The Caterpillar's Question by Piers Anthony and Philip José Farmer (12 page)

Looking distressed, she shook her head.

"Do you know any foreign language? I mean, non-English Earth language. Like French or Spanish?"

Again, she shook her head.

That squirrel in his mind was frantic now. It was whirling around like a furry gyroscope.

"All right! Let's try something else! You used body and hand language to tell me to fly this plane! Can you do the same to tell me to turn back to the north? Malva will give her orders again, but you could cancel them,"

Malva would repeat her command. And Tappy would have to override Malva's orders. And then Malva would give her orders again. The plane would yo-yo until the pursuit planes caught up with it.

The bitch might be listening in now via the radio.

He leaned over and whispered to Tappy.

"You didn't point out the radio switches. We have to find them and turn them off."

Malva's voice had come from a grille inset above his head. But there were no buttons or switches near it.

First, he eliminated the controls and indicators the function of which he knew. That left about twenty-five unknowns. What if resetting one caused a serious change in the performance of the craft? Like shutting off the power to the engine?

He had to do something very soon. The three pursuers were steadily growing larger.

At that moment, Malva's voice rang in the cabin.

"You will obey the orders transmitted to you by your escort! One aircraft will guide you! Follow it! Stay at the same level as it! Descend when it descends!"

"Ah!" Jack said.

When the voice had come on, a green panel inset in the center of the steering wheel started to glow.

"Repeat!" Malva said. "You will..."

Jack had cut her off by pressing the green panel with his fingertip. The panel ceased to glow.

"Gotcha!"

He pressed the panel again.

"...follow the plane in front of you and..."

"Sure, we'll just do that, you bitch!" Jack shouted. And he turned the radio off.

All that time, the radio had been on, and he had not noticed the glowing panel. But then he had been busy. Moreover, he was not a trained pilot.

He laughed as he wheeled the craft around and headed for their destination. Some of his dread and uncertainty was gone.

That Malva's commands were being ignored must be whirling her around as if she were glued onto a jet engine vane. She would be horrified, burning with panic. Her masters would not be tolerant about her failure.

He did not feel the least bit sorry for Malva.

Now the air had suddenly become much rougher. The plane fell and rose as if it were diving into and out of express elevators. This was the forerunner of the storm. What would it be like when they were inside its troubled heart?

If it were not for those aircraft catching up with him so swiftly, he would have tried to climb over the storm. But the chasers would overtake him sooner if he lost speed by ascending. They might do so, anyway. The only way to escape was straight ahead. The electrical disturbances there might affect whatever detectors the pursuers had. If this happened, they would lose him and Tappy.

Might... if...

It did no good to wonder about might-have-beens. But that was an integral part of the human mind. Animals never worried about these. Humans found it necessary. They had to fantasize. So, maybe, it was good for them.

No time for that.

He squeezed the inflatable rim again. "Go ahead, Tappy. Try to cancel the spell, whatever it is, the control she has over me."

Tappy seemed to be thinking hard. Then she smiled. After tearing off the sheet she had written on, she drew a single character. She held it in front of him.

"You know I can't read it."

She half turned and gestured behind her. Then she passed her hands over her face and twisted her features. She was trying to look like somebody. But she was blind.

"You mean," he said slowly, "you're giving me the impression of a face from the voice of that person?"

She nodded, and she pointed behind her again.

Her expression was haughty and arrogant.

"Oh! You mean Malva?"

She nodded and smiled happily.

"But knowing that, how's that going to help me?"

She opened her mouth wide, stuck the sheet of paper close to it, and moved her mouth and jaw as if she were chewing. Then she pointed at him.

He started to ask her what she meant when she reached over, felt along his face until she found his mouth, and jammed the piece of paper between his lips.

Before he could protest, he found the paper stuffed into his mouth. She was still making the chewing motions.

"Grrbgrrbgrrbgrrb!"

Which meant, "You want me to chew this and swallow it?"

