A Princess of The Linear Jungle (6 page)

Just then, as if summoned by her thoughts, Merritt thought to catch a glimpse of a haggard Ransome himself through a momentary parting of the crowd. Did he have a woman with him? What did Merritt care?

The crowd gasped as one. Merritt looked up.

For decades afterwards the people of Wharton would talk about this moment, how they had never seen such a tangled mass of Pompatics, their numbers uncountable really, all contending in their descent on the Prison, as if each wished to bag the honor of carrying off the “corpses” of Henry Yun and Goodge Adams, those delayers and despoilers of natural death.

That evening Merritt’s lovemaking with Arturo Scoria was vast and violent, as if to reaffirm her allegiance to life.

After Art had relearned how to breathe and unrolled his eyes from the back of his head, he said, “Torture me as you will, fair Gretchen, you’ll not get the secrets of the last week from noble Sermak!”

With its reference to torture, the joke caused Merritt to burst into a flood of bitter tears—but tears that proved ultimately cathartic.

And just one day later, she had the secrets as well—albeit only twenty-four hours in advance of the rest of Wharton, which would soon be abuzz with the news.

Professor Arturo Scoria galloped into the NikThek cafeteria that Monday, found Merritt, and dragged her willy- nilly, without securing permission, into Chambless’s empty office.

“Look! Look at this!”

He shoved a motion-blurred photograph under her nose. Merritt could discern only a welter of vegetation.

“Closer! Use your eyes!”

From between two tree boles poked a naked human arm and shoulder and bit of torso, the skin an astonishing brick-red.

“What—what does it mean?”

“The Trainmen snapped it during a run! It’s Vayavirunga! With human presence! Perfect polypolisological specimens! Untouched! And the University is funding my expedition there!”

6.

EXPEDITION HO!™

TABLOIDS SUCH AS
THE WHARTON YAWP
AND
THE BOROUGH Busybody
, with their massive reading public, gobbled up news of the Scoria expedition to Vayavirunga like teething tots at a teat.

JUNGLE JAUNT FOR FAMED EXPLORER!

THE BOROUGHS THAT TIME FORGOT!

RED NATIVES OF THE FORBIDDEN BLOCKS!

PROBE OF THE MYSTERY MILES!

This reaction was precisely what both Professor Arturo Scoria and the deans and trustees of Swazeycape University had been counting on. Instantly forgotten was the infamous scandal of the Boy Docs. Swazeycape’s reputation as an unimpeachable bastion of cerebral pursuits, flavored with daring forays into the unknown frontiers of knowledge, was restored, and even received a fresh burnishing.

And Scoria’s personal reputation had never shone more scintillating or alluring. Feted by high society and besieged on campus by students and colleagues alike, Scoria basked in the attention, almost visibly plumping up like a pouter pigeon in Spring.

Merritt, however, found her boyfriend’s new status annoying and confusing. In private, he remained the man she fancied and admired. (And loved? She continued to be conflicted about using that loaded word, sometimes in her heart endorsing the emotion entirely, at other times finding the description overwrought. As for soliciting the expression of same from Scoria, she knew better than to demand or tease.) But in public he was nigh insufferable, preening and posturing and expostulating.

They lay in bed talking half-pottedly one night, after returning from a bibulous party at the home of Charlotte Waybridge, a famous fashion designer. (Amidst all the decorative, emaciated and sleek female clothes-racks, Merritt had felt like a burlap bag of potatoes draped in a painter’s floorcloth.)

“Arturo, is this really the way you’ve mounted all your other expeditions?”

“No, it’s unprecedented! The level of public interest and enthusiasm is tremendous! And I’ve got total funding from the University without any codicils or caveats, whereas before I’ve had to beg for every bull and wife from the Board. What’s more, I’ve already signed a contract with Parsonage and Pickler for the book recounting our trip. An advance in the low six fig—”

“‘Our trip!?!’”

“Why of course, Mer! You’re coming along as my assistant! I’ve even arranged your leave from the NikThek. Old Chambless balked at first, but I talked him into it. Didn’t I tell you yet? I’ve been so busy—”

There was no further conversation that night.

