem and began to put things into perspective, his eyes widened, and he raised himself on his elbows. “Keith?” he whispered. “Keith Scharf?”

  Keith nodded, reached out and laid his hand gently on Phil’s arm. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Phil,” he said. “Do you think you’re well enough to travel?”

  They turned and looked at Edna, who was watching them carefully, waiting for something—she didn’t know what—to make sense of the moment. When she didn’t speak up immediately, Keith took the initiative.

  “I need to get Mr. Wicks back to our facility in North Carolina,” he said. “I need to be certain he’s able to travel—healthy enough, I mean. We don’t have much time before that storm hits.”

  Edna shook her head slowly, and then stopped. It wasn’t normal policy to release a patient who was under observation so quickly, but this was different, wasn’t it? They were all going to be evacuated, and if this man had people to care for him and a place to go and ride out the storm, it would certainly be better than whatever overcrowded spot the Navy would find for him.

  “I’m not sure I’m authorized to make that call,” she said at last. “All of his vital signs are normal. He was dehydrated, and starving, but he’s eaten a little and his heartbeat and breathing are stable. I suppose, under the circumstances . . .”

  “I knew you’d understand,” Keith pressed his advantage. “If you could just find his clothes?”

  Edna nodded. She returned in just a moment to find Phil sitting up on the bed, staring down at his own hands as if he’d never seen them before. She knew there were more questions she’d like to have answers for, but knew as well it was unlikely she would get them. In her arms she carried Phil’s flight suit. Keith took the bundle from her gratefully, and Edna turned away.

  “You stop by and check out with me,” she said over her shoulder.

  No one answered her, and once the door swung closed behind her, Phil started to dress at once.

  “I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore,” he commented dryly, as he carefully worked his stiff legs into the canvas flight suit. Most of the equipment had been removed, and that was fine. The one-piece, zip-up-the-front outfit was just the thing for someone who suddenly found that his body didn’t function the way it had the last time he’d been fully aware of his surroundings.

  Keith laughed. “It’s still Kansas, but boy has the wizard been up to some tricks. You get dressed, we’ll get on the road, pick up a hotdog and some coffee, and I’ll try to explain things to you as best I can.”

  “Andrea?” Phil said.

  “She’s fine—or was the last time I spoke with her. I’ll fill you in on the way back to North Carolina.”

  Phil nodded. He zipped up the flight suit, looked around quickly to see if there was anything of his in the room that he shouldn’t leave behind, and then shrugged. If there was anything, the U.S. Navy could have it. Keith held the door for him, and he stepped out into the hall. He was having trouble getting his muscles to respond, adjusting to—what—age? If he had aged, and Keith had aged—how many years had passed? What had he lost—and had they gained anything by the effort?

  Phil shook his head and followed Keith to the nurse’s station. It was going to be a long, messed up day—already had been—and the only three things he’d heard that changed that even a little were the words hot dog and coffee, and the news that Andrea was all right. He might feel like hell, but if Andrea was okay then there was a chance everything would work out.

  They waved to the corpsman below, who looked as if he wanted to delay them and ask some questions, but then caught sight of the black and white television he’d been watching, and thought better of it. He didn’t return their wave, but they were out the door and into the parking lot in moments, and a couple more brought them to Keith’s car.

  Keith held the door open for Phil, but Phil stood on the sidewalk and stared down at the car. It was sleek. There were none of the boxy lines he was familiar with. The headlights and taillights seemed just part of the surface of the vehicle. Finally, he bent and carefully worked his way into the passenger seat. When Keith closed the door Phil let out a startled bark, and then bit it off, and a moment later he was laughing. Keith slipped into the driver’s seat and turned, smiling quizzically.

  “What’s so damn funny?” he asked.

  Phil couldn�
��t speak through the laughter, so he just grabbed the shoulder strap of the seat belt and pulled it away from his chest. The passive restraint system had caught him completely by surprise, slipping back to lock him in place.

  “This thing scared me half to death,” he said at last. “Jesus, last time I heard people were still arguing that these things were more of a restraining danger to safety than a help. Now . . .”

