Involution Ocean

Chapter 6 The Storm

Next morning at breakfast Calothrick sat next to Murphig at the table in the dining tent Palming his dropper, he squeezed a massive dose of the brew into Murphig’s gruel. Then he caught my eye and winked.

We both examined Murphig anxiously. Stolidly, the young Nullaquan cleaned his bowl, rose with perfect com­posure, and walked out of the tent I had always known syncophine to have a powerful and rapid effect but I kept an eye on him for a full hour anyway. Nothing. Obviously it was still much too weak.

When we killed our next whale I appropriated two buck­ets of intestines and started work. Calothrick met me after lunch that day and we had a hurried consultation.

“Still too weak,” I said. “Maybe there’s a certain organ that yields the Flare. The spleen maybe, the pancreas . . .”

“Spleen my eye,” said Calothrick testily. He was always on edge now, his eyeballs were yellowed and bloodshot “What the death good will that do us? Neither one of us knows anything about anatomy, much less a whale’s. They probably don’t even have spleens.”

“We’ll just have to do what we can,” I said patiently. “Sooner or later we’ll get it right You want to try out some of the brew? Maybe there’s something physically ab­normal about Murphig.”

“Why torture me?” Calothrick said savagely. “We’ve fed it to him for four days now, stronger every time, and noth­ing. Nothing! Y’know, I’m starting to wonder about you. You’re taking it mighty easily; you’re as cool as a fish. No trembling, no jitters. Maybe you’ve got something I don’t know about. Like a bottle.”

“Really,” I chided.

“You got it soft, you know? You stay down here where it’s cool, serving that slop you call food—Don’t you shush me, man! You know what I have to go through up there? They order me around like a dog, tell me to do things I obviously never heard of before, and I cant even ask a question, man. Not with that mask on! If I want to ask something, I’d have to take it off and bloody my lungs with raw air. Every speck of dust is just like a needle inside your chest. No way! You realize that there are seven different kinds of ropes on this tub? And that doesn’t count the hal­liards, the braces, the downhauls or the clew lines. And there’s twenty sails on this thing! Uppers and lowers and mizzens and gallants ... how am I supposed to get ’em straight? So they send me to do the shit jobs. The stuff nobody else will touch. Look at this hand!”

Calothrick thrust his hand in front of my face. He had barked three of his knuckles. His fingers trembled notice­ably. “I had to overhaul the secondary generator this morn­ing. I did all the work while Grent stood by cleaning his fingernails and telling me what to do. And this afternoon I start work on the sewage recycler. No water for a bath. Hardly enough to wipe off with a sponge every other day! No, we save every drop. And down in the hold we have dozens of barrels full of cool, clean water. ‘Bound for the Highisle,’ they say. Shipowners wallow in luxury while we cook on deck.” “You volunteered,” I said pointedly.

“Don’t remind me.”

“And you’re not the only green hand on board.”

“Murphig was born here, man. It makes all the differ­ence. Anyway, IH take care of Murphig in my own way.”

“Cheer up,” I said flatly. “I’ll have the new brew ready by tonight Half a bottle full. That’ll do it if anything will.”

Calothrick stared sullenly at me for a few seconds, then went back on deck.

Human blood poisoned whales, I told myself. I won­dered If Calothrick would poison fhe sharks if I kicked him overboard.

That night Calothrick met me in the kitchen just before supper. “Have you got it ready?” he said, slapping his dust-mask down on the counter.

“Yeah,” I said, “but I’ve been thinking. It’s odd. After all, Nullaquans have been here for five hundred years. You’d think that everyone would be doing Flare by now. Or at least know about it.”

“So? Let’s go, you’re wasting time.”

I was annoyed. “Wait a minute, hear me out,” I said calmly. “I’m not sure you know this, but the first settlers on Nullaqua were a very small group. Only about fifty.”

“What in Oblivion’s name are you talking about?” Calo­thrick had a flair for Nullaquan profanity.

