"Things have been seen," Joao said. "There are stories. Something like this was found near one of the barrier villages last month. It was inside the Green . . . on a path beside a river. Remember the report? Two farmers found it while searching for a sick man." Joao looked at his father. "They're very watchful for sickness in the newly Green, you know. There've been epidemics . . . and that's another thing."
"There's no relationship," his father snapped. "Without insects to carry diseases, we'll have less illness."
"Perhaps," Joao said, but his tone said he didn't believe it.
Joao returned his attention to the insect on the crucifix. "I don't think our ecologists know all they say they do. And I mistrust our Chinese advisors. They speak in such flowery terms of the benefits from eliminating insect pests, but they won't let us inspect their Green. Excuses. Always excuses. I think they're having troubles they don't wish us to discover."
"That's foolishness," the elder Martinho growled, but his tone said this wasn't a position he cared to defend. "They are honorable men -- with a few exceptions I could name. And their way of life is closer to our socialism than it is to the decadent capitalism of North America. Your trouble is you see them too much through the eyes of those who educated you."
"I'll wager this insect's one of the spontaneous mutations," Joao said. "It's almost as though they appeared by some plan . . . Find me something in which to capture this creature and take it to the lab."
The elder Martinho remained standing beside his chair. "Where'll you say it was found?"
"Right here."
"You would not hesitate to expose us to more ridicule, is that it?"
"But Father . . ."
"Can't you hear what they'll say? In his own home this insect is found. It's a strange new kind. Perhaps he breeds them there to reinfest the Green."
"Now, you're talking nonsense, Father. Mutations are common in a threatened species. And we can't deny there's threat to these insects -- the poisons, the barrier vibrations, the traps. Get me that container, Father. I can't leave this creature, or I'd get the container myself."
"And you will tell where it was found?"
"I can do nothing else! We must cordon off this entire area, search out the nests. This could be . . . an accident, of course, but . . ."
"Or a deliberate attempt to embarrass me."
Joao looked up, studied his father. That was a possibility, of course. His father did have enemies. And the Carsonites were always there to be considered. They had friends in many places . . . and some were fanatics who'd stoop to any scheme. Still . . .
Decision came to Joao. He returned his attention to the motionless insect. His father had to be convinced, and here was the perfect lever for the argument.
"Look at this creature, Father," he said.
The Prefect turned a reluctant gaze on the insect.
"Our earliest poisons," Joao said, "killed off the weak and selected out those immune to this threat from humans. Only the immune remained to breed. The poisons we use now -- some of them -- don't leave such loopholes . . . and the deadly vibrations at the barriers . . ." He shrugged. "Still, this is a form of beetle, Father, and somehow it got through the barriers. I'll show you a thing."
Joao drew a long, thin whistle of shiny metal from his breast pocket. "There was a time when this called countless beetles to their deaths. I merely had to tune it across their attraction spectrum." He put the whistle to his lips, blew into it, all the while turning the end of it.
No sound audible to human ears emerged from the instrument, but the beetle's antennae writhed.
Joao removed the whistle from his mouth.
The antennae stopped writhing.
"It stayed put, you see," Joao said. "It's a beetle and should be attracted by this whistle, but it did not move. And I think, Father, that there're indications of malignant intelligence among these creatures. They're far from extinction, Father . . . and I believe they're beginning to strike back."
"Malignant intelligence, pah!" his father said.
"You must believe me, Father," Joao said. "No one listens when we bandeirantes report what we've seen. They laugh and say we are too long in the jungle. And where's our evidence? They say such stories could be expected from ignorant farmers . . . then they begin to doubt and suspect us."
"With good reason, I say."
"You will not believe your own son?"
"What has my son said that I can believe?" The elder Martinho was totally the Prefect now, standing erect, glaring coldly at Joao.
"In the Goyaz last month," Joao said, "Antonil Lisboa's bandeirante lost three men who . . ."
"Accidents."
"They were killed with formic acid and oil of copahu."
"They were careless with their poisons. Men grow careless when they . . ."
"No! The formic acid was particularly strong, a heavy concentrate, and identical to that of insect origin. The men were drenched with it."
"You imply that insects such as this . . ." The Prefect pointed to the motionless creature on the crucifix. "That blind creatures such as this . . ."
"They're not blind."
"I did not mean literally blind, but without intelligence," the Prefect said. "You cannot seriously imply that such creatures attacked humans and killed them."
"We've yet to determine precisely how the men were slain," Joao said. "We've only the bodies and physical evidence at the scene. But there've been other deaths, Father, and men missing, and reports of strange creatures that attack bandeirantes. We grow more certain with each day that . . ."