  He stopped. His laughter cut off, and Phil leaned back heavily, staring up and out of the windshield, into the darkening sky.

  “When is . . . now?” he whispered. “Jesus, Keith, what the hell happened to me . . . to you?” He turned to stare at the slightly younger man who was now so much older. “What happened to the world?”

  Keith started the engine, backed out of the parking place, and thought about his answer. “It moved on,” he said at last. “The world moved a long way since you last saw it, Phil. Hell, I don’t even know where to start.”

  ~ * ~

  Of course, the start and the finish had been quite a bit alike. In the beginning, Phil had disappeared, along with the storm, and in the end it had come back, and he had followed. The in between held a lot of fascinating stories, a lot of innovations, gadgets, studies, presidents, and culture that was of no real importance to either of them at the moment.

  What was important was that the storm was back, and that Andrea had gone this time, leaving the two of them behind to worry, and to wonder. This time she wasn’t the general, viewing and controlling things from some hideaway bunker. She was the field general, and this time the battle was for keeps.

  “I don’t suppose we could get lucky and the damned thing would just phase back into—wherever,” Phil asked when Keith had brought him as far up to speed as possible in a short amount of time. “It’s been gone a very long time,” he glanced down at his hands, as if to try and measure that time, “it seems like maybe it could get sucked back into that other place. It existed there longer than it did here, after all.”

  “I hope it doesn’t work like that,” Keith answered. “For one thing, it’s good to have you back. For another, what if it took all those boats and barges with it? What if it disappeared again and Andrea, the crews, and all those pumps we’ve spent so long perfecting just disappeared?

  “If she came back in another thirty years, she’d die. We’d already be dead, and the storm? Something tells me that unless we put that damn thing out of commission ourselves, and soon, it’s going to keep going on until it reaches its goal.”

  “You talk about it like it has a mind and thoughts,” Phil replied. “It’s just a storm, Keith. For all we did to it, all we may, or may not have caused, it’s just a lot of wind and rain, feeding off itself and the warmth in the water. Let’s hope you’ve been a little more clever in the last few decades, and that these pumps of yours are up to the challenge.”

  They drove the last twenty miles in silence. Phil stared out the window of the smooth-riding BMW—that’s what Keith told him it was—and marveled at the glow from Elizabeth City. There hadn’t been so many lights the last time he’d been here. There hadn’t been all that much of anything. He couldn’t process all of the changes, and decided it didn’t matter. If one thing was still the same, or near to the same, it would be enough. If Andrea made it back to him, and he didn’t keep getting older, get feeble, and die on her before she had a chance, that would be grand, he thought.

  “Shouldn’t we be evacuating with everyone else?” he asked, just before they pulled up to the gate of the compound. “Won’t the storm hit here if the pumps don’t work?”

  “It will hit here, all right,” Keith replied, “but if there’s one building on the entire east coast that can withstand this hurricane, you’re about to return to it. I don’t expect you’ll recognize much.”

  Keith kept talking as they pulled through the gate. The guard stared in past him at Phil, and it was obvious that rumors had spread quickly. The young man knew exactly who Phil was, and wasn’t surprised to see him. They were waved through quickly.

  None of it mattered in the next few seconds. Phil took in the gleaming central building and the looming factory-like structures that flanked it, but they didn’t catch, or hold his attention. He was staring at the hangar. It stood, just as it had stood so many years—wasn’t it just hours?—before. She hadn’t changed a thing. The paint had been replaced over the years to preserve it, but the hangar waited like a long-lost friend, and tears streamed from the corners of Phil’s eyes as he watched it pass in the BMW’s side windows, then turned and craned his neck to stare a little longer after they’d rolled past.

  Keith stopped in front of the main doors and got out quickly. He came around and helped Phil out to stand beside him, and the two stared at the old hangar together.

  “She wouldn’t let anyone touch it,” Keith said simply. “It’s been waiting just like this, as if she knew you would return, since the day you rolled onto the airfield out back and took off. The field is long gone, all our flights go through a local airfield now, but she kept the hangar. I’ve argued with her over it, but now—now I’m glad she’s a bullheaded old thing. Damned if I’m not.”

