Corrupting Dr. Nice (5 page)

It was Jephthah's theory that as the presence of the invaders caused more and more changes, so that even the simple could not fail to see how their lives were being irrevocably changed, the situation was turning their way. Obscene music blared out of the loudspeakers in the market, boorish tourists in scanty clothing, complaining about the heat, poked their cameras into sacred tombs, young men abandoned the scriptures for comic books, young women learned foreign slang and chewed gum. Just last autumn a film crew from the future had insisted on shooting a musical in the Temple, and only with difficulty had been kept out of the Holy of Holies. Then the star of this film, this gentile singer Elvis, accosted a young girl in the market. A riot started. The time invaders had had to call in a Roman legion to put down the uprising. Most of Simon's fellow conspirators felt a crucial point had been turned.

Simon hoped they were right. But he had had more contact with the futurians. Even Jephthah ought to be able to see that Halam, though he was helping their cause, was not a holy man.

Late in the night, with a feel of morning in the air, Joshua and Elam returned from the landfill with the boxes. They carried them to the downstairs room just off the courtyard, behind a hemp curtain, where the other cases Simon had smuggled out of the hotel over the last month were unpacked. Black rifle parts gleamed in the guttering light from the oil lamp. Cases of ammunition were stacked in the corner.

Jephthah picked up one of the rifles and ran his hand lovingly down its side. "The days of the invader are numbered. We shall slaughter them to the last man and his whorish concubine, and Israel in the light of God and the heart of faith will be free at last!

"God will deliver them into our hands."

FIVE: THE
CONNECTICUT OATMEAL BATH TREATMENT

When Owen opened the door to his room a stench assaulted him. Wilma had abandoned her carrier and defecated on the floor.

That was not the worst: she'd eaten the potted plants down to the soil. He found her contentedly peeling away the veneer from the coffee table, having already dismantled the credenza and pulled most of the stuffing out of the sofa.

=Cherry credenza, manufactured in Hickory, North Carolina,= Bill said. =Sofa by de Leon, wool acrylic blend. Sixteen hundred dollars damage, minimum.=

Wilma looked up at Owen placidly, then turned her snakelike neck back, muzzled her nose among the debris on the floor, and swallowed a glass egg. He didn't know how her digestive system would handle the foam sofa stuffing, but the egg would do service as a gastrolith.

Owen hustled in and tried to pull her away from the table. He got her front legs off the floor, but her hind legs stayed planted. She stretched her neck out farther between his arms and kept munching. He tried to pull her backwards and stepped in the dinosaur droppings, his foot skidding out from under him until he fell on his butt in the mess. Through the bedroom door he could see a half-eaten bedspread and the mattress pulled off onto the floor.

=Make that twenty five hundred,= Bill said.

Owen let Wilma go. It wasn't as if pulling her away was going to save the already ruined table. But he didn't like the idea of her eating finished wood. There was no telling what effect the resins would have on her. He would have to check her feces.

=If you want to get her to move, lure her.=

Owen picked up the end of the table and pulled it into the bedroom. Wilma, endearingly clumsy, followed him, still nibbling at the corner. Once he had her in the bedroom he changed into some clean clothes. He had not planned to be so long getting back to the future, and so had not taken a supply of dinosaur food. Back in the Cretaceous, where grasses and flowering plants had not come into being, Wilma lived on a diet of ferns, protoconifers and cycads. He called down to room service.

"This is Owen Vannice, in room 224. Doesn't the hotel have some sort of fern bar?"

"Well, sir, we like to think of our King David Room in more refined terms."

"Yes. Do you suppose you could send up a supply of potted ferns for me?"

=This ain't going to work,= Bill whispered.

"If you find you room's accouterments unsatisfactory, sir, I'm sure we can move you to a more suitable one."

Owen would have to hazard a change in diet. Whatever he came up with would be better than cherry veneer. "How about hay? Do you have any hay?"

"Hay?"

"Yes, you know. Dried grass?"

"I don't think hay would do much for your room's decorating scheme, sir."

"This isn't about decorating," Owen said.

=Raw oats,= Bill whispered.

"How about oats?" Owen asked.

"If you will check your screen, sir, you’ll find we have oatmeal on our room service menu, with strawberries."

"Good. Send up about twenty liters. You can skip the strawberries."

"Twenty liters, sir?"

"Yes."

"We tend to measure by the bowl."

"How much is in a bowl?"

=She needs a wheelbarrow,= Bill said.

"Be quiet, Bill," Owen muttered.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"I said, it'll be quite a bill, I'm sure. For room service, I mean. How much oatmeal is in a bowl?"

"I don't know--maybe 250 milliliters."

"Okay, then, send me up 100 bowls of oatmeal."

"100 bowls."

"Yes. And it doesn't matter if it's cooked or not."

