Forever (43 page)

But this! Surely it was beyond the
imaginings of mortal men - this gigantic vessel the size of a
hotel, with its museum-quality artworks in hermetically sealed
glass cases and frames; its three-storey engine room which looked
like a giant restaurant kitchen, so sparkling clean was it, and ere
wed not by grease monkeys, but crewmen in starched whites tending
the four spit-shined, tractor-trailer-size MTY 7,340-horsepower
engines.

How to absorb the circular atrium surrounded
by twenty-eight- foot-tall crystal columns, and its Plexiglas roof,
which could be opened to the skies at the mere press of a button;
the integrated closed-circuit television system with sixty-three TV
receivers; the custom wall-to-wall carpets woven on specially
built, computerised looms so that their forty-foot widths would be
absolutely seamless. And what of the small movie theatre, with its
wide screen, pearlised turquoise leather chaises, and its film
library stocked with more than five thousand titles? Or the
banister rails on the staircases, electroplated in eighteen-carat
gold; or the grand salon with its ceiling a mosaic of marble and
mirrors, not to mention the two water fountains and a three-sided
view of the sea?

Stephanie was overwhelmed. And totally
fascinated. She wanted to see everything in this obscene paradise
of a floating amusement park. Eagerly she rushed around, tugging at
Eduardo's hand, asking him to explain this and that. Like a
delighted child let loose in a sweet shop, she touched and stared
and greedily digested, and her wonder and enthusiasm were
infectious. Soon he was tugging her, wanting to share every nook
and cranny of this yacht which he had never been particularly fond
of, because sharing it with her was somehow different - she made it
pure, unadulterated fun.

They explored for hours, and she never
wanted that magical morning to end.

From one deck to the next, Eduardo whisked
her. He made sure she knew of the saunas which were kept baking hot
twenty-four hours a day, and which she must use while she was on
board. He pointed out the priceless Art Deco panels in the dining
salon; they had come from the great liner Normandie. And he told
her of the formidable electronic security systems, including
underwater sonar, to protect from potential pirates or frogmen or
saboteurs.

Above all, he was content just to watch her
interact with the crew, her natural enthusiasm and ease winning
them over so that in no time at all she had them gladly eating out
of her hand. It was her sparkling inquisitiveness, her instant
rapport, and her radiant and ready smile which were interpreted as
unexpected gifts, and he sensed that while she was hardly regal
like his mother, or fear-inspiring like his father, she instantly
gained a healthy respect through sheer joy and intelligence.

On the deck on which her suite was located,
he showed her the other empty guest suites, and pointed out how all
of them were named after various butterflies. Now that he mentioned
it, she noticed that, inset in each of the doors to the suites, was
a glass-mounted sample of that particular suite's namesake, as well
as a discreet gold plaque engraved with both its scientific and
common names. Needless to say, the colours used in each decor
corresponded with its namesake's markings: the
Brintesia
suite was black, white, and grey; the
Callophrys
, green; the
Deilephila
, pink and olive; the
Libythea
, blue-grey
and orange.

'You,' he announced, 'are in the
Lysandra
suite.'

'Silvery blue, black, and white,' she
murmured.

'That is correct.'

'And yours?' she asked. 'Which butterfly is
it named after?'

'Mine,' he laughed, 'does not have a name,
thank God! Nor is there a single butterfly motif in it. You see,
butterflies are my father's passion,' he explained with an
apologetic smile, 'not mine.'

'Then that's why this yacht is called
Chrysalis
?' She gave him a sidelong look. 'Because of your
father's interest in butterflies?'

'I am afraid so.' He grinned sheepishly.
'And the Magnum in the wet-berth?'

'You mean that giant muscle boat?'

'Yes.' He smiled. 'It is named Larva:

'Larva?' She made a face. 'You mean - as in
egg?'

'Yes. You see, when it is launched, it does
rather look as if the
Chrysalis
is giving birth.'

She laughed. 'I'm sure it looks terribly
obscene!'

'Did you know,' Eduardo continued in the
mahogany-shelved library, 'that in the chrysalis stage, butterflies
can actually choose when to begin their limited life-spans?'

'No.' She stared at him. 'But how utterly
fascinating!'