  Phil couldn’t speak. The weight of all that had happened was finally dropping onto his shoulders, and he swayed on tired legs. Keith grabbed his arm to support him, but he shrugged this off and took a tentative step toward the old hangar, and his memories.

  “There will be plenty of time for that later,” Keith said, “but we have work to do now, Phil. We have to check on Andrea, see if there are any reports. If she calls in and needs anything now, the only ones who can help her are all in this building behind us. We need to join them.”

  Phil tottered, took another half step forward, and then shook his head. “Let’s go,” he said, turning abruptly toward the now-unfamiliar central building. “Show me the new magic, and let’s see if we have any tricks up our sleeve that can do some good.”

  Keith slapped him on the back lightly and led the old pilot through the main doors and into the new-and-improved computer room.

  ~ * ~

  The screen was fancier, and all of the colors took some getting used to, but the radarscope image looked familiar enough to Phil’s trained eyes. The storm was monstrous. There was literally no scale in existence that accounted for a hurricane of this strength. To call it a Category five was like calling Mohammed Ali a boxer. He was—or had been last time Phil checked—the Heavyweight Champion of the world. This storm was his counterpart, and it packed a much deadlier punch.

  Keith brought up the simulation program. It still displayed the results from the last test that Andrea had run.

  “It worked?” Phil asked incredulously. “You ran—Andrea ran a simulation and these pumps actually stopped the storm?”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Keith replied, “but in a nutshell, that’s exactly what happened. There are always factors you can’t account for, random factors like sudden weather fronts we didn’t foresee, but the output of the program is a scenario that, should all of our postulations prove true, is the most likely outcome.”

  “But still,” Phil repeated obstinately, “she stopped it.”

  “Yes,” Keith admitted, “but look here.”

  He changed screens back to the radar map, and then added the overlay that included the currently plotted locations of the boats, barges, and equipment. “That simulation was run with a perfect formation of all twenty-five of the barges we created, all in place and operational with five large pumps apiece. Here . . .” he stopped for a moment and indicated a grouping of smaller blips on the screen “are the barges. Andrea should be on the last one.” Again, he pointed at the screen.

  Phil stared at the point that marked her location and his heart lurched. That small blip on the screen was so small, so insignificant in the face of the approaching storm, that he nearly cried out in fear. Instead he held himself in check and listened carefully.

  “Andrea left here in time and if nothing goes wrong
they should be able to have all of the pumps they have with them in place and running. These other markers,” he pressed his finger to the screen where two small blips, moving quickly enough to show motion on the screen, were headed straight at the barge wall, and into the face of the approaching storm, “are the cutters that will get them out. They’ll be shooting off around the near side of Bermuda and out into the open sea.

  “There is always a chance that the storm will turn that direction, but we don’t believe it will. One thing in our favor is that this storm may be a bit confused, so to speak. It departed under perfect hurricane conditions, but it has returned into an unseasonable cold front. This could work in our favor, though I believe that a storm this size will find a way across. We can’t take for granted that the weather conditions alone will cause the eye to break up. We have to go after it.”

  “How many?” Phil asked without looking away from the map.

  Not catching his old friend’s drift, Keith started to go on, then stopped. “How many what?” he asked.

  “How many barges do they have—the pumps that stopped the storm in Andrea’s simulation—you said there were twenty-five barges, all working properly? That was enough. How much do we have? How close are we to a hundred percent operability?”

  “Three barges left Norfolk last night, and ten from here yesterday—Andrea flew out to make the crossing with those. On Bermuda we have another ocean-going tug with five more barges. That makes eighteen. The last set of five is too far away to make it safely into play, so—eighteen.”

  “Is that enough?” Phil asked, turning sharply. “Do we even know?”

  Keith shook his head, but met Phil’s eyes steadily. “If it can be done,” he said, “we both know that the one who can make it happen is on that boat. She’s no spring chicken, but I think you’ll find the years have been very kind to Andrea. She’s got a lot of fight in her.”

  “No amount of fight will help her against that storm,” Phil replied.