EMERGENCE (27 page)

"As soon as you
want
it to wear off. You can keep it numb for as long as it bothers you by renewing the acupressure block. But you'll be playing piano again as soon as the splint comes off."

Adam nodded; then looked up abruptly. "We've got to find that kid. He was
clean—
that means he's not alone: A kid that size doesn't bathe except under duress."

Good point. (Does have unique talent for isolating essential details.)

"I suppose we can drive up and down the streets, blowing the horn and yelling until we find them."

Adam shook head. "A kid on a bike covers more territory than a tomcat—it would take forever.

"If it weren't for this"—he indicated splinted arm—"I'd fly a search pattern. That would bring them out—I doubt if planes are a routine sight these days."

Felt heart miss beat, but tried not to let elation show. Asked nonchalantly, "Does it take long to learn to fly?"

Adam regarded me thoughtfully. "No; flying is almost instinctive—though the 'almost' is important; the differences can kill you. But with your brains, reflexes, and coordination, you shouldn't have a bit of trouble."

Thought briefly. "We should find someplace wide and flat. Most parking lots are roomy enough for ultralight operation, but an airport would be better for instruction."

Checked couple gas stations, found Riverside city street map; then drove to airport.

With one-armed coach's advice, assistance, unfastened bundle from trailer roof, assembled toy plane in about an hour. Adam explained, demonstrated controls, radio helmet (didn't bother to point out base-station transceiver amongst goodies on trailer's electronics wall when
he
flew; just let me worry!), verified operation. Strapped me in, started engine. Then coached by radio, step-by-step:

Slow taxiing first, gradually increasing speed to learn steering transition from differential braking to rudder; then high-speed taxiing to get feel of all controls biting airstream. Followed by more high-speed taxiing, lifting, lowering, alternate wings to acquire feel of aileron/rudder interaction. Then still more high-speed taxiing, raising, lowering nosewheel to learn elevators.

Big Moment finally arrived: Allowed me to increase power fraction beyond setting used for high-speed taxiing. Main gear lifted from runway—was
flying
. . . !

Not high, of course; Adam kept me skimming up, down runways, yard above ground, for hours: lift-off, touchdown; shallow right, left turns—endless repetition. Never exceeded 30 knots. Slow-flight practice continued until could detect imminent stall power on or off; whether normal or gee-induced, accelerated variety (cute phenomenon, that: stalling speed mounts as gee forces increase aircraft's effective weight); ease in, out of stalled condition without height, control loss.

(Fascinating, wrong assumptions otherwise well-educated person can harbor: From exposure to cars, had assumed knew what controls do. Not so. For instance: Fore-and-aft stick movement governs pitch, thereby airspeed—period. Had heretofore assumed increased, decreased altitude.
Throttle
setting does that. Likewise, did not realize ailerons initiate bank, then back pressure on stick causes actual turn. Rudder's sole function is to prevent yaw (skidding) caused by aileron drag—or induce deliberate yaw in sideslip when attempting to descend steeply without building up airspeed for short-field landing.)

Adam finally satisfied: For past hour had executed all maneuvers to perfection, plus performed "unusual attitude recoveries" (with more altitude under wheels) without incident. Gave me news by radio as concentrated on flying circles about point. (Tricky: To keep radius constant, necessary to increase bank angle when downwind, ease off upwind—adjusting constantly all the way around.)

Landed grinning ear to ear (Mr. Toad correct: "Glorious, stirring . . . poetry of motion . . . only
real
way to travel!")

We spent night at airport. Next morning I topped up fuel; Adam inspected ship minutely. Finally I launched to fly search pattern.

Adam navigated from ground: I reported landmarks below; he plotted position on city map, gave headings to fly. (Alternative was wrestling with three-foot-square sheet of paper in open-bodied aircraft—'tis to laugh.)

Flew at perhaps 300 feet; low enough to spot signs of current habitation: smoking chimney, laundry hung out, crop cultivation in midst of residential area, etc.

And flying is, as knew would be, marvelous ("Here today—in next week tomorrow . . . O bliss!"): In absence of Man, California skies now clear, crisp; visibility unobstructed, breathtaking ("Always somebody else's horizon! O my! O my!"). Yielded to impulse; essayed snap roll.

