Picnic on Nearside (27 page)

Trilby left me alone, and I was grateful for that.

*   *   *

She was still there when I got myself under control. I didn’t care one way or the other. I felt empty, with a burning in the back of my throat. Nobody had told me life was going to be like this.

“What . . . what about the child Cathay contracted to teach?” I asked, finally, feeling I should say something. “What happens to her?”

“The TA takes responsibility,” Trilby said. “They’ll find someone. For Trigger’s child, too.”

I looked at her. She was stretched out, both elbows behind her to prop her up. Her valentine nipples crinkled as I watched.

She glanced at me, smiled with one corner of her mouth. I felt a little better. She was awfully pretty.

“I guess he can . . . well, can’t he still teach older kids?”

“I suppose he can,” Trilby said, with a shrug. “I don’t know if he’ll want to. I know Cathay. He’s not going to take this well.”

“Is there anything I could do?”

“Not really. Talk to him. Show sympathy, but not too much. You’ll have to figure it out. See if he wants to be with you.”

It was too confusing. How was I supposed to know what he needed? He hadn’t come to see me. But Trilby had.

So there was one uncomplicated thing in my life right then, one thing I could do where I wouldn’t have to think. I rolled over and got on top of Trilby and started to kiss her. She responded with a lazy eroticism I found irresistible. She
did
know some tricks I’d never heard of.

*   *   *

“How was that?” I said, much later.

That smile again. I got the feeling that I constantly amused her, and somehow I didn’t mind it. Maybe it was the fact that she made no bones about her being the adult and me being the child. That was the way it would be with us. I would have to grow up to her; she would not go back and imitate me.

“Are you looking for a grade?” she asked. “Like the twentieth century?” She got to her feet and stretched.

“All right. I’ll be honest. You get an A for effort, but any thirteen-year-old would. You can’t help it. In technique, maybe a low C. Not that I expected any more, for the same reason.”

“So you want to teach me to do better? That’s your job?”

“Only if you hire me. And sex is such a small part of it. Listen, Argus. I’m not going to be your mother. Darcy does that okay. I won’t be your playmate, either, like Cathay was. I won’t be teaching you moral lessons. You’re getting tired of that, anyway.”

It was true. Cathay had never really been my contemporary, though he tried his best to look it and act it. But the illusion had started to wear thin, and I guess it had to. I was no longer able to ignore the contradictions, I was too sophisticated and cynical for him to hide his lessons in everyday activities.

It bothered me in the same way the CC did. The CC could befriend me one minute and sentence me to death the next. I wanted more than that, and Trilby seemed to be offering it.

“I won’t be teaching you science or skills, either,” she was saying. “You’ll have tutors for that, when you decide just what you want to do.”

“Just what
is
it you do, then?”

“You know, I’ve never been able to find a good way of describing
that. I won’t be around all the time, like Cathay was. You’ll come to me when you want to, maybe when you have a problem. I’ll be sympathetic and do what I can, but mostly I’ll just point out that you have to make all the hard choices. If you’ve been stupid I’ll tell you so, but I won’t be surprised or disappointed if you go on being stupid in the same way. You can use me as a role model if you want to, but I don’t insist on it. But I promise I’ll always tell you things straight, as I see them. I won’t try to slip things in painlessly. It’s time for pain. Think of Cathay as a professional child. I’m not putting him down. He turned you into a civilized being, and when he got you you were hardly that. It’s because of him that you’re capable of caring about his situation now, that you have loyalties to feel divided about. And he’s good enough at it to know how you’ll choose.”

“Choose? What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you that.” She spread her hands, and grinned. “See how helpful I can be?”

She was confusing me again. Why can’t things be simpler?

“Then if Cathay’s a professional child, you’re a professional adult?”

“You could think of it like that. It’s not really analogous.”

“I guess I still don’t know what Darcy would be paying you for.”

“We’ll make love a lot. How’s that? Simple enough for you?” She brushed dirt from her back and frowned at the ground. “But not on dirt anymore. I don’t care for dirt.”

I looked around, too. The place
was
messy. Not pretty at all. I wondered how I could have liked it so much. Suddenly I wanted to get out, to go to a clean, dry place.

Come on,” I said, getting up. “I want to try some of those things again.”

