EMERGENCE (45 page)

But soon I noticed that Adam's driving actually was as smooth as ever; only the speed was different. He was completely relaxed behind the wheel as he hurtled us along the twisting fire road through the sequoia forest.

He cornered
very
quickly—but under perfect control; every turn was executed in the same precise manner; it was like watching a machine drive: He approached each corner from the outside, braking late and heavily with his toe on the brake, using his heel to punch the accelerator as he double-clutched, downshifting to the appropriate gear. He twitched the steering wheel just before releasing the brakes, which put us perceptibly sideways going in. He fed in power, increasing it steadily as we cut across the width of the road, clipping the inside verge just past the geometric apex, accelerating out on an expanding radius. The slide angle tapered off to zero as we accelerated down the ensuing straightaway. There was none of the wild, time-wasting, back-and-forth broadsliding that one sees when Hollywood attempted to depict fast driving; I don't think I saw him cross-control the steering three times during the whole hours-long dash.

And we certainly did go
quickly
! We pulled out of the search area in the deep sequoia forest around seven; Adam got us to the hard-surfaced park roads by about ten. We went even faster on pavement.

Terry continued to mutter intermittently as we traveled:

". . . cooling longjohns' connected to the backpack, shoulder ring's connected to the helmet ring, glove ring's connected to the arm ring, neckbone's connected to the . . ."

"
Oh
—God
bless
! What a
sight
! That's
beautiful
. . . ."

"Where
is
it . . . ? I did everything right—I'm
sure
I did . . ."

"
There . . . !
Oo-ooh, damn, it's big. Okay, board and storm—no, let's not be greedy; boarding will be quite sufficient."

Adam glanced across at the bird occasionally and shook his head. Once he said, "This is crazy. If we accept this premise, then Candy must have gone up on a shuttle; she must be in space
right now.
What's an eleven-year-old kid doing in space?"

"Would you rather go back and keep searching?"

He kept driving.

Terry continued to "keep us posted." Briefly he repeated some gibberish we'd heard previously. But by quarter to eleven, he got excited: "No-no-no; stop here!
Oh
—must the damned thing
always
go where I
steer
it instead of where I
want
it . . . !

"Okay, wake up, all you little transistors; Momma wants to talk to Ivan. Ivan,
Ivan
—talk to me, you ideologically deficient collection of cowed chips!

"There, that's better. Okay, now let's have
Ballistika."

"Adam," I ventured, "that sounds like Russian."

Adam concentrated on his driving. His jaw muscles worked but he didn't reply.

"Dear Lord . . .!"
Terry burst out abruptly. "Did you make me this stupid originally or have I picked it up on my own! I can't put this thing down at Vandenberg—I don't want to wind up inside a mountain . . . !"

Suddenly Terry had our undivided attention. Adam braked to a quick stop.

"
Now
what . . . ? What other coordinates do I remember?
Think,
dummy—or do you
like
it up here! Think harder! We're running out of time! Think! Thinkthink
think
! Picture the IFR Supplement in your head—certainly there ought to be room for it; we know there's nothing else in there. What did you see—whatwhat
what
? Of
course . . . !
Perfect!

"Now the coordinates.
Think
—the clock is
running
. . . !

"Ah-
ha!
34 degrees 54 minutes north longitude, 117 degrees 52 minutes west latitude . . . ! Damn, what a memory! And . . .
execute!"

I hadn't had to be told; I copied the numbers as Terry uttered them. Adam was already unfolding the chart. We didn't have the dividers and parallel rule, but it wasn't difficult to make an approximation . . .

"Edwards Air Force Base," breathed Adam. "Of course, perfect."

"She said that," said Lisa from the back seat. We spun and stared. "She's awful scared," she continued solemnly. "I think we better hurry."

We arrived back at the little airstrip outside Fresno a few minutes after noon. Lisa's soft-spoken observation was all it took to revert Adam to a full-blown wild man. He fueled and preflighted the Cessna; and by 12:30 we were accelerating down the runway. Adam banked almost the instant the wheels cleared the ground, and seconds later we were on course for Edwards.