He fell silent as the beetle crawled off the crucifix onto the desk. Immediately it darkened to brown, blended with the wood surface.
"Please, Father -- get me a container."
The beetle reached the edge of the desk, hesitated. Its antennae curled back, then forward.
"I'll get your container only if you promise to use discretion in your report of where this creature was found," the Prefect said.
"Father, I . . ."
The beetle leaped off the desk far out into the middle of the room, scurried toward the wall, up the wall and into a crack beside the window.
Joao pressed the handlight's switch, directed the beam into the hole which had swallowed the insect. He crossed the room, examined the hole.
"How long has this hole been here, Father?"
"For years. It was a flaw in the masonry . . . an earthquake several years before your mother died, I believe."
Joao crossed to the door in four strides, went through an arched hallway, down a flight of stone steps, through another door and short hall, through a grillwork gate and into the outside garden. He set the handlight at full intensity, washed its blue glare over the wall beneath the study window.
"Joao, what are you doing?"
"My job, Father." Joao glanced back, saw that the Prefect had followed and stopped just outside the garden gate.
Joao returned his attention to the study wall, washed the glare of light onto the stones beneath the window. He crouched low, running the light along the ground, peered behind each clod, erased all shadows.
The searching scrutiny passed over the raw earth, turned to the bushes, then the lawn.
Joao heard his father come up behind.
"Do you see it?"
"No."
"You should've allowed me to crush it."
Joao stood up, stared upward toward the tiled roof and the eaves. It was full dark all around now, with only the light from the study plus his handlight to reveal details.
A piercing stridulation, almost painful to the ears, filled the air all around them. It came from the outer garden that bordered the road and the stone fence. Even after it was gone, the sound seemed to hang all around them. It made Joao think of the hunting cry of jungle predators. A shiver moved up his spine. He turned toward the driveway where he had parked his airtruck, sent the handlight stabbing there.
"What a strange sound," his father said. "I . . ." He
broke off, stared at the lawn. "What is that?"
The lawn appeared to be in motion, reaching out toward them like a wave curling on a beach. Already the wave had cut them off from the entrance to the house. It still was some ten paces away, but moving in rapidly.
Joao clutched his father's arm. He spoke quietly, hoping not to alarm the old man further, mindful of the weak heart. "We must get to my truck, Father. We must run across them."
"Them?"
"Those are like the insect we saw inside, Father -- millions of them. They are attacking. Perhaps they're not beetles after all. Perhaps they're like army ants. We must make it to the truck. I have equipment and supplies there to fight them off. We'll be safe in the truck. It's a bandeirante truck, Father. You must run with me, do you understand? I'll help you, but you must not stumble and fall into them,"
"I understand."
They began to run, Joao holding his father's arm, pointing the way with the light.
Let his heart be strong enough, Joao prayed.
They were into the wave of insects then, but the creatures leaped aside, opening a path which closed behind the running men.
The white form of the airtruck loomed out of the shadows at the far curve of the driveway about fifteen meters ahead.
"Joao . . . my heart," the elder Martinho gasped.
"You can make it," Joao panted. "Faster!" He almost lifted his father from the ground for the last few paces.
They were at the wide rear doors into the truck's lab compartment now. Joao yanked open the doors, slapped the light switch on the left wall, reached for a hood and " sprayrifle. He stopped, stared into the yellow-lighted interior.
Two men sat there -- sertao Indians, by the look of them, with bright glaring eyes and bang-cut black hair beneath straw hats. They looked to be identical twins, even to the same mud-gray clothing and sandals, leather shoulder bags. The beetle-like insects crawled around them, up the lab walls, over the instruments and vials.
"What the devil?" Joao blurted.
One of the pair lifted a qena flute, gestured with it. He spoke in a rasping, oddly inflected voice: "Enter. You will not be harmed if you obey."
Joao felt his father sag, caught the old man in his arms. How light he felt. The old man breathed in short, painful gasps. His face was a pale blue. Sweat stood out on his forehead.
"Joao," the Prefect whispered. "Pain . . . my chest."
"The medicine," Joao said. "Where is your medicine?"
"House," the old man said. "Desk."
"It appears to be dying," one of the Indians rasped.
Still holding his father in his arms, Joao whirled toward the pair, blazed: "I don't know who you are or why you loosed those bugs here, but my father's dying and needs help. Get out of my way!"
"Obey or both die," said the Indian with the flute. "Enter."
"He needs his medicine and a doctor," Joao pleaded. He didn't like the way the Indian pointed that flute. The motion suggested the instrument was actually a weapon.
"What part has failed?" asked the other Indian. He stared curiously at Joao's father. The old man's breathing had become shallow and rapid.
"It's his heart," Joao said. "I know you farmers don't think he's acted fast enough for . . ."
"Not farmers," said the one with the flute. "Heart?"
"Pump," said the other.
"Pump," said the Indian with the flute. He stood up from the bench at the front of the lab, gestured down.
"Put . . . father here." The other one got off the bench, stood aside.
In spite of fear for his father, Joao was caught by the strange appearance of this pair, the fine, scale-like lines in their skin, the glittering brilliance of their eyes. Were they hopped up on some jungle narcotic?
"Put father here," repeated the one with the flute. Again, he pointed at the bench. "Help can be . . ."
"Attained," said the other one.
"Attained," said the one with the flute.
Joao focused now the masses of insects around the walls, the waiting quietude in their ranks. They were like the one in the study. Identical.
The old man's breathing now was very shallow, very rapid. Joao felt the fluttering of each breath in his arms and against his chest.
He's dying, Joao thought in desperation.
"Help can be attained," repeated the Indian with the flute. "If you obey, we will not harm."
The Indian lifted his flute, pointed it at Joao. "Obey."
There was no mistaking the gesture. The thing was a weapon.
Slowly, Joao stepped up into the truck, crossed to the bench, lowered his father gently onto the padded surface.
The Indian with the flute motioned him to step back and he obeyed.
The other Indian bent over the elder Martinho's head, raised an eyelid. There was a professional directness about the gesture that startled Joao. The Indian pushed gently on the dying man's diaphragm, removed the Prefect's belt, loosened his collar. A stubby brown finger was placed against the artery in the old man's neck.
"Very weak," the Indian rasped.
Joao took another look at the Indian, wondering at a sertao backwoodsman who behaved like a doctor.
"Hospital," the Indian agreed.
"Hospital?" asked the one with the flute.
A low, stridulant hissing came from the other Indian.
"Hospital," said the one with the flute.
That stridulant hissing! Joao stared at the Indian beside the Prefect. That sound had been reminiscent of the call that had echoed across the lawn.
The one with the flute poked him, said, "You. Go into front and maneuver this . . ."
"Vehicle," said the one beside Joao's father.
"Vehicle," said the one with the flute.
"Hospital?" Joao pleaded.
"Hospital," agreed the one with the flute.
Once more, Joao looked at his father. The old man was so still. The other Indian already was strapping the elder Martinho to the bench in preparation for flight. How competent the man appeared in spite of his backwoods look.
"Obey," said the one with the flute.
Joao opened the hatch into the front compartment, slipped through, felt the armed Indian follow. A few drops of rain spattered darkly against the curved windshield. Joao squeezed into the operator's seat. The compartment went dark as the hatch was closed. Solenoids threw the automatic hatch dogs with a dull thump. Joao turned on the dash standby lights, noted how the Indian crouched behind him, flute pointed and ready.
A dart gun of some kind, Joao guessed. Probably poison.
He punched the igniter button on the dash, strapped himself in while waiting for the turbines to build up speed. The Indian still crouched behind him without safety harness -- vulnerable now if the airtruck were spun sharply.
Joao flicked the communications switch on the lower left corner of the dash, looked into the tiny screen there giving him a view of the lab compartment. The rear doors were open. He closed them by hydraulic remote. His father lay securely strapped to the bench, the other Indian seated at his head.
The turbines reached their whining peak.
Joao switched on the lights, engaged hydrostatic drive. The truck lifted about ten centimeters, angled upward as Joao increased pump displacement. He turned left onto the street, lifted another two meters to increase speed, headed toward the lights of a boulevard.
The Indian spoke beside his ear: "Turn toward the mountain over there." A hand came forward, pointed to the right.
The Alejandro Clinic is in the foothills, Joao thought. Yes, that's the correct direction.
Joao made the indicated turn down a cross street that angled toward the boulevard.
Casually, he gave pump displacement another boost, lifted another meter and increased speed once more. In the same motion, he switched on the intercom to the rear compartment, keyed it for the amplifier and pickup beneath the bench where his father lay.
The pickup, capable of making a dropped pin sound like a cannon, emi
tted only a distant hissing and rasping. Joao increased amplification. The instrument should have been transmitting the old man's heartbeats now, sending a noticeable drum-thump into the forward cabin.
There was no sound but that hissing, rasping.
Tears blurred Joao's eyes. He shook his head to clear them.
My fathers dead, he thought. Killed by these crazy backwoodsmen.
The Green Brain (v4.0) Page 7