'Of course, they cannot prolong their
lifespans indefinitely in this way; Mother Nature does set her
limit.'

'And these?' she asked, running her finger
along the spines of some intimidatingly fat medical tomes. 'Why are
all these here?'

'Oh, those,' he said offhandedly. 'They all
have to do with gerontology. That is Dr Vassiltchikov's specialised
field.'

'Gerontology . . .' Frowning, she glanced at
him. 'Isn't that the study of ageing?'

'Yes.' He nodded.

She stared at the books, her mind clicking
and whirring as it assimilated information:

Butterflies prolonging their lifespans, at
least in the chrysalis stage . . .

. . . This yacht, named
Chrysalis
. .
.

. . . Gerontology ... the doctor on board
was a gerontologist . . .!

Her heart pumped and her spine tingled. Oh
yes! she thought. I've certainly come to the right place . . .

She was barely aware of him hurrying her to
see the yacht's compact but lavishly equipped hospital, barely
registered his run-through of the major facilities. The
lead-shielded X-ray machine. The EKG unit. CAT scan, pharmacy,
bloodbank - that shocked her back to reality. The freezer he'd
opened was - she recoiled - stocked with bags of Eduardo's, his
father's, and his mother's and grandmother's frozen blood!

Swiftly she turned away, feeling the bile
rise to her throat. The ghoulish eventualities which had been
anticipated made her queasy; reminded her of her own mortality and
finite lifespan.

He noticed how pale she'd become. 'Are you
all right?' he asked.

Hugging herself with her arms, Stephanie
nodded. 'Y-yes,' she said, without turning around, it's just . .
.'

'You do not care for hospitals?' he finished
for her, snapping the freezer door shut.

'Does anyone?' Her laugh rang hollow.

Then she changed the subject by gesturing at
the opaque curved acrylic door she was facing. Red OFF LIMITS
decals in five different languages were affixed to it.

She asked, 'What's in there - the Holy
Grail?'

'No.' He came to stand beside her. 'That is
Dr Vassiltchikov's domain.'

'Could I see it?' she asked, giving him a
sideways glance.

He shook his head. 'Sorry. No one is allowed
in there without the doctor's express permission. And that includes
my parents and myself.

Stephanie stared at the futuristic door. Dr
Vassiltchikov's apparent power over his parents made her wonder.
Surely there must be compelling reasons why no one was permitted to
arbitrarily walk through that door? I wonder what's in there?
Stephanie thought. Scientific experiments? Dangerous chemicals?
Sensitive machinery? Secrets? Those too, she was certain.

'And in there?' She was pointing at another
futuristic door, identically marked OFF LIMITS. Next to it were a
computer console, and three rows of built-in video monitors, none
of which were switched on. 'What's through there?'

'Special treatment rooms.'

Stephanie eyed the door with longing. What
she wouldn't give to have the opportunity to snoop around in there!
'I suppose we need the doctor's permission to go in there, too?'
she murmured with a little sigh.

He laughed. 'How did you guess?' Then he
took her by the arm and gently turned her towards the door through
which they had come in. 'I think we have had enough of the hospital
for now. Besides, I believe it is time you saw my area of
expertise.'

A number of doors and one flight of steps
later, he said, 'Here we are!'

Stephanie looked around. They were standing
in a cylindrical stainless steel anteroom approximately six feet in
diameter, where a curved, hatchlike door had ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING
decals affixed in five languages. Both the ceiling and the floor
were made of a metal-plastic alloy grating.

'Through here,' he said, patting the hatch
with his palm, 'are my pride and passion.' Then he gestured'around
at the stainless- steel walls. 'This chamber is an airlock. That is
to ensure that no corrosive salt air can get in to harm my
collection.'

'Why? What do you collect that might come to
harm?'

He smiled mysteriously. 'You shall see
momentarily.'

'Well, I'm pretty certain it's not
butterflies,' she laughed.

'And you are right,' he said. 'Absolutely no
butterflies.'

She watched him punch the buttons of an
electronic combination lock. There was a short wait, then the door
behind them automatically slid shut. She heard a
clank
,
followed by a hissing sound. Then she felt cool air being forced
down from hidden vents above, while a vacuum under the floor sucked
the old air out. She shivered with the sudden drop in temperature
and swallowed against the change in air pressure.

