Terraplane (27 page)

"Won't we have to transit checkpoints?" I asked. "We've been
APBed by now, surely-"

"We're not going to jersey," she said. "There's a place on Long
Island I know." Waiting until traffic broke enough to allow us exit,
she at length pulled back into its flow; we crossed several lanes and
bore left onto Forty-second.

"That's safe?" Jake asked.

"Safer than here," she said. I didn't want to go, but there was no
choice. When my feet last touched Long Island I'd stepped onto its
soil from chopper's safety, laying sole on unmined ground; it was
during my first operation following my promotion to first lieutenant. My sergeants and my men belonged to the Suffolk Unit
Reconnaissance Forces, and had been ordered out one June day to
assist in an assault on Southampton, Amagansett and Wainscott
having been slammed the week previous to little effect. Johnson,
my Johnson, was with me as my master sergeant. There've been
few afternoons more beautiful, few skies showing more unclouded
blue. Reflected sealight made even the bleakest ruins glow with old
master's touch. The weather was so perfect that there didn't seem to
be any. A day so lovely gave me the shudders, everafter.

Passing an unsecured, unlit Grand Central, Chrysler's stone and
marble shaft and several blocks of seemingly abandoned tenements, we turned left onto First. Abattoirs and meat-packing plants
stood where the UN rose in our time, blood's inescapable tang not
yet supplanted by political deodorant. Reaching the Queensboro
Bridge at Fifty-ninth, sweeping onto it across its cobbled approach,
I found myself, for the first time, being driven across it rather than
flown over as we aimed into the eastern region. White light of
unknown source shone across northern Queens's distant horizon.

"Where on Long Island?" I asked, the names forever impressed
in my mind: Mineola, Farmingdale, Stony Brook; Shirley, Riverhead, Southampton; all the others where so many had fallen.

"North shore," she said. "Takes about an hour and a half to get
there. It's what Norman and me called our summer place. We
discovered it one afternoon driving around about seven years ago. We went out there ever' couple Sundays all through the summer
ever' year. Place's falling apart but it's livable long as it's not too
cool, and it's right next to the beach, almost. Real empty out there.
We'd've probably headed out there tonight, in fact, if our plans
hadn't changed-"

On the bridge's far side the setting's look suggested that the
Depression was in its twentieth year and not its tenth-as in our
own time so many places remain as they were left following our
own economic readjustment thirty years after it carne, changing
all everafter. The small frame houses huddled next to one another,
five-story courts, small, unpeopled restaurants with signs lacking
one or more letters, blocklong factories with boarded windows; all
showed neglect's touch plain, even those whose owners continued
to attempt upkeep. The limitless gray blocks seemed gradually to
be wearing away, eroding with each passing year until, one windy
afternoon, the east would send forth into the sky its own clouds,
from its own dust bowl. We continued east on Northern Parkway; I
noticed a sign arrowing Holmes Field's direction, due north. At the
crest of an overpass we sighted the source of the horizon's icy glow

"The fair?" I asked; Jake and Oktobriana looked on as if at their
first Christmas tree. Wanda eyed the scene no more than a second.

"
Yep.

From the midst of blackness rose a shiny white world dotted at
places with pastel traceries, its elliptical acreage centered with that
inescapable needle and sphere. Unmoving searchlights lit the thin
bone and fat ball; affixed to the spire's highest surface, just below
the point, was a circular metal framework of unguessable purpose;
on none of the reproduced logos had it shown.

"Have they a name?" asked Jake.

"The Trylon and Perisphere," said Wanda.

"Why?"

"Sounds modern," she said. "Doesn't it?"

Smaller buildings scattered about held their own peaks and caps;
buildings in boat's shape, or with cash registers planted topside,
emerged from the surrounding glow. Towards one end of the plot,
beyond a lake, another highrise rose over the skyline, a metal
framework resembling an enormous utility tower. Parachutes seemed to be dropping from its broad summit, as if sightseers were
so appalled by their surroundings that they couldn't wait for the
elevator.

"In afternoon paper was picture," said Oktobriana, her hair
blowing back in the window's wind; her cheeks twitching without
cease. "Central structure has remarkable similarity to needed
device. "

"Device," I repeated. "How so? What similarity?"