" 'O
stop
being an ass,' " Adam snarled, patience exhausted. "I read it, too. Pay attention now; if you kill yourself I'll never speak to you again." Promised to behave. Leveled off, headed for initial search area, where had almost run over child.

Adam's map ruled off in grids. Examined each methodically, flying slowly, giving anyone on ground ample time to drop everything upon hearing rackety engine (loud, indeed—acoustical earplugs genuine necessity), run outside, be seen.

Covered about six grids before happy discovery. Person ran from house as I passed, waving violently (do mean violently: jumping up, down, shrieking—actually heard faint cries at altitude, through engine noise, helmet, earplugs).

Circled back; pinpointed location for Adam, who jumped into rig, set off by road.

Then scouted landing conditions. Let down to 100 feet, performed slow flyby, studying surface; noting presence, absence of wires, poles, fences, ditches, etc. Detected nothing prohibitive; looked safe.

Set up approach assuming same wind direction, speed as at airport. Drifted down gently, skimming low over house at end of block, slowed to near stall, let big fabric wing float us down. Touched down 50 feet from very excited person—
two
excited persons: one large, one small.

Killed engine, unstrapped, extracted head from helmet, pulled out earplugs, stood . . .

And promptly swept off feet by hug-attack, replete with cryings, incoherent wet sobbings—more huggings, cryings, etc., etc. Managed to discern assailants both female. Happy to see them, too; but of course third, fourth encounters (respectively) with Somebody Else Alive: Old hat, you know; retained semblance of control.)

(Oh, all right; did get
slightly
teary. . . .)

Eventually emotions subsided enough to swap preliminary information: Bigger one Kim Melon, age 25; smaller, daughter Lisa, age six. Family survived depopulation intact—husband, too, but accidentally killed shortly thereafter. Small boy seen earlier
was
Lisa ("
I'm
not a
boy
. . . . !")

Adam arrived; greeting hysteria resurged briefly. Adam bore up bravely. . . .

(Have I described Kim yet? No? Perhaps summary helps shed light upon Adam's fortitude. Kim could serve as Judging Standard for California Golden Beach Girls: "five foot two, eyes of blue." Slim, willowy, long-legged. Waist-length natural Swedish-blond mane. Pretty face—correction, beautiful face—double-correction, movie-star face. Plus last name describes salient physical characteristics with unintended hilarious accuracy. Pact with Devil not uncommon result when mortal female encounters Kim's type. Heck, probably feel that way even if
weren't
eleven; but as things are. . . .)

Effect predictable: Adam suddenly very tall for his height; gained inches in chest expansion between one breath and next. Aged years demeanorwise in eyeblink. Casually mentioned is 18 (straight-faced) about half-dozen times during first five minutes: " . . . the same age my father was when he met my mother—she was a few years older, too." Etc.

Would have been proud of me, Posterity: Smile never faltered; not once offered to help by reminding of stray facts somehow omitted during suave repartee. Not even when, during one of those casual mentions of his age, managed to drag in mine, and that I was ". . . a wonderful
young
person, incredibly talented in so many ways, but of course not old enough for a serious relationship. . . ."

Glad chose path of forbearance, however: Later that evening, as Adam, beaming each time caught her eye, slaved away in trailer kitchen (invited to dinner first thing), preparing culinary triumph calculated to inspire wonder, dazzle palate (melt heart, dissolve inhibitions), Kim leaned close and, without moving lips, whispered, "I wish Adam would quit trying so hard. I'm sure he's really a nice boy, but it's awfully hard to tell. Any ideas?"

Several possibilities came to mind right away. Kim got giggles listening. Then offered own suggestions, most of which better than mine. Best of lot impractical at moment: Where would we get whoopee cushion on such short notice. . . ?

Think I'm going to
like
her.

Know
I'm going to like her, Posterity! We fit like peanut butter, jelly. Never had sister; never realized what was missing. But have one now. And doesn't try to be
big
sister; not know-it-all; treats me as equal. Most
comfortable
person have met outside immediate family—but knew right away would work out: Terry adored both on sight. Tora-chan approved, also.

