EMERGENCE (21 page)

"Okay, okay," he agreed. Tone impatient, but eyes alight; clearly pleased with self. "What I've done will make the engine and drivetrain more reliable under load, and shifts the power range downward, which gives it more torque—makes it more powerful at low RPMs, and gives it much more traction so it can pull the trailer more easily and climb steeper grades.

"And it's more efficient now; goes farther on the same fuel. Since we have to rely on finding cars to siphon from, which may or may not have enough to bother with, or a gas station whose tank caps we can force, that's insurance.

"Sounds as if it was a lot of work."

"It was." He nodded. "But solving mechanical problems is fun; I've been doing it for years as a hobby—along with the electronic stuff."

"How did a well-bred, artistic type like you pick up such a physical sort of interest?"

"You mean 'rich and spoiled type' and 'filthy sort of interest.' " Adam grinned; displayed fine hands now covered with cuts, scrapes, bruises; embedded with dirt, grease. "It grew out of what you might call the 'flip side' of growing up terribly rich, with parents too wrapped up in their careers to spend time with me.

"I stayed busy. Even I could practice piano only so long; and I'm as quick a study as you, so academics took even less time. I whiled away a good bit of the rest following around my favorites among the house staff and learning their jobs. That's how I discovered that I love cooking—and where the EMT training came from, of course.

"But that still left a lot of time. Now, I'd gotten a taste for approbation from performing on the piano, and I'd noticed that people were impressed by fast cars and people who built and drove them. It looked like an entertaining hobby and a good way to show off. Naturally, anything
material
I wanted, all I had to do was ask; cost was never discussed. That's where the Lamborghini, the Ferrari, the Porsche, and the motorcycles came from—and, of course, the Trans Am I splattered.

"They hired Gus Wilson to take care of them. He was a proud old mechanic who used to run what he called a model garage. I became his shadow and he did his best to teach me everything he knew—it tickled him to discover that a rich, spoiled brat was genuinely interested in learning his craft, and didn't mind getting his schoolgirl-soft hands dirty doing it. Gus taught me my rule-of-thumb engineering, mechanical, and electrical skills.

"However, in the process, he taught me one of the most important lessons I ever learned: You can fix anything—
if you want to badly enough.
Sometimes what it takes is knowing where to find special tools and parts; sometimes it takes being able to figure out how to
make
special tools and parts." He grinned again. "Sometimes all it takes is a bigger hammer—you'd be surprised what you can accomplish with naked force.

"Back then, of course, all it took most of the time was to throw money at it. But
anything
can be fixed if you need to badly enough.
Somehow.

"For instance—remember how you crossed the Susquehanna," he said abruptly, apparently out of blue.

Statement, not question. Do indeed; experience intrudes into dreams with regularity. Wish wouldn't: Wake up with racing heart, clammy palms. Balancing van on tracks on single-width railroad trestle at altitude barely inside Earth's atmosphere not fun.

"Look. . ." Adam squatted down, pointed to double-scissor-hinged frames bolted to van's, trailer's undercarriages; ". . . this is my masterpiece: I
fixed
it."

Perplexity must have shown on face.

Adam smiled, said, "Watch"; operated cranks protruding from underside of van, trailer, respectively—and additional sets of wheels lowered to ground. Tiny metal things, barely ten inches in diameter; located ahead of front, behind rear, wheels on van; just aft of tandems on trailer.

But even with demonstration, at first couldn't divine purpose—and really wanted to: Adam's expression appropriate for having solved Mystery of Universe. That he expected praise obvious; but would spot bluffing, and understanding nature of accomplishment prerequisite for intelligent head-patting.

Then light dawned; indeed understood—and pretty darned pleased own self: Wheels' flanges match rails' spacing, engage inner edges—singlehandedly Adam devised, manufactured rig permitting use of rails without drama, effort: Line up on level crossing, lower guide wheels—unnecessary even to steer.

"I reread that part of your journal after you pointed out the problems with the land yacht," Adam explained. "I got sweaty palms myself, just thinking about it. I figured there
had
to be a better way.

"I remembered reading about railroads modifying cars and trucks like this for their own use. I drove down to the railyard, found a truck outfitted this way, and studied how they did it. Didn't seem all that difficult a project, if you don't mind getting out to crank the wheels up and down—the truck had hydraulics; the railroad people wanted to be able to deploy and retract theirs without getting rained on.

"After that it was just a matter of cannibalizing a couple handcars, and a little fabrication. Anyone could have done it."

"I couldn't," I replied positively. "It never occurred to me even to pull a trailer."

"You could if you were in my shoes." He grinned. "We needed more room without incurring a permanent weight penalty; a trailer is the obvious solution. And the rail-riders are equally obvious: Without them, if we absolutely
had
to cross a railroad bridge, we'd have to abandon the trailer. I just couldn't see leaving behind all my best tools and music and everything."

"Not to mention your kitchen!"

"And hot showers and a warm, clean, roomy bed."

"Whose . . . ?"

Daddy often voiced opinion that those in habit of giving in to knee-jerk responses usually best described by omitting "knee." Here was textbook example. Regretted immediately. But too late.

Adam's smile unchanged, but no longer included eyes. Realized, then, suspicion unfounded; sex farthest thing from boy's mind. For once attention limited to demonstrating fruits of own technical brilliance. Offended, no doubt about it. And rightly so.

Without further comment, Adam led me to bedroom at rear of trailer. Accommodations consisted of twin-size bunks positioned fore and aft, one either side of room; dresser between at extreme rear; hanging closets on either side between door, foot of each bed.

Adam stopped, about-faced so abruptly almost ran into him. "I'm going to sleep in one of these," he stated loftily, with over-the-shoulder thumb indication. "You may have the other or you may, each and every night and morning, go through the trouble of making up the dinette or the couch in the salon—your choice; both convert to full-sized doubles. But when
I'm
tired, I'm going to go to bed, without going through the unnecessary nonsense of making it up. Suit yourself." Brushed past, started to walk away.

Already in throes of contrition; required little effort to appear more so. Pulled at lower lip with teeth; allowed eyes to fill, almost overflow; "impulsively" reached out to catch arm, stop him. "Adam, I'm
sorry
!" I blurted. (And found really
was
—astonished to discover how much!) "That was a rotten thing to say. I shouldn't have taken it that way. I've got a hair-trigger installed on that one subject, and I don't know how to fix it. I'm trying . . . but . . ."

Adam unexpectedly magnanimous in victory: Paused, took deep breath; then turned back, placed hand gently over my mouth, damming apologetic flood; said, "Hush, it's not your fault; I haven't said two words to you without one of them being a proposition."

(
That
much certainly true; but managed [for once!] to curb shrewish tongue, avoid getting in deeper. Fortunately. For Adam not through; further surprises in store.)

"Neither of us is at fault. Not really. This is hardly an ideal situation for comfortable boy-meets-girl-ing. We may be the last couple on Earth, and you are both intelligent and responsible; you understand the inevitabilities of our situation as well as I do: Unless we find someone else whom we like better, we're going to have to get on with making babies—in a primitive society children are
necessary;
they're our social security, all we'll have to take care of us in our old age.

"I've known all along that you feel pressured. It could hardly be otherwise, even if I never said a word about it.

"You know it, I know it, and I know you know it—and I haven't allowed you the courtesy of adjusting to the idea in peace. But I couldn't help it, and
I'm
sorry." Confession so sudden, caught me quite off balance. But looked, sounded really sincere.

Caught by surprise, then by intensity of affection suddenly upwelling in response. Hidden behind Adam's brash façade is genuinely likeable human being. Possibly even lovable. When lets himself be. . . .

Hey, Posterity . . . ! Vacation over: Back on the road again; we leave tomorrow morning.

And
about time—
though would have been madness to set off into unknown again with me in less than contest-ready condition. And of course will drill twice daily as we travel, both for physical conditioning and to continue Adam's training.