After sixty seconds or so, the forced air
stopped blowing and the vacuum shut itself off. The sudden silence
was almost eerie. Then there was another faint hiss, and the hatch
in front of them slid soundlessly aside.

'Now we can go in,' Eduardo said, helping
her step into the pitch-black space.

She could smell gasoline and oil. Rubber,
varnish, waxes . . .

'What is this?' she asked. 'A garage?' Her
voice sounded hollow.

He flipped a switch in reply and fluorescent
lights blinked on.

She gasped at the sight in front of her.
Never before had she seen anything like it, and it was almost too
much to believe, this testament to the awesome power of wealth. The
huge space was ... a seagoing garage? ... a museum . . . both? For
parked on the embossed black rubber deck was a collection of the
shiniest cars she had ever seen.

But what cars they were! To call them exotic
or antique would be an understatement! They were a select
collection of the very finest and rarest four-wheeled vehicles ever
built. One-of-a-kind orchids all.

He took her by the arm and guided her to the
nearest one. It was a sleek black racing machine which barely
reached to the top of his thighs.

He said, 'This is a Lola Aston Martin T170
MK III.' He grinned. 'I came in second with it last year at
Monterey.'

'You race?' She looked at him with
surprise.

'Yes, but not under my own name.'

'But why not?'

'I want to be taken seriously by the other
drivers.'

'You mean, they wouldn't - if they knew who
you were?'

He smiled sadly. 'Nobody is disliked more
than a rich dilettante.'

She digested this as she walked slowly
around the car. What he'd said made sense. As Eduardo de Veiga, he
wouldn't be able to share the camaraderie. He'd be perpetually
considered an outsider. Or worse - an amateur who'd bought his way
into their circle.

She looked across the low hood at him. 'But
isn't racing dangerous?'

He shrugged. 'I have had my share of
accidents. Still, I will take a speedway over a public road any
day. Professionals are a lot safer than your average driver.'

He moved to the next car, and she went over
to join him. She stared at what looked like a hybrid between a
white desert jeep and a racing car. 'Good Lord!' she exclaimed.
'What on earth is it?'

'So ugly it is beautiful, eh?' He laughed,
it is a Lamborghini LM002. The ultimate in four-wheel drive. It
weighs three tons and has a five-point-two-litre engine. It can do
zero to sixty in eight-point-five seconds flat.'

'Zero to sixty . . . kilometres?' she
ventured.

He shook his head. 'Miles.'

'Wow!' She whistled. 'Three tons! And that
fast!'

Next, he guided her to a true classic: a
Rolls Royce limousine with brass trim and a boxy varnished mahogany
top.

'Built in 1924,' he said proudly, rubbing a
hand over the gleaming forest-green hood. 'Coachwork by
Hooper.'

'Does it still run?'

'Like a charm. All my cars are perfectly
tuned.'

'And this?' She was irresistibly drawn to a
stately yellow classic. 'What is this?'

'A 1931 Bugatti Royale.'

it's . . . stupendously beautiful!' she
marvelled softly, walking around it.

'Yes,' he agreed, 'it is.'

She moved on to the next, an old two-seater.
'And this?'

'A 1934 Hispano Suiza T 60. It is entirely
original, including the chrome and paintwork. It has absolutely no
restoration.'

'It must be worth a lot, then.'

'An even one million.'

'Dollars?'

'Dollars,' he nodded.

'Good heavens!' She was shocked. 'You have a
fortune wrapped up in cars!'

He smiled. 'Well, a small one, anyway. The
white Corniche at the far end is the least valuable. It is last
year's model, and belongs to my mother. She uses it for driving
around when we dock.'

'But still ... my God! I'd hate to know your
insurance premiums!'

'Do not remind me, please! He held up his
hands as though to fend off an invisible enemy and laughed. 'But
cars are a good investment. In my country, I have seventy-six
more.'

'Seventy-six!' She was stunned. 'Besides
these?'

'Yes.' He took her by the arm. 'Now this,'
he said, steering her to a red Ferrari, 'is my pride and joy.'