“Does this mean I have a job?”

“Yeah. I guess it does.”

*   *   *

Cathay was sitting on the porch of the Sugar Shack, a line of brown beer bottles perched along the edge. He smiled at us as we approached him. He was stinking drunk.

It’s strange. We’d been drunk many times together, the four of us. It’s great fun. But when only one person is drunk, it’s a
little disgusting. Not that I blamed him. But when you’re drinking together all the jokes make sense. When you drink alone, you just make a sloppy nuisance of yourself.

Trilby and I sat on either side of him. He wanted to sing. He pressed bottles on both of us, and I sipped mine and tried to get into the spirit of it. But pretty soon he was crying, and I felt awful. And I admit that it wasn’t entirely in sympathy. I felt helpless because there was so little I could do, and a bit resentful of some of the promises he had me make. I would have come to see him anyway. He didn’t have to blubber on my shoulder and beg me not to abandon him.

So he cried on me, and on Trilby, then just sat between us looking glum. I tried to console him.

“Cathay, it’s not the end of the world. Trilby says you’ll still be able to teach older kids. My age and up. The TA just said you couldn’t handle younger ones.”

He mumbled something.

“It shouldn’t be that different,” I said, not knowing when to shut up.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said.

“Sure I am.” I was unconsciously falling into that false heartiness people use to cheer up drunks. He heard it immediately.

“What the hell do you know about it? You think you . . . damn it, what do you know? You know what kind of person it takes to do my job? A little bit of a misfit, that’s what. Somebody who doesn’t want to grow up any more than you do. We’re
both
cowards, Argus. You don’t know it, but
I
do.
I
do. So what the hell am I going to do? Huh? Why don’t you go away? You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

“Take it easy, Cathay,” Trilby soothed, hugging him close to her. “Take it easy.”

He was immediately contrite, and began to cry quietly. He said how sorry he was, over and over, and he was sincere. He said, he hadn’t meant it, it just came out, it was cruel.

And so forth.

I was cold all over.

We put him to bed in the shack, then started down the road.

“We’ll have to watch him the next few days,” Trilby said. “He’ll get over this, but it’ll be rough.”

“Right,” I said.

I took a look at the shack before we went around the false bend in the road. For one moment I saw Beatnik Bayou as a perfect illusion, a window through time. Then we went around the tree and it all fell apart. It had never mattered before.

But it was such a sloppy place. I’d never realized how ugly the Sugar Shack was.

I never saw it again. Cathay came to live with us for a few months, tried his hand at art. Darcy told me privately that he was hopeless. He moved out, and I saw him frequently after that, always saying hello.

But he was depressing to be around, and he knew it. Besides, he admitted that I represented things he was trying to forget. So we never really talked much.

Sometimes I play golf in the old bayou. It’s only two holes, but there’s talk of expanding it.

They did a good job on the renovation.

I
T WAS SUMMER
,
AND
Piri was in his second childhood. First, second; who counted? His body was young. He had not felt more alive since his original childhood back in the spring, when the sun drew closer and the air began to melt.

He was spending his time at Rarotonga Reef, in the Pacifica disneyland. Pacifica was still under construction, but Rarotonga had been used by the ecologists as a testing ground for the more ambitious barrier-type reef they were building in the south, just off the “Australian” coast. As a result, it was more firmly established than the other biomes. It was open to visitors, but so far only Piri was there. The “sky” disconcerted everyone else.

Piri didn’t mind it. He was equipped with a brand-new toy: a fully operational imagination, a selective sense of wonder that allowed him to blank out those parts of his surroundings that failed to fit with his current fantasy.

He awoke with the tropical sun blinking in his face through the palm fronds. He had built a rude shelter from flotsam and detritus on the beach. It was not to protect him from the elements. The disneyland management had the weather well in hand; he might as well have slept in the open. But castaways
always
build some sort of shelter.

He bounced up with the quick alertness that comes from being young and living close to the center of things, brushed sand from his naked body, and ran for the line of breakers at the bottom of the narrow strip of beach.

His gait was awkward. His feet were twice as long as they should have been, with flexible toes that were webbed into flippers. Dry sand showered around his legs as he ran. He was brown as coffee and cream, and hairless.

Piri dