CV

41

Hartman was more deeply disturbed than ever by what was happening in Sea Venture. He had seen violence before, during the London riots in the eighties, and after the Lisbon earthquake; when civil order broke down, people who were normally restrained took advantage of the opportunity to loot and break things; that was understandable. But wasn’t this something different?

Boys walking up to an elderly woman, taking her cane away and using it to break her bones. Assaults with broken Coke bottles, rapes, knifings. It was senseless, purposeless violence, as if, Hartman thought, there were some dark half-aware force in human minds that saw itself threatened, and was striking out like a wounded animal.

When the call for security volunteers went out, Hartman offered his services and was given a supervisory post on the night shift. A little before midnight of his third day, he was sitting at his desk in the corridor when he saw Hal Winter coming toward him.

“Well, we meet again,” said Hartman. He looked at the white armband on Winter’s sleeve and the nightstick in his hand.

“You. too?”

“Oh, yes. They think I’m too feeble to patrol, but they let me supervise. They’ve even given me a title, the same one I had before; that's very nice in a way. Well, let me tell you the drill. Your section is the port side of this deck, midships forward, from Corridor A to E. Your partner should be here in a few minutes and he’ll show you the ropes. Here’s my number; you call that if there’s any trouble. Do that first. Every hour you’re allowed a ten-minute rest period here— you see I’ve got coffee, doughnuts, all the comforts of home. They’ve told you, I expect, about excessive force?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don’t take it too seriously. If there is any trouble, talk your way out of it if you can, but if you can’t, use the baton—that’s what it’s for. Had any training with the stick?”

“No.”

“Let me show you one or two things. If it’s a man with a weapon, go for the wrist, shoulder, elbow—anything to make him drop it. Or if he’s too active for that, thrust straight for the gut. The baton gives you sixteen inches reach, probably more than anything he’ll be carrying. If you hit him hard enough, you’ll paralyze his solar plexus, and he'll be in enough pain that you shouldn’t have any trouble getting him to come along peacefully. The detention rooms are right here, down the corridor. Now say it’s a man attacking a woman. In that case I wouldn’t advise the talk method. Tap him behind the ear, like this, or on the temple, about hard enough to crush a grapefruit. Don’t be too dainty. The idea is to stun him, or knock him out, but if you happen to give him a concussion, don’t worry—better him than you. Is that all clear?”

“Yes. I hope so.” Winter smiled.

“You’re a big, strong lad; you shouldn’t have any problems. Good luck to you.”

The first time was when they were coming back from a late movie, cutting across the residential corridors to get to the elevators on the starboard side. Ahead of them was an old woman hobbling along with a cane. “Ten points,” said Rodney.

They looked at each other. Phil said, “Dare you.”

Rodney said nothing, but there was a glint in his eye. He started to walk faster. Phil hurried to keep up, suddenly excited, wondering if he would really do it.

They came up behind the old woman. As they were about to pass, Rodney reached out, grabbed the cane and pulled. “Oh!” said the old woman as she fell. Her eyes were like oysters; she was still holding onto the cane. Rodney yanked it away from her. His face was flushed, his lips bright. He raised the cane and brought it down across her knees. Then they ran, with her screams behind them.

They hid the cane behind a grandfather clock in the lounge. The next night they got another one, and then every night when they went prowling, they both had their canes.

For a while they specialized in old people, but that got boring, and one night they caught a young woman alone. They backed her into a doorway and Rodney held his cane across her throat while Phil pulled her panties down. Afterward they didn't look at each other or speak; but three nights later they did it again.

Although the corridors of Sea Venture were strewn with paper and trash, ceiling lights broken, some TV screens blank, a curious semblance of normal life went on; the casino was closed, but the restaurants and bars were open; the only difference, aside from the litter, was that you met fewer people, and some of them were a little strange. Barlow and Geller, picking their times and places with some care, had never had any trouble; Geller looked just sufficiently large and bad-tempered to discourage interference, and Barlow carried a dissecting knife in her purse.

They were sitting in the Quarter Deck Bar one afternoon, drinking margaritas. “There’s one,” said Barlow, looking across the room. “No, both of them are.”

Geller followed the direction of her gaze. “Yeah.”

“They're looking at us.”

“Well, why not?” Geller raised his glass and smiled.

The man was saying something to the woman. After a moment they rose and came across the lounge, carrying their drinks. “May we introduce ourselves?” said the man. “My name is John Stevens. Allow me to present Julie Prescott.”

“Sit down,” Geller said. “Randy Geller, Yvonne Barlow.” They slid over to make room.

“You are both recovered patients of the epidemic, isn’t that so?” asked Stevens.

“Number one and number two. The question is, how did you know?”

“I think it’s something about your faces,” Julie Prescott said. “But I really don’t know how I know—I just do.”

“Which of you was number one?” Stevens asked politely. “I was. Down in the marine lab. McNulty thinks it was something that came out of an australite we dredged up. He also thinks it isn’t a disease, it’s an intelligent parasite.”

“And you don’t believe this?”

“Oh, yeah, I believe it too.”

“Do you work in the marine laboratory also, Ms. Barlow?”

“Yvonne. I did—we both did—but we quit.”

“I see. Because it didn’t make sense anymore?”

“That’s right.”

They looked at each other. Barlow had a curious feeling that the words themselves were unimportant.

“Do you think that is the recognition factor, then? We recognize those to whom life no longer makes sense?”

“Not life,” said Barlow. “The way we used to live.”

“And how will you live now?”

Geller said, “Yvonne and I are going to set up a little private lab on the Upper Peninsula in Michigan. We can do enough commercial work to get by, and still do some real science.”

“That will not be marine science, will it, in Michigan?”

“No, but biology is biology. Yvonne is interested in schistosome dermatitis. Swimmer’s itch. It’s a parasite, maybe that’s why she likes it. What about you?”

“I’m not sure yet. I think my problem is with life in general.”

Julie said, “I’m going to paint, I think. For a year or two, anyhow, long enough to find out if I’m any good.”

“Always assuming we get off Sea Venture,” said Geller. Stevens smiled. “Oh, we’ll get off. One way or another.”