But Oktobriana added nothing to her previous remarks, and fell
disturbingly silent. As I looked on I saw what appeared as a great
shadow suddenly darken part of the fair's illumination; looking
above, I saw but vaguely an enormous dirigible, moving at gentle
pace across the sky, its silver belly reflecting the lights below as at
groundlevel it darkened them; on its rear fins, I saw swastikas.

"That blimp," I said. "What is it?"

Wanda peered up from windshield view long enough to note;
returned view quickly to the road. "The Hindenburg," she said.
"Coming out of Lakehurst, I'd bet. Heading back to Germany.
They was saying it wouldn't be back for a while."

We outdistanced the still-surviving zeppelin soon enough, passing through the tag end of Queens, entering the country. Fair
became factory, became farmhouse and field. The moon cast its
own shadows over marsh and timberlot. The road narrowed; narrowed again. All before us glowed in negative light as we roared
ahead; sidegrowing brush raked our car's sides as if to hold us back.
After a time no other cars showed during our flight.

"Much longer?" I asked, feeling that unsatisfied anticipation
always suffered when the ETA of one's destination remains
unknown; when each minute triples in experienced duration. That
we rode a federal highway astonished; its sole improvement over
mudtrail was the broken pavement. On odd occasions signs appeared, showing amidst the wild familiar names, names I connected with disconcerting ruin and unforgivable waste; names
from the old days, out here.

"Twenty minutes, maybe," she said. "Never can remember the
name of the damn road it's on but I recognize it when I see it. Don't know if it even has a name, thinking about it. We'll be fine
though, once we get out there."

"For how long?"

"Long enough," she said. "We will have to decide what to do at
some point-"

"We?" I said. "Why include yourself?"

"I'm in this shit neck-deep just like you are, Luther. Accessory to
first-degree murder of two colored policemen and two white feds.
They got us all on that right now They can get me on harboring
fugitives, transporting fugitives, conspiracy, well, you name it and
I think we've done it."

"What options show?"

"For me?" she asked. "None. I go back, say what happened. I get
booked. Won't take long to take care of me. Excuses don't hold
with Colored Court judges. Then-"

"What options show for us?"

"Less than none," she said. "It'll be the hot seat for you all inside
a month, 'less you're lynched first. They lynched some poor bastard in Riverside Park just a month or so ago."

"But the longer you're with us the deeper-

"Doesn't matter at this point. Can't go anywhere else. Try to get
to Canada they'll pick me up at the border. Everything I hear
makes me think it's not that much different up there, they're just
not such assholes about it. I don't know-"

'All's meant for purpose," I said, offering the feeblest lie I knew;
wishing to comfort, all the same.

"Shit. Finally had a real simple life going. Not the happiest life
but I could deal with everything in it. Then you all come along.
Now look." She spoke more with resignation than with anger,
which relieved.

"We didn't intend interference," I said.

"I know Good intentions. No use crying over spilt milk."

At last, slowing, she wheeled us onto a more primitive road that
ran off to our left; its grade was so ill-lain that each bump threatened to throw us into the surrounding woods. No lights lightened
its length other than our own.

"Here we are," she said as the house rose into view; as seen
through night's cloak it showed as an oldstyle residence, the type in
which dozens might hide. It was a two-story stone, long and
rambling, with high brick chimneys. Trees surrounded three sides;
the fourth side was open to the sea. Approaching a small building
behind the house, I heard drumbeats, the pound of cannon:
breakers. Across the rear meadow I thought I discerned the ocean's
moon-shimmered plain. We pulled into a ramshackle garage,
parked and emerged. Wanda pulled the garage door shut with a
length of heavy rope.

"What was this?" Jake asked as we headed up the walk, our feet
crunching the pebbles below. Insects surfeited our ears with their
buzz.

"Somebody's house," she said. "Big old places like this stand all
along the shore out here. Few of 'em are still occupied but most
have either been repossessed or the owners can't afford to keep 'em
up anymore, so they just let 'em sit out here and rot."

"None patrol?" I asked.