Evidently, she did. So he did.

Tappy threw up her hands to indicate that all was well.

He was not so sure. Only one way to find out. He activated the radio again and said, "Malva, you slimy evil slut! What do you think about your control of me now?"

He winced at the hatred and viciousness of her invective, not all of which was in English.

Then Malva, after her hard breathing had ceased, shouted, "You will obey me! You will obey me! Come back as commanded! Come back as commanded!"

Jack did not have the slightest urge to turn the wheel. He pressed the green-glowing panel again and grinned at Tappy.

"Now we can get back to business."

But the roughness of the air had become a savagery. He and Tappy had been bouncing up and down and swaying hard from side to side. Now they might soon be lifted from their seats.

He said, "Tappy! We need belts to hold us down!"

Tappy frowned again. Her mouth drew up at one corner. Then she smiled. Her fingers brushed along the center area of the panel and stopped over a button. The plaque above it bore a character different from any other on the panel. Below it was a flashing orange light.

She pressed her back against the back of the seat. She gestured that he should do the same. As soon as he had obeyed, she pushed the button. Immediately after, she sat upright against the seat back. He heard a click. From the panels behind the seats slid two long bands. These began curving, went over his and Tappy's chest, and stopped after they entered two extensions which had risen from beside the seats.

Safety belts.

Then he felt something curving around his waist. Another metal band was enclosing him. Both belts seemed to move, settling in, feeling the shape of his body, fitting themselves with maximum efficiency.

That was not so surprising. But he was amazed when the metal of the belts suddenly became much softer. In fact, they felt like stiff cloths.

The orange light went out. The recessed bulb beside it was now glowing a steady green.

Jack said, "You just remembered where the belt button was?"

She nodded.

Again, he wondered who or what had inhibited her against speaking English. Whatever it was, it had not kept her from talking to that honker. If only he had time to learn from her how to communicate in honkerese, he could bypass that inhibition. There he went again... if... if, painting pictures in his mind.

Suddenly, the savage bumps and drops and rises of the plane increased in frequency and intensity. If it had not been for the belts, he and Tappy would be ricocheting around in the narrow cockpit. Or should it be called a cabin? What was the difference? Being bruised and having bones broken did not depend upon word definitions.

Then the light dimmed, and the lights inside the plane came on. Automatically. Tappy had pushed no buttons.

Straight ahead and very near was the evil-looking black roil of the storm edge. He gripped the wheel so hard that the plane surged ahead. Though he had thought that he had been squeezing with all his strength, he had fooled himself. Just before the plane plunged into the clouds, he remembered reading something long ago: that entering a violent storm in an aircraft was like slamming it into a concrete wall.

That had certainly been exaggerated-- somewhat-- since the impact did not flatten the plane out. It kept going, though it had shuddered and the altitude indicator showed an alarming loss of height. Rain and darkness enclosed the craft. But, almost immediately, the rain on the windshield evaporated. Yet, the downpour was still almost solid a few inches from the shield. This machine had no visible windshield wipers. Something was keeping the rain from hitting the windshield.

The headlights of the craft were on, but he could not see more than a few feet beyond its nose. He was still squeezing hard on the wheel and had it pulled far back. Though he was not losing any more altitude, he had not regained that lost when entering the storm.

The mountain peaks! How far below the plane were they?

Lightning exploded nearby. Thunder boomed. Tappy reached over and felt his neck, then lowered her hand to grab his shoulder.

"We'll be fine!" he shouted.

It was within the realm of possibility. But she needed strong encouragement.

So did he.

Soon, embarrassment and discomfort would be added to the danger. He was going to wet his pants.

Maybe there was something to help him in the storage space behind the seats. Like a bottle. Anything. He did not dare to lessen the pressure on the wheel rim. Tappy would have to grope around in there for him.