“Keep listening. They cloned off the first generation, you see, to fit in with Nullaquan conditions. Hairy noses, thick eyelids, the whole thing, you understand? There were no direct descendants of the original fifty. They’d all had themselves sterilized. So, maybe, in all that genetic manipu­lation, there was a gene that causes immunity to Flare.”

“Immunity?” said Calothrick aghast.

“Why not? I suppose it’s possible. The founders were op­posed to unorthodox drugs in general. Death, they proba­bly knew about Flare from the beginning. They were cranks, but they weren’t stupid.”

“You mean we fed that bastard a whole bottle of Flare for nothing?” Calothrick said. He had turned pale.

“I’m not sure of it. I’m not a geneticist.”

“Give me the bottle,” Calothrick said flatly.

I did. “What I said about it’s being dangerous still holds, of course.”

“Shut up.” Calothrick pulled his eyedropper out, tilted fhe bottle, and sucked up a minimal dose. “I suppose I’m an idiot to do this.”

“You said it, not me.”

“On the other hand . . . well, here’s greasy luck.** Calo­thrick squeezed out a shot onto his tongue. He swallowed.

We waited. “Any effect?” I said finally.

Calothrick opened Us month, but choked on words. Fi­nally he emitted a strangled, “Wow!”

“If it’s that good I think I’ll have a small blast myself. Lend me your dropper.” I plucked it out of his nerveless fingers. Ideally I should have waited to see if Calothrick suffered any adverse side effects, but I was hurting. Besides, it seemed to have done him a world of good. A blasted grin was plastered on his face and the yellow withdrawal tinge was already fading from his eyes. I sucked up a normal dose and swallowed.

By the time I got up from the floor, the food had grown cold and I had to reheat it But it had been worth it.

I felt reasonably content about the bottle. There was a good five months’ worth in it for one man, maybe two months for Calothrick and me. Calothrick was something of an enthusiast.

I hid the bottle in the cupboard. At night, after the wash­ing up was done, or rather scrubbing up—I used sand, not water, I wrestled with my self-control about a second dose. I almost always limited myself to one a day, less than that most of the time. Or at least a great deal of the time. Some­times I even quit for two or three weeks at a stretch. But my alcohol intake went up sharply then, and, coming from a frontier planet like Bunyan, I knew the debilitating and addictive effects of booze. I wasn’t sure about the long-term effects of Flare. But better an unknown devil than one known only too well, I thought. Besides, this new discovery called for a celebration. Abstinence was ridiculous.

I took my eyedropper from its hiding place under the counter and measured off a healthy dose—perhaps more then healthy. I turned off the lights in the kitchen, laid down on my pallet pulled the quilt up to my chin, and took the blast. I had just enough time to put the dropper under my pillow before the rush hit me.

Hallucinations filled the darkness. Electric blue networks expanded across my field Of vision. They were replaced by glittering silver dots, linked in inextricable, inexplicable geometric patterns. Bright energy surged up my spine. I felt that my brain was dissolving.” Someone stepped over me. A sudden conviction over­came me—it was the Angel of Death. I felt sudden panic. I fought it down, repeating internal mantras: Tranquillity. Peace. Calm. Repose. . . .

The same someone pulled open the cupboard. The click as it opened was as loud as a gunshot. Aural hallucinations now, echoes, alien voices speaking. I struggled to get a grip on myself. Someone was definitely in the room. I tried to pull myself up on one elbow; dizziness overcame me. I sank back onto the pillow, grinning helplessly.

“Who is it?” I tried to say, but the words came out sounding like “wizard.” A bad omen. I was helpless.

I heard the distorted thuds of feet on the steps. The hatch snapped open. It shut again.

I suddenly realized that it must have been Calothrick who had come down for another dose and been unwilling to wake me. The image of Calothrick appeared in my mind’s eye, recognizably him, although his narrow head was adorned with bulbous gray spines. Calothrick, of course. Nothing to worry about. I fell asleep.

Next morning I discovered that my bottle was gone. Calo­thrick and I argued, he holding forth the absurd theory that I had hidden it for my own use, myself convinced that he had squirreled it away somewhere else on board. The third’ possibility, that someone else had lifted it, aroused mutual apprehension. Since there was nothing we could do about it, we resolved to keep our eyes open and hope” for the best.