He climbed us to about seventy-five hundred feet; the operator's manual suggests that altitude as the ideal compromise between lessened air resistance and engine-power loss due to reduced oxygen. He fiddled with the mixture, manifold pressure, and propeller pitch until he was squeezing out the absolute maximum speed of which the plane was capable.

We've been in the air for about an hour; just under a half hour to go.

I'm not a compulsive histographer like Candy. I've been keeping her journal up-to-date in her absence because I know she would rather not have any significant gaps. But today's record is being made in hopes that keeping busy will enable me to retain what little remains of my sanity.

This is
crazy
, what we're doing—it simply is
not
rational!

But we're doing it anyway; and I think Adam really expects to find her at Edwards when we get there, or shortly thereafter.

I think I do, too.

But . . .

Sorry for the interruption. We're in the midst of a crisis; it's panic time among our little group. And justifiably so, I'm afraid.

All doubts have vanished; we
know
that we're listening in on Candy's thoughts through Terry—however he's doing it. And it doesn't take much imagination to figure out what's happening.

A few minutes ago Terry gasped (I
know
—whoever heard of a bird gasping?), "What the
hell
. . . ! That's
atmosphere
! What happened to the brakes! Oh, damn, this is going to be
hot
!"

"Mommy," said Lisa unhappily, "Candy's awful scared."

I wasn't much of a mother just then. I said, "Yes, dear, I know. Be quiet now and let us hear what's going on."

"Knock it off," snapped Terry. "Let's get that record wrapped up and safe first. Then be as hysterical as you like. Okay. In through the neck, snap on the helmet; now Kyril's waist ring, now the spare. There. Both PLSS thermostats cooling at max. Good, maybe it'll come through okay.

"Now me—oh, Lord, I'm scared . . . ! Pay
attention
!—right glove—stop
fumbling
; you've done this a dozen times in training! Oh, yeah?—with another pair of gloves on already? Okay. Left glove. Good. Now turn PLSSs down all the way.

"Whoa—gees building up already. Better get up somewhere near the middle of the transverse bulkhead, away from the hull. That hull's going to get hot!

"Idiot!—
don't forget the record
. . . ! Maybe I can wedge the EMU in between those bulkhead stiffeners. There. EMU—
stay
!

"Hey, where's my PLSS? Oh, that's no good; I better . . .

"What was that! What are they doing; firing the laterals in the atmosphere? Boy, that's thorough; what a paranoid bunch! I bet nothing in the Free World's entire defense arsenal could keep
this
sucker from completing its appointed rounds. Not at—what?—seven miles per second . . . ?

"Oh, damn—how high will I be when I pass over Vandenberg? Why didn't I think of that before? Too high and the shock wave won't reach the ground at all; they won't notice—they'll miss their only chance! The record can't warn Teacher
if he never finds out about it
. . . !

"No; they're bound to have radar looking west—watching for the tsunami, if nothing else; that would be their first indication that we failed. Yeah, they'll notice—they
have
to notice! And it'll take an Act of God to keep them away after that. Okay, the warning will get through—if it gets down intact.

"Wonder if I'm going to get down intact—damn, it's hot in here! I wish they'd quit banging away with those lateral thrusters; it's hard to hang on.

"Whoo-ee . . . ! Aerodynamic dodging! Wonder if that's programmed at ten gees, too. Got to admire somebody that determined. Those people—"

Suddenly Lisa screamed shrilly and clutched at her upper arm.

"Ouch . . . !"
coughed Terry. "Lord, my
arm
. . ."

Adam's head jerked around, his face ashen. Our eyes met in helpless silence.

"Mom-
mee
-ee . . . !" wailed Lisa, rubbing her arm. But there was nothing I could do for her: Sometimes it's not much fun being a Corsican sister.

"Oh,
that
hurts . . . !"
continued the bird. "Now Adam and I match. Surprised it didn't smash the inner helmet, too! How am I supposed to climb back up there with
this
? Hell, how could I hang on even if I—"

Lisa screamed again.

"Jees-sus . . . !"
panted Terry "I feel like a pingpong ball in a doubles match! Good thing I'm wearing two—"

Lisa grunted as if the breath had been kicked out of her, then moaned inarticulately.