=Maybe you should get bananas on it,= Bill said sarcastically.

"Do you want bananas on it?" the room service operator asked.

"Yes. Send up a couple of bunches."

"Bunches. Are you going to eat this yourself, sir?"

"Oh no. It's for--"

=Don't tell him you've got a dinosaur!= Bill hissed.

"--uh," Owen stalled, his mind working furiously. What was it Gen had said about pretending?

=The bathtub.=

"--it's for bathing," Owen said. "A skin condition. You've never heard of the Connecticut Oatmeal Bath treatment--for apatosaurus dermastentoritis?"

The operator was silent for a moment. "I guess I did see something about that--on the Disease of the Month Club?"

"That's it," Owen said.

"I'll see what I can do, sir." The operator rang off.

After he hung up Owen realized he'd forgotten the dinosaur droppings. Of course he'd have to get a sample for the copraphology exam, but there was definitely more here than he needed. He punched room service again.

"Yes sir," it was the same voice.

"I forgot to mention, can you also send up a shovel?"

"Is this for the oatmeal?"

"No. It has nothing to do with the oatmeal. Well, it has a little to do with it, but not much."

"I'll see if I can locate one, sir. Anything else? You wouldn't want a jackhammer, or perhaps a parachute?"

"No, thank you. Just a shovel."

Ten minutes later a small, dark man in custodial coveralls arrived pushing a cart laden with four stainless steel pans full of steaming oatmeal, three bunches of bananas, and, on the bottom shelf, a square-bladed shovel. His name badge read "Simon." Owen blocked the doorway.

"Thank you, Simon," Owen said. "I can serve myself."

"I'm not here to serve," the man said. "I am here to clean." He pushed forward, and Owen relented. Simon took in the broken furniture, wrinkled his nose at the smell.

"I had a little accident," Owen said. "I'm not feeling well at all."

"I will prepare your bath," Simon said, wheeling the cart toward the closed bedroom door.

=Do you want him to see Wilma?= Bill asked.

Owen threw himself between the cart and the door. "That's okay. I can take it from here." He fumbled in his pocket for a tip, but he had left his money in the other pants.

Simon made a face like a steam roller. "My boss insists I am helpful in every way. I was told this is for your bath."

Owen leaned against the door. "This condition makes me very sensitive. I will take care of it myself."

"My boss will want to know how I did."

"I will give them the best report. I'm afraid this room's kind of a mess." Owen slapped his palm a couple of times against the door.

From the other side came a couple of answering thumps.

Simon's eyes narrowed. "Do you have someone in there?"

"It's just an echo," Owen said.

Wilma butted her head against the door again, harder this time. The door rattled in its frame. She must be up on her hind legs, forefeet against the wood.

"Is this perhaps one of my people you are keeping captive? A woman?"

"Certainly not. It's just my--"

=Your dog.=

"--my Irish setter, Cuchulain."

Wilma trumpeted, an eerie bleat, and slammed the door so hard the latch splintered, throwing Owen forward. She shoved her head around the door's edge and, holding her face sideways, peered at Simon with her right eye.

Simon yelped and fell backwards. He grabbed for the shovel. When Wilma advanced on the cart he scrambled out of the suite on his hands and knees.

Wilma stretched her neck over the top of the cart and shoved her head into the top pan of oatmeal.

=I told you oatmeal was the answer,= Bill said.

#

A woman in a burgundy collarless jacket stood in the hall. She radiated as much personal warmth as a spreadsheet. "Mr. Nice, I am Eustacia Toppknocker, the hotel manager."

"The name is Vannice," Owen said. "Dr. Owen Vannice."

Ms. Toppknocker ignored him, and cruised into the room. Wilma was locked in the bathroom with the oatmeal and bananas. Owen had cleaned up the dinosaur droppings as best he could, and moved most of the wreckage out of the way, but the hotel manager's calm survey of her debilitated luxury suite made him cringe anyway. "I have checked your credit rating and am sure you will cover these damages," she said. "It does not concern us at the Herod Palace how you spend your spare time. But we cannot tolerate an animal in the guests' rooms."

"This isn't an animal, exactly. It's a valuable specimen."

"What, exactly, is it?"

"It's an Apatosaurus megacephalos."

"Which is . . .?"

"A dinosaur."

For a moment she looked impressed. But the veil of the hotelier dropped immediately into place. "We operate an extensive kennel service. You can keep this creature in the kennel and we'll guarantee its safety. We are used to transporting livestock."

"This is not livestock. It is the rarest of dinosaurs."

=Perfect, Dr. Einstein,= Bill sighed.

Owen ignored him. "Is the time travel stage back in service?"

"Technicians are still testing the momentum compensator."

He thought for a moment. "I'm not about to let this creature be endangered."