The Lungtance could have stayed by the Seagull Penin­sula until she had filled her holds. But too many planets had been raped and made worthless for mankind to indulge in this kind of exploitation any more. We did not stop; we were bound on the Grand Tour, to sail the entirety of the Sea of Dust on the slow, circular winds.

Nullaqua’s weather patterns were peculiar. There was a very slight temperature differential between the middle of the Nullaqua Crater, located on the equator, and the upper and lower margins. This was enough to power a weak dou­ble convection cell. Heated air rose from the equator and diverged northward and southward. Traveling, it cooled, to sweep slowly downward along the cliffsides and back to the equator. Though most of the dust had precipitated out of it, there were still enough microscopic rock grains to chew slowly away at the base of the cliff. Over the eons the base was slowly eaten away; eventually, the top of the cliff, weakened, would shelve off and crumble downward. Then there would be a pile of rubble at sea level to protect the cliff from further damage. Ages would pass before the wind could get at the cliff again. And it was never strong.

Or almost never. My first hint that it might be otherwise came when I was awakened one morning, six weeks into our cruise, by a loud series of blasts from the lookout’s horn. I did not recognize the code; it is one infrequently used.

Captain Desperandum emerged from his cabin, looked to the southeast, and immediately ordered all the sails furled. I followed his gaze. I saw a mighty gray wall; be­hind it was the shadowed backdrop of the NullaqUa Crater. A minor island, I thought. We must have drifted toward it during the night.

No. Even as I watched, the wall grew longer. The crew ran up the ratlines and began to tug at the sails. I looked up. There was a man in the lookout’s nest; Dalusa was nowhere in sight. Anxiety struck me.

The tents were folded quickly and stowed belowdecks. All loose objects were tied down or taken below. Mr. Bogunheim had a single word for me in response to my ges­tured queries. “Storm,” he said.

Sailors were already deserting the deck, leaping quickly through the hatches. I went below with them. Tramping through the kitchen, they went through the door into the storeroom. Other crew members were already there, sitting glumly on barrels and lighting up their rank pipes. Calo­thrick leaned against the false bulkhead, slipping his eye­dropper back into his belt. Seeing me, he burst into a series of uncontrollable giggles.

Dalusa was not there. I rushed past the startled second mate, ripped open the hatch, and jumped up on deck. Shrugging, Grent slammed the hatch behind me. There was no sense in getting us all killed.

The deck seemed deserted. Then I spotted Desperandum standing beside the hatch that led to his cabin, notebook in hand. He was staring at the storm front with a critical eye. His mask was cream colored and haphazardly marked With mathematical symbols in blue.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” he offered. His gravelly bass came tinnily through the mask’s speaker.

I flapped my arms. Desperandum stared at me non­plussed. Then comprehension dawned. “The lookout. Isn’t she down in the storeroom with the others?”

I shook my head. “Well, she’s not with me,” Desperan­dum said. “She must still be out on her morning scouting trip. That’s a shame. She was quite a help to us.” He shook his head regretfully. “Bad luck. These things don’t happen often. Freak wind conditions, or perhaps seismic distur­bance. They say there’s a heat vent in the far edge of that bay, the one the storm came from. We’ll just have to weather this out, I suppose. Let’s go down to the cabin. Come along now; we don’t want to lose you, too.” Desper­andum took my wrist casually. His grip was as secure as steel manacles.

We went down to his cabin together. Desperandum pulled off his mask and ran one hand over his short-cropped reddish blond hair. He glanced at the thick glass windows in the back of the cabin and clicked his tongue regretfully. “Those windows,” he said. “And after all the trouble I went through getting them installed. When the dust blast gets through with them they’ll be opaque. Use­less.”

I was in an agony to get back on deck. So psychotically strong was my urge to aid Dalusa that I was unable even to stop and rationally consider my motives. I pulled off my mask with an elaborate charade of casualness, but Desper­andum, his insights into human behavior sharpened by hundreds of years of experience, saw through me. “You’re agitated,” he said. ”Try to calm yourself. There were a few things about Dalusa that I think you ought to know—"

“Look!” I shouted. “Isn’t that she, outside the window?”