"Never saw a guard or policeman whole time we been coming
out. Wouldn't be a cop left in the city if they had to keep an eye on
all these places." We stepped onto a roofed, wide-planked porch
that ran houseround, careful of our tread so as to avoid gaps and
weak spots. "Door's never locked, either," she said, slamming it
open with her shoulder. "Never have to worry about burglars in the
country. Come on in."

We walked into a two-story foyer; within its space my apartment
could fit twiceover. Curving upward from floor to second story was a
long stairway, its banister and railing leaning outward as if sprung by
the passage of millions; in night's black-and-white light the scene
looked as a set down which Astaire might dance. Seabreeze wafting
through shattered windows cooled the house, brought tidesound.
Above room's warped woodwork showed mold-splattered walls.
What furniture remained hid beneath ghost-drawn sheets. Mouse's
rustle sounded among the debris.

"Looks better in the daylight," she said, crossing the plasterlittered floor, gliding in and out of shadow "Norman and me, we always slept on that big old couch in the front room. You lovebirds
take that, why don't you?" She fell silent for a moment, her face
unseen in the dark. "I'll slide a couple chairs together over in the
library. There's a trundle out on the sun porch you can sleep on,
Luther. We better all get some shut-eye. Sun'll wake us when it
comes up and if we don't get a little rest we're all going to be even
more worthless in the morning than we already are."

I tossed the papers floorways, immediately regretful as I choked
in the ensuing dustcloud. All departed to their respective spots;
Oktobriana had fallen into quiet ever since we'd seen the fair;
whether there was something to which she turned her thought, or
whether it had become too hard for her to speak and simultaneously connect what she heard herself say with what she was
thinking, I had no idea. Seasound beat loud throughout the
screened, openair porch, sending a soothing rhythm.

"Jake," I shouted into the front room. "He's moved?"

A pause. "He's not." I heard him snap the tracker's cover shut as
he pocketed it. By trundle, evidently, Wanda referred to a small
metal bed standing in midfloor, surrounded by breeze. Tugging
down the dusty, clammy sheet, finding a mattress mildewed but
sleepable, I sat at bedside, moonlight making all in the near-empty
room visible. A Bible lay floored, nearby; picking it up, I made a
quick flip through its damp pages, looking for a quieting passage,
finding instead: For the sons of light came unto battle with the lot of
the sons of darkness, which are known as the Army of Belial, and
against the troop of Edom, and Moab- This wasn't the Bible I
remembered as a child. In the contents I read the names of the
books of the now-discredited New Testament: Matthew, Mark,
Luke, John, Thomas, the Acts of the Apostles, the Gospel of
Truth, the Hymn of Light. The front page announced it to be the
Holy Bible of the Albigensian Church, Redeemed. Unwrapping
another gift, I'd found only another body. Having had overmuch
surprise when least expected, or desired, I reclined, feeling the
pain in my head, my ribs, my heart; feeling pain wherever Doc
stepped. No sooner had I lain than I slept.

Dawn nuzzled me awake with groping light; I remained bedded, feeling that to rise too soon would only hurl reality onto my head
again too hard, too early on. Hurling was already in progress, I
gathered; Oktobriana moaned in pain, pain of disease and pain of
knowing of the disease. Shortly I heard crying's sound, deep and
choked, as Jake told her.

Freshening as best we could once we'd risen, meeting in the
living room, Jake and I sat listening to Oktobriana while Wanda
walked out onto the sun porch. Possibly in response to the pain she
now felt, she seemed to have so focused her mind on the ramifications and pertinents of her situation-now that she knew what it
was-and so kept such grip over her body with her mind that her
multitudinous thoughts now came worded clear, with patterned
logic. Her English, too, had become perfectly worded with classic
phrase, if at times overrich with science's jargon and distance. As
she lay on the couch, her arms wrapped round her drawn-up knees,
she spoke as if to herself.

"The agent, then, would seem to be a highly mutatable retrovirus of unknown origin. The site of first appearance is fascinating
in that were there to have occurred here an incident matching the
noted Tunguska astronomic strike of 1908-that was in Siberiathen it would be impossible to disprove the likelihood of a relationship-"