"Uh . . ."
said Terry. "Where am I? My arm hurts. It's so hot. Oh, I remem—"

Lisa shrieked, then sobbed in silence.

"
Oh!
—wonder how many ribs that was. It
hurts . . .

"What's that—
my PLSS line . . . !
Quick, crimp it off—stop the lea—"

Lisa "oofed," her sobbing momentarily interrupted; then she continued. I felt so
helpless
! For both of them.

"Oh, that was a
good
one. Wonder what broke that time. Where's that life-support line? There, crimp it again—crimp it! Not that it matters—it's getting so hard to breathe. So hot. . . . Oh, damn, I thought maybe it would work; I
wanted
—"

Lisa hardly reacted at all that time; only an added moan on top of her crying.

"What a choice—cook, suffocate . . . beat to a pulp. . . ."

"Mommy," whimpered Lisa, hands at her throat, "I can't breathe . . . ."

"God . . . bless Mother and Father . . . Smith, and Momma and Daddy Foster and . . . Teacher . . . and Adam and Kim and Lisa. And Terry . . . oh—
please
take . . . care of Ter—"

The bird fell silent. He fluffed, hunched. His eyes went blank. He began to make a soft keening sound. Lisa stopped crying. I started.

"Terry can't
feel
her, Mommy," whispered Lisa in stricken tones. "She's not scared anymore."

That's when Adam slammed the throttle forward and lowered the nose. Our airspeed indicator is now pegged at the red line. In theory, the plane can break up if we go any faster. In practice, the exhaust-gas temperature readings are over the limit already.

But the dry lake is in sight. We can glide from here if we have to.

Only a few minutes more . . . .

There it is . . . !
Whatever it is. It looks something like a shuttle, but bigger. It's dead black. It's a threatening-looking machine somehow. It's well above us, approaching from the west, descending rapidly. There are no lights or windows. There are no markings.

Adam is diving the plane to pick up even more speed. It's right at our height now, crossing in front of us. Adam is turning to follow, losing ground.

We're over the dry lake bottom now. There's a good five or ten miles of smooth, flat surface ahead. It's well ahead of us now, beginning its flare-out. It's only feet above the ground. There's no sign of landing gear yet—it's
down;
it touched down on its belly. It's sliding smoothly along the lake bottom, trailing an immense plume of dust, slowing gradually.

We're overtaking it, skimming along just above the ground, bleeding off our dive-induced excess speed.

We're alongside now, and Adam is slowing us, maintaining formation.

Our wheels are down—isn't that thing
ever
going to stop . . . ?

Lisa is becoming agitated. She's begun to whisper, "Hurry, Mommy; hurry, Mommy," through her tears.

Terry just began to moan.

Adam glanced across at him, his face an absolute death mask. "That's the noise he made before," he remarked in a controlled, brittle, horribly offhand manner, "when her heart stopped after she pulled me out of the fire and stitched up my leg."

We're almost
stopped
—I don't know what's going to happen, but Adam is still wearing
that
expression.

Hello. Mommy can't write now. She's hurt. Adam is too. I know Candy would want somebody to tell what happened. I'm the only one who knows what happened who isn't hurt.

I'm writing in squiggles too. I don't know why they call it shorthand. I learned how to write this way three years ago. Mommy doesn't know. I haven't been telling Mommy all the things I can do for a long time. I could feel her worry when I told her stuff sometimes. So when I felt her worry about something and she asked me, I pretended I didn't understand. She feels different now. Maybe I can tell her everything.

There was a book on the living-room shelves. It showed how to write shorthand. I already knew how to read and write English. I had to read fast while Mommy was taking a bath. She thought I was too young to read books without pictures. Candy writes this way in her books too. I practiced reading them. Nobody knew I could read them. I never wrote this way before. It feels funny.

I felt Candy hurt real bad. It hurt a lot. Then I almost couldn't feel her and she almost stopped being in Terry's mind. I got awful scared. Then I couldn't feel her at all and she wasn't in Terry's mind anymore. Then Terry got real scared too.