The response to a cry like that is automatic. As Desper­andum turned, I pulled on my mask and leapt up the stairs and through the hatch. Desperandum’s shout was cut off short as I slammed It behind me. I hoped he would have more sense than to come up on deck after me.

But I reckoned without a captain’s devotion to his men. The hatch slammed open and I barely had time to flatten myself behind a try-pot before Desperandum leapt up onto the deck. He glanced around quickly for a few seconds, saw the approaching storm, and leapt back down into his cabin. The hatch was slammed and locked.

There was no lightning, no thunder. The wind was dead calm. I stared in fascination at the approaching wall. It was not as solid as it appeared at a distance; horizontal flat­tened strata of wind-driven dust sleeted out before the storm’s main front, and long curls and involutions reached out like gaseous tentacles before expanding into nothing­ness. The light dimmed, and the morning sun was already obscured by an encroaching gust. Adrenalin poured into my bloodstream. Already my overly vivid imagination was hard at work; I had a sudden vision of the ruthless sand­blast stripping away my skin, blasting my mask’s plastic lenses into a frosted blur, abrading my tough rubbery mask into useless shreds, scouring my face away with a million crystalline impacts. In seconds I would be lacerated into a gooey skeletal framework, my bones stripped clean, cut thinner and thinner by the merciless gusts and finally anni­hilated. A total panic rush stung me; I leapt up from be­hind the try-pots and ran across the deck.

Then I saw a winged blur silhouetted against the ap­proaching wall. Wind puffed past me, sharpened particles stung my exposed hands and throat. The light was going out. Dalusa was out of control, blowing like a leaf, almost pinwheeling. She was going to cross the Lunglance’s bow. Now I could hear a dim roar as I ran across the plastic-clad deck. A strong gust struck the stern and the Lunglance’s wire braces sang like violin strings. Another gust stung me and almost knocked me off my feet, but I scram­bled to the bow. I was in time. But Dalusa was too high, flying out of my reach—no, she swooped downward. But was it far enough?

Then, as she passed, I jumped overboard. And, to my own surprise, I caught her legs in a panic grip. We hit the dost and went under, but only for a second. Its specific gravity was higher than that of water and we floated like corks. I grabbed Dalusa’s dust-caked hair and struck out for the space between the Lunglance’s middle and port hulls.

I tried to draw a breath and started to strangle. Dust had completely plugged my mask filters. With an immense ef­fort of will, I stopped my frantic inhalation and breathed outward sharply. My ears popped, but the filters cleared.

Dalusa was choking, clawing at her mask with sharp red fingernails. Whacking the back of my head against the cen­ter hull, I loomed out of the dust and struck her sharply with the side of my clenched fist, into the solar plexus. Dust spurted out of the end of her mask filter and she drew in a shuddery breath.

She threw her arms convulsively around my neck and dust gritted against my skin. I was completely coated with the floury stuff; it adhered tenaciously to the thin layer of human oils and greases on my skin. No chance of contami­nation now.

Then the wind rose to a howl and the sky was com­pletely obscured. It was as black as pitch underneath the Lunglance. Dalusa’s long arms had a startling panic strength; it was obvious that she had no idea of how to swim. I tried to give her a reassuring pat on the back, but her wings were in the way. At last I reached clumsily over her arms—a difficult task, since her velvety but tough wings almost completely enshrouded me—and patted her between the shoulder blades. Her grip loosened a fraction.

The wind was beginning to push the Lunglance slowly through the dust. That was bad. If the ship ever turned her stern or her bow to face the wind, the gale would sweep along between the hulls and kill us.

I stopped treading dust and trudgeon kicked twice in or­der to float on my back. I braced both feet against the center hull, holding Dalusa almost completely out of the dust. She let go of my neck, lying quietly at full length on top of me. The buoyancy of the dust “was enough to hold the round breathing filter of my mask out into the air, but the rest of my head was submerged. Most of Dalusa’s weight was concentrated in her massive flying muscles.