=Tell her that we don't wanna see filet of dinosaur on the menu tonight.=

"--and I don't want to see filet of dinosaur on the menu tonight."

"This is a four-star hotel, Dr. Vannice. It's true we serve dodo au vin on our menu, but I'm sure we would not know how to prepare a dinosaur."

Owen pondered. "Do you have any atmosphere-controlled cages in this kennel?"

"We do."

"If you'll make one available and ensure security, I'll bring Wilma down there."

"I'll have the hotel AI programmed to keep a twenty-four-hour watch on her," Ms. Toppknocker said. "But these room damages--"

"Will be paid in full. You've heard of my family?"

"Of course--assuming you are really Owen Vannice. We've seen plenty of genetically altered impostors before."

"I'm aware of such impersonators. I can supply my genetic bona fides."

The manager's tone improved markedly. "Of course, Dr. Vannice, we trust you to do the responsible thing."

"I'll move Wilma down within the hour, Ms. Toppknocker."

=Wait a minute, boss.=

"Good day, Dr. Vannice."

"Good day." Owen closed the door before Bill could get them into further trouble.  "I'll take her down to the kennel myself," he said. "She may be better off there anyway."

=So we're going to stay longer?=

"Do you want to take a chance on a faulty momentum compensator? We could take the next jump and end up in outer space. We’ll wait a couple of days. Meanwhile, the hotel room isn't doing her any good. In a controlled atmosphere cage I can boost the carbon dioxide level to Cretaceous levels, control the temperature. Wilma'll be feeling better in a day or so."

=Something's fishy here. Yesterday you couldn't wait to get her back uptime. Now you want to be a tourist. Something tells me this change of heart has something to do with that microwave soufflé you chased around Rome.=

"I wish you wouldn't use that kind of language."

=I don't know any other languages. This Faison woman figured out you had a dinosaur mighty quick. Given the fact that your father invested a billion dollars in setting up your dinosaur station, you ought at least to protect his investment. I told you not to admit anything to her.=

"Yes. You almost shouted a hole in my cerebrum. My ears are still ringing."

=I can't make your ears ring. I'm in your head.=

"Well what was I supposed to do, lie?"

=Yes. You don't even know what her game is.=

"She doesn't have any game. She's just interested in paleontology."

=Spelled M-O-N-E-Y.=

"You know that’s not true. Her father owns a villa in Provence and a plastic farm in Southeast Asia."

=To hear her tell it.=

"Bill, I can take care of myself. Not that I'm going to need to, with Genevieve. You ought to give me more credit."

=Just as long as you don't give her any. Naked bed men love screaming wicked sex women!=

"Which makes about as much sense as everything else you've told me today. Oatmeal in the bathtub!"

Owen cleaned out the animal carrier in preparation for the move. The batteries on the lightweight, controlled atmosphere case still carried most of their charge. The message board and security alarm tested out. He turned to the bathroom.

Wilma lifted her head as soon as he entered. Owen sat down on the ledge of the bathtub, leaned forward and examined her. Why was she so ravenous? He'd expected her appetite to decline as she adapted to the more intense regime of care he was giving her. Perhaps the strangeness of her surroundings made her anxious. In the bright bathroom light the dappled yellow and green markings of her back took on a bluish tinge. As she aged the pattern would darken to a green indistinguishable from that of the conifers and tree ferns that lined the watercourses of her home. From below she was almost pinkish white.

Wilma sat back on her rump, tail stretched out to curl behind the toilet, her hind legs bent and forelegs stretched out to hold up her shoulders. Her large eyes gleamed up at him, and she lowered her head to focus both of them forward, which emphasized the characteristic higher-domed brain case of the megacephalos.

Owen could see his own reflection in her eyes. He wondered how he appeared to her. From being her benefactor back in the Cretaceous, had he become her enemy?   It was foolish to project such thoughts on an animal hardly as intelligent as a rabbit. Still, he could not help feeling his own betrayal of Wilma, jerking her out of her own time to imprison in this strange space.

He thought about Genevieve. The excursion with her had left him in confusion. Why had she run away from him? Did she think him a fool? He suspected she did, nattering on about time travel like some grad student. Yet she had not laughed.  Even when she had to pull him from the midst of the suspicious Romans, she did not make him feel any less competent for it. She treated him like a complete equal, with no awareness of his money or self consciousness about her beauty. Owen found that powerfully attractive. He cursed Bill for his paranoia. It was like carrying his parents around in his head, questioning his every instinct.

Owen went to his bag, hauled out his logbook, plugged it into the hotel's system and punched in Genevieve Faison. She and her father were listed as guests, but no further information came up on the screen But they were wealthy people. They had no doubt paid a great deal for their privacy. He ran his hand though his hair and went back into the bathroom, and coaxed Wilma into the carrier.