Especially Lisa: Tora-chan spends as much time lap-sitting with, purring at, following her around as he does Adam, his official new daddy. And Terry thinks she's neatest thing since frozen pizza. Watches every move whenever in view. Already picked up several phrases from her; letter perfect, too, complete with lithp in right platheth. Unusual: Normally requires couple months to polish up, tack on new word, phrase.

On other hand, baby brother may be turning into idiot savant: Not sure when this started, but recently noticed vocabulary expanding. Just this afternoon, for instance, produced brand-new, quite elaborate word string, startlingly apt for circumstances—and can't imagine when, where might have heard it.

Was inspecting Adam's splint for proper fit, position, etc. Terry, on my shoulder, said, "Not too tight? Not chafing? How're your fingers? Warm? Pink?"

Really amazing performance. And so appropriate. Always has had elephantlike memory for phrases, voices, related situations, of course. Maybe dredging past; perhaps something heard Daddy say.

Whatever source, am thoroughly impressed—practically took words right out of my mouth. . . .

Been here about a week now, getting to know one another. Happy interlude, pleasant company.

Adam finally relaxed to point where presence isn't embarrassing—and surprised to learn makes no difference to Kim: Likes him just as is (or perhaps despite). Treats as equal, too.

Finished basic history exchange; low-key story-swapping sessions as days passed. Adam told approximately same story I got; but sticking to age-18 bit. Kim accepted with earnest, wide-eyed gravity; so sincere, may even really believe him. Hard to tell.

But doubt it. Kim nobody's fool. Top electrical engineer specializing in computers Before. "Show me
proof
!" her unspoken motto. Cheerful, optimistic soul, expecting best in everyone—but without shred of naïveté; enters into relationships with eyes open, missing nothing.

Both only 17 when married, still in high school. But continued education, with only briefest Hold for Lisa's arrival two years later. Achieved prominence in complementary fields (Jason master programmer); worked closely together whole professional lives.

Neither ever sick.

Lisa, therefore, presumptively double-hominem—whatever that means . . . ! And according to Kim, been raised, albeit unwittingly, in purest AA fashion. Results predictable: terrifyingly precocious child.

Fundamentally too trusting, however—though slightly less so after brush with disaster. Stranger appeared one day not long ago while Kim out scrounging. Delighted to see someone new after so long, Lisa invited in. Proved, judging by subsequent behavior, classic AB sociopath:

Kim returned Just In Time—Lisa screaming, clothes off, man just at Point of No Return.

"I don't know how I did it." Amazement showed in voice. "Other than the War, and then losing Jason, I had led the most tranquil existence you could imagine up to that point; I never even had to raise my voice as a child! This guy was a foot taller than I and outweighed me by a good hundred pounds. But I saw what was happening and I grabbed him by the hair and threw him across the room—literally!

"He jumped up—I've never seen such an expression on a human face—and charged me. It was obvious that his intentions were the same; he'd just found a new victim—
first
victim . . . !

"I sidestepped his rush without thinking. And while he was turning around, I picked up a poker from the fireplace and hit him over the head with it. He fell and I kept hitting him until he was dead. It took a week to get the mess out of the carpet."

Kim completely untroubled by lingering doubts. Eminently satisfied with cause, result of her killing. Wished own case so clear-cut. Told her so. Then related incident.

Kim listened quietly, thoughtfully, sympathetically to facts. But cut off subsequent breast-beating soliloquy: "Stop that—stop it
right now
!
You have nothing—
nothing
!—to feel guilty about! With your training you could have done nothing else—

"
But . . .
!"
Blue eyes flashed impatiently. "If you
could
have—if you had it to do over again and the only way you could save Terry was by killing Rollo—or someone else you knew no better—and you had time to plan every single action in advance, what would you do?"

Mouth opened, then closed without reply. Whole universe shifted on moorings. Most disturbing perspective, but question in that form completely self-answering, of course:
Yes
!—in hot millisecond would kill to save baby brother—
dozen times over
. . .!

"You don't have to shout," Kim remonstrated, smiling. "You're only three feet away."