Then she slid grittily downward along my torso and rested her masked cheek against my chest. My face floated up out of the dust. Some of Dalusa’s body heat was begin­ning to conduct itself through the layers of dust that separ rated us. If I started to sweat at the areas of contact she would contract a severe rash. I exhaled sharply and sank a little under her so that fresh dust could adhere to me.

Feeling me sink, Dalusa linked her arms loosely around my waist. It was still pitch black. I knew her position only by touch. There was no sound but the hollow roar of the wind and the gritty sandpaper sound that the dust made as it rasped at the Lunglance above us.

But we Were safe, at least for the moment. My heartbeat had slowed now and I became aware of the definite eroti­cism of the situation. I lifted my dustcaked arms and put my hands over Dalusa’s shoulder blades. The muscles un­der my fingers grew stiff, then relaxed and moved. Her cheek still rested on my chest, but, suddenly, I became aware that she had reached down and was caressing the backs of my calves. Her arms were longer than I had real­ized; I felt a sudden chill, not unmixed with lust, at the realization of Dalusa’s essential alienness.

She continued to stroke the backs of my legs. It was not a particularly sensual feeling in itself; the dust was gritty on my skin, and my loose sailor’s bellbottoms were bunched uncomfortably around my knees. But the idea of it was startlingly provocative. So abstracted was the relationship between us that any physical contact, however minor, as­sumed fantastic, grotesque importance. I stroked Dalusa’s back with my dry, gritty hands. I hesitated about embrac­ing her. The sensation of having ha wings pinioned might make her panic.

We lay there for several minutes, listening to the wind moan and savoring our comfortless contact. I could feel Dalusa’s heart beating with amphetaminelike speed against my chest. Then, amazingly, her hands began to creep up­ward along the insides of my legs, inside my baggy trou­sers. Inch by inch they slid across my skin, triggering reac­tions that were frightening in their intensity. There was an almost sinister quality to it, afloat in the dust on my back in the dark, while Dalusa’s feverishly hot fingers grittily caressed the insides of my thighs. My own heart was thud­ding now, and my hands were limp on Dalusa’s back.

Thai Dalusa’s hands stopped and squeezed. Suddenly a series of quick spasms went through me, so bewildering in their intensity that I had difficulty identifying them as sex­ual. At the same time Dalusa shuddered against me. Drained, we relaxed against each other. I think I slept.

At any rate, I suddenly became aware of the glare of the sun on the dust outside. Dalusa lay unmoving on my chest Pushing off gently from the central hull, I began to back­stroke out from the Lunglance’s shadow.

When the sunlight hit us, Dalusa stirred. Flexing her wings, she knelt on my torso and flapped into the air, shak­ing dust from the fur on her wings and from her streaming hair. I swam to the ship’s port side, and, kicking violently, was just able to reach up and grab the edge of the deck. It was metal smooth; all the plastic had been blasted off by the storm. Hoisting myself up, I grabbed the bottom rung of the guard rail. It screeched in protest at my weight. The upper rail had been weakened by the wind. When I grabbed it it broke in my hand and cut the edge of my palm. Dust soaked up the blood that trickled down my wrist As soon as I recovered my breath, for the sudden fall had slammed me bruisingly into the Lunglance’s hull, I pulled myself up with a mask-muffled groan and slid under the railing. I found a new ship. She was clean, incredibly clean, as clean as a picked bone. Several braces had snapped, eaten in two by the awful friction of the wind. The masts gleamed. Every surface was smooth and shiny; I could see my masked reflection on the deck where the sand had eaten down into the bare metal. I looked like the ghost of some humanoid alien, so completely was I covered with the pallid dust. It shook itself loose from my clothing with every step. The plastic had been completely stripped from the deck, except iii the thin shadow zones behind the masts, try-pots, and starboard railing. When the sun came fully overhead, the glare would be blinding.

The hatch to the kitchen creaked open; I froze. The first mate, Mr. Flack, came cautiously out and looked at the clear skies. Then he looked back down the hatch and nod­ded.