In the morning, Merritt half-believed that the news of her promotion to expeditionary intern and factotum had been a drunken dream. After all, every polyp in the department would’ve killed for a chance to go along on this trip. But at breakfast a curt, absent-minded word from a tabloid-scanning Art affirmed it. And in fact her duties were to begin immediately.

“I’ve got to finish my teaching stint for the spring semester first. It’ll be a tedious bore, anticipating what’s ahead, but the administration insists. And we wouldn’t want to leave during the bad weather anyhow. I’m aiming for an April departure. That seems like a long time off. But believe me, there are a thousand thousand details to attend to. It all starts with a meeting tomorrow at four.”

“But I don’t get off work until five.”

“Your leave of absence starts today, remember?”

No more uncrating dusty relics and typing up informational cards, eating cheap egg-salad sandwiches in the cafeteria while swotting up that night’s reading for class? How could she have predicted any of this in May, as the
Samuel Smallhorne
pulled into its Wharton Slip?

Suddenly the past seven months of curatorial drudgery and classroom diligence seemed nostalgically delightful. Even crusty old Chambless assumed an aura of saintliness. He
had
watched over her in his gruff fashion, she knew. A visit to the fellow was in order before departure, and she added it to a mental list of chores she knew would only grow longer and longer.

The Board Room in the Cutajar Building held seven eminent men when Merritt and Scoria arrived: the steering committee of the University, plus President Ogallala. Impeccably dressed in three-piece Upthegrove suits, the Board members—they resembled a matched sextet of bookends, thought Merritt—were outshone by the President, sleek in his ensemble of pearl-gray shagreen.

In his rough-and-ready explorer’s garb, Arturo Scoria seemed unintimidated by this fine haberdashery. Merritt’s throat, however, had gone dry, and she resolved to let Art do all the speaking. She flipped open her notebook and poised her pen intelligently over the page.

After greetings, marked by smiles of varying degrees of sincerity, Arturo took the floor.

“You all know that a lot is riding on this expedition—my personal reputation as well as that of the University, not to mention the advancement of polypolisological studies in general. Therefore, we must take every precaution to make our venture into the Jungle Blocks a success. As the veteran of many similar field trips—although none more challenging or unpredictable—I have given considerable thought to what is needed. Here is my preliminary outline of our requirements, to which I expect you gentlemen will kindly accede with a minimum of fuss about costs.

“First off, we need a reliable victualler. This person must have good contacts in the Borough of Hakelight, the Borough immediately Uptown of Vayavirunga, where we will obtain our supplies. I have found the perfect candidate for this position. He should be awaiting us out in the reception area. May I introduce him now? Excellent!”

When Balsam Troutwine walked confidently into the room, Merritt dropped her notebook and pen. Bending over to retrieve the items, she felt her face mottling up. Straightening, she found the bluff liquor distributor regarding her with a distinct leer. Tarry scents of a vanished rope locker infused Merritt’s nostrils. She heard nothing of Troutwine’s presentation, but it must have been successful because he left smiling.

“My next concern involves porters. We need some sturdy, reliable fellows to bear our supplies into the interior of Vayavirunga, where any kind of wheeled vehicles, featuring impellers or otherwise, would be impractical—at least so far as we can reasonably conjecture. After surveying local delivery firms, I settled on a bike-messenger outfit. They won’t be able to employ their bikes, naturally, but the messengers are all in superb physical shape, and quite used to safeguarding whatever is entrusted to them. I have the firm’s vice-president ready outside.”

Dan Peart presented no embarrassing memories for Merritt to contend with. But his presence here nonetheless contributed to her growing sense of unreality. She had never mentioned these two mento Arturo Scoria, so no intentional actions on his part could have brought them to this room. Merritt experienced a momentary sense of some unknowable force molding her life into a strange destiny, before Peart’s clipped speech dragged her focus back to the room.

“Strong backs, strong legs, plenty of balls. That’s what you’re getting when you hire our boys. I’ll be there myself to inspire them.”

The Board seemed impressed. Peart departed. Scoria continued.

“Entrance to Vayavirunga, as I will elaborate in a written presentation later, is going to be tricky. My feeling is we’ll do best to approach by water. Therefore, I’ve hired a boat that will meet us in Hakelight by setting out some time ahead of the rest of the expeditionary force, which will motor more swiftly down Broadway.”