He told her what he wanted her to do and why. She twisted around in the tight restraint of the belts and felt as far as she could reach. She smiled and then worked away at something. He twisted his neck far enough to see that she was unfastening a belt around a box. The belt came loose when she clicked something on the buckle. Then she managed to bring out with one hand a plastic container.

It was heavy and fell out of her hand before she could grip it with both hands. But it was on the space between them. After feeling it, she found and pressed a button on the box. The lid came open. Inside were stacks of small plastic square containers. And plastic bottles.

The bottle she brought out held a transparent liquid. Water, he hoped. And it was. She unscrewed the cap and tasted it, smiled, then held it out to him. At that instant, the orange liquid inside the altitude indicator shot up. He was pressed against the seat.

An updraft was hurtling the airplane toward the top of the storm.

He released his right hand from the wheel and took the bottle. It had slopped some water out of it, but there was more than enough for him despite his intense thirst.

When he handed the half-empty bottle to her, he said, "Drink it all up! I'll use the bottle then!"

She lifted it to her lips and did not put it down until all the water was gone. She must have been as thirsty as he.

However, using the bottle for its second purpose was not easy. The plane was still bouncing around while going up. There seemed to be up- and downdrafts within the big updraft. Desperate, he managed to relieve himself completely. Never mind what missed the bottle.

Meanwhile, Tappy had been holding down the box, which tended to rise during a vigorous downdraft. She screwed the cap back onto the bottle and placed it in the box. After relocking the box, she struggled to get it back into its place in the storage area. Finally, she did it.

He had no time to thank her. Now a fierce downdraft plunged the machine toward... what? He squeezed the wheel rim with all the muscle he could muster. And he pulled the wheel far back, though he wondered if pointing the nose of the craft too high would cause a stall. He hoped not. It seemed to him, however, that the propulsive- levitational power might, pun intended, forestall stalls.

At least, he felt better now. Otherwise, he would not be making a pun, especially such a lousy one.

He had no reason to be freed of some of his fear. At any moment, a downdraft could smash the plane into a peak or the plane might fly head-on into a very high mountain.

A minute later, he was again thoroughly scared. The dazzling white lightning bolts and their ear-ramming explosions increased. They seemed to be in a nest of electrical entities hatching right and left. Tappy squeezed his thigh while the ravening energy transformed the black world into a white one. Her fingers dug into his flesh when a gigantic round ball, its brightness brain-piercing, appeared in front of them. She could not see it, he supposed, but it must be making some impression on her nervous system.

As they hurtled through it, their flesh seemed to become as clear as spring water. Their bones were dark. Tappy was a moving skeleton beside him, and his hands and arms were Death's own body.

Then the ball was gone. They were again fleshed. But their hairs were standing on end. Her long tresses stood out like straight needles. She looked like the Bride of Frankenstein.

Somewhere behind them, the ball exploded, and the airplane shook. Their hair crackled and then fell back, free of the static electricity.

A moment later, Tappy shook his shoulder. He looked at her pale face. She was obviously distressed about something. He did not think that it had been caused by the ball.

"What is it?"

She was shaking her head and pointing at her forehead. Then she pointed straight ahead, held up her hands, and rotated them. After which she made a circular motion close to her head with her right hand. She looked very puzzled.

"I don't get it," he said.

She reached out and ran her finger along the instrument panel until she located the compass. Holding the tip of her finger on it, she turned her head toward him. With the other hand, she made the circular movement.

He said, "Oh! You mean... you don't know now where that place... your goal... destination is? Where we've been headed since we got here?"

She nodded vigorously and sat back. Now she looked distressed.

"I'm sorry," he said.

That did not help her. Or him. And it was a winner of an understatement.

"It must've been that white-hot ball, that St. Elmo's fire," he said. "That last explosion. It was a huge sphere of electricity discharging. Somehow, it glitched that homing sense, whatever it is that was leading you straight to your destination. I thought that was some sort of psychic power. But it could be electrical-- semi-electrical, anyway."