Turning, he saw me standing completely still in the mid­dle of the barren metal deck. He, too, froze. I envisioned the thoughts going through his head: Good Lord! Look at the poor bastard. His skin’s been completely stripped off and replaced with dust, he’s been mummified alive. I hope he didn’t suffer much.

Then he said, “Get below and clean up, Newhouse. The men’ll be eating soon.”

I stood by the hatch while the crew tramped past me up the stairs. Calothrick was last; when he emerged, he gave me an overly jovial whack on the shoulder that raised a cloud of dust.

I went through the electrostatic field inside the hatch and it ripped a great sheet of dust off my skin and a cloud out of my hair. As I walked down the stairs a torrent of loos­ened dust poured out of the bottom of my trousers and out from under my shirt. Still wearing the dustmask, I stripped and whacked my clothing against the counter top. Dust flew. I took off the mask, sneezed, and put it back on. I would have to wait for the stuff to settle before I tried to clean it up. I went to the cistern, twisted the tap, and soaked up a spongeful of water. Its contact against my skin was sybaritic in its luxury.

I pulled a change of clothes out of my duffel bag and took the broom out of its closet. The dust was so light and frictionless that it was almost impossible to pick up, and my energetic attempts only reopened the cut on the side of my hand. A drop of blood slid slowly down the edge of my wrist.

Then Dalusa came down the hatch.

“How are you? Are you all right?” she said. I smiled at her show of anxiety.

“I’m fine,” I said. “A few abrasions, and I bruised myself getting back on board. Oh, and I cut my hand a little.” I held up the injury.

“Au’” Dalusa said, stepping closer to me. “You’re bleed­ing.”

“It’s nothing,” I said. She was staring at the small wound with all the rapt fascination that a mantis shows at the ap­pearance of a fly. “How are you?” I asked lamely.

“Fine. I was flying at the same speed as the dust, it wasn’t able to hurt me. But it ruined my dress. See?”

It was true. The thin white film had grown dingy; mil­lions of microscopic particles had somehow imbedded themselves in its polymerized surface.

“Maybe you can wash it,” I said.

“Oh, no need. I have yards and yards of material. IH make another one.”

An uncomfortable silence fell. I put down the broom and dabbed at the cut with my sponge. It would clot soon.

“When we were under the ship, John . . .”

“Yes.”

“I liked what we did.”

Our eyes met. Perhaps, if she had been a normal woman, and I a normal man, we would have understood one an­other then. Poets say that souls meet and touch with the eyes as their medium. But even within the same species, what man can claim to really know a woman’s mind? Her next words were barely audible.

“Did you?”

“Very much.”

“I want you to kiss me, John.” She stepped closer yet, so close that I could feel the radiant heat of her body.

“You know I can’t do that.”

She closed her eyes and tilted her chin upward. I put my hands behind my back. “ItH hurt you,” I said, weakening. Her perfectly sculptured lips parted a fraction of an inch.

I leaned forward and, with the care of a biologist dissect­ing a unique specimen, touched my mouth to hers. She re­sponded with dreamy hunger, and the whole situation took on an aspect of glazed unreality. A chill swept through me. The silken, almost molten fusion of textures and pressures was like the culmination of a murder. Tears came to my eyes as her tongue slid across the atrociously sensitive ridges of my upper palate, just behind my teeth. I re­sponded. Her own teeth were abnormally sharp, and there was a subtle alien tang in the taste of her mouth, unlike any human woman’s. Breath hissed from her nostrils and warmed my cheek.

At last we broke. Already her lips were puffing, swelling, growing sticky and inflamed before my eyes. The seconds seemed to ooze by, moving as slowly as bubbles rising up­ward through sludge. Dalusa said nothing, but tears welled from the corners of her eyes and slid thinly down her cheeks and across her swollen mouth.

I raised my injured hand and held it before her face. Then I clenched my fist and squeezed. The half-formed scab parted stickily and a fresh drop of blood oozed slowly down my wrist. We stood unmoving there and watched each other hurt.