By this point, Merritt did not even flinch when Art nominated Captain Canebrake of the
Samuel Smallhorne
as his choice. She merely felt eerily prophetic.

“There are a few other trivial details to attend to, gentlemen, but there you have the major features of this assault on the Jungle Blocks. What do you say?”

President Ogallala smiled broadly, his nut-brown face creasing into well-worn laugh lines. He seemed disproportionately elated, and Merritt immediately suspected some monkeywrench in Arturo’s plans. But this once, Scoria bulked overconfident and failed to see the blow approaching.

“You have lived up to your reputation for boldness and perspicacity and far-sightedness, Professor Scoria. But you have forgotten one crucial failsafe measure. A backup for the most vital part of the mission.”

“And that would be?”

“Yourself.”

President Ogallala got up and opened the Boardroom door. “Come in, please, Professor.”

To his credit, Durian Vinnagar exhibited no expression of vindictive triumph or gleeful one-upmanship. Rather, he maintained his usual dour, sober and phlegmatic mien, allowing President Ogallala to state Vinnagar’s case by proxy.

“As you are well aware, Professor Scoria, Professor Vinnagar represents a different school of polypolisology than the one you adhere to. His unique insights and perceptions will counterbalance yours, and ensure that no potential findings of this mission are overlooked. Moreover, should one of you chance to come to harm, the other will be able to continue directing the expedition. Professor Vinnagar has many backers in the department—and among alumni and donors—who all render his presence on this mission essential and non-negotiable. Although he will of course assume subordinate status to you, since it was your discovery that prompted this whole affair.”

Merritt watched Arturo’s face cycle through a whole spectrum of emotions, from frustration and irritability through rage and jealousy, before settling on wounded resignation. He stepped forward and thrust out his hand.

“Vinnagar, I’m counting on you for sensible support. No ideological feuding.”

Vinnagar grinned, and took the offered grip. “You have my word—by Vasuki’s tail.”

In the wild welter of the following few months, Merritt was kept exceedingly busy arranging all the thousand-and-one details of the Vayavirunga Expedition. She even learned to liaise with journalists, who maintained a constant appetite for all news relating to the Jungle Blocks. Merritt took to fabricating the most egregious tall tales, careful to label them speculative. But of course, her modest disclaimers were always the first things dropped from the subsequent coverage.

“Vayavirunga home to a fierce creature called the bonasus!” “SwazeProf hears voice from Vayavirunga over radio!” “Crimson sex slaves await virile bike boys!”

Although often falling into bed exhausted well before midnight, Merritt was thrilled and stimulated and engaged as she had never been in any other professional situation. She felt she was using all her talents and skills—although, to be sure, her actual polypolisological knowledge was in somewhat scanty demand. But even that deficit, she was sure, would be remedied once she reached Vayavirunga.

Arturo Scoria definitely approved of her performance, claiming she exhibited a natural flair and showmanship. “How I could have used you during my rough time with the Schnellageisters, Mer! We’re a great team!”

Merritt felt proud and appreciated by a man she esteemed.

(Although she still could not quite see herself and Arturo as forever soulmates.)

As the day of departure neared, Merritt made a special effort to break away from her duties and visit Edgar Chambless at the NikThek, to say thank-you and farewell.

Entering the big old pile felt strange to Merritt. She would have sworn she held no especial fondness for the museum. But a transfixing and ennervating wave of nostalgia and melancholy overtook her nonetheless, as soon as the familiar smells of the artifacts of deep time and far off exotic Boroughs overtook her. “Soul abulia,” people called the sensation, from Diego Patchen’s famous invention of that term in his
Dictatorship of the Emotions
.

Chambless sat in his cluttered office, employing a magnifying glass to study a crumbling clay tablet indited with wedge-shaped runes. He only slowly registered Merritt, but seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

“Ah, Miss Abraham! I’ve been following your exploits with great pleasure. I’m certain that when you return to our halls, you’ll bring with you vast new experiences that will aid you in our curatorial mission. For instance, what do you make of this?”