Speaking of which, progress confusing: Brilliant mastery of every technique demonstrated. Form excellent; power, speed, outstanding. Has assembled
kata
of unrivaled violence, grace. Have never seen such flawless performance in student below black-belt level. But . . .

Has not established basic reflex-matrix program. Plans, directs every step consciously. True, conscious reactions
very
quick—combined with execution skills, probably match for any two, three untrained opponents right now—but not as fast as correctly programmed, subconscious combat computer. Perhaps problem is subliminal fear of letting go; perhaps doesn't trust reflexes to operate without cerebrum at helm. If so, don't know how to help him. Problem never arose during own training; programming took hold, settled in as if conscious mind wanted out.

Further, Adam's subconscious evidently resisting hysterical strength tap programming. Explanation obvious, of course: After nursing me through misuse sequelae, not eager for firsthand experience. But will never achieve full journeyman/Master status without; certain techniques possible only through at least momentary burst of focused preternatural power.

Remember clearly Teacher's induction formula; plus Adam good hypnotic subject: Achieves deepest somnambulistic trance state easily, first under my direction, later through own autohypnotic concentration. Listens quietly while in trance state; apparently absorbs programming formula. But posthypnotic triggering ineffective; available strength never exceeds norm.

Well, all I can do for now is maintain present training format: Continue
kata
critique, guidance; daily sparring; penetrate guard at will, while he can't lay finger on me. Perhaps subconscious will get message.

That's one problem; another is packing van, trailer for trip. Adam obviously graduate (
sigma cum load
) of school of scientific packing; only possible explanation of how managed to cram so much stuff into so little space. This, after several days' agonizing over what constitutes excess; boiling down to present two, three tons of irreplaceable possessions.

Actually, I exaggerate. A little. Maybe.

For example, managed to cram entire toolbox (five feet tall, four feet wide, two feet deep) and contents into heretofore unnoticed empty corner of van's interior (don't know how—certainly no room to spare before). Converted one living-room wall in trailer into electronics center: all-bands, two-way radio of own design; stereo system—plus thousand-plus cassette music collection, of course. And found room for much-modified Moog synthesizer keyboard and processor (plays through stereo speakers; amazing tone—can't tell whether hearing electrons putting on airs or genuine concert grand from library). Also stowed incidentals: food, clothing, Terry's stand, weapons, etc.

Plus final mysterious touch: 25-foot-long bundle of aluminum tubing wrapped in brightly colored cloth, secured to trailer roof rack. No idea what. Not only won't Adam say, but being smug about it: Says is surprise; something which, when need arises, will be indispensable. Probably; spends awful lot of time being right. But if keeps this up, may not live to announce "I told you so" when time comes!

Oh, something else—promise not to tell. . . . Serious business now—
really
promise! Requires hold-breath-and-spit, used-sweat-socks-on-your-tongue-if-you-tell oath. Okay. But into really dangerous territory—
have learned "Adam's" real name.

Not surprised, of course—for first male encountered since end of
H. sapiens
really to be named "Adam" would require unlikely stretching of probability. And knew came from old family; knew parents influential. But never, in wildest imaginings, suspected depths of boy's dreadful secret. Didn't dream aristocracy willing to perpetrate such patent cruelty—to no apparent end beyond snooty continuity.

While prowling house, snooping into rooms heretofore unexplored, on lookout for last-minute stuff (sort of thing one always forgets and later wishes hadn't), stumbled into what proved to be Adam's parents' bedroom. Not hard to identify: Walls, bureaus covered with pictures of them as couple, from wedding portraits on; plus baby pictures dating all the way back to wet, thoroughly dissatisfied, red face glaring from birth canal (family went at baby-picture-taking in big way!). Poked about until found album. Opened, looked at title page . . .

And there it was:

Melville. Winchester. Higginbotham. Grosvenor. Penobscott-Jones.

The
Fourth. . . .

Can you imagine? Terrible thing to do to cute, defenseless baby! (And
was
cute baby, too, once pointy-headed newborn syndrome subsided, wrinkles smoothed out, expression moderated to one recognizable as ancestor of present calculated innocence.) No
wonder
chose new name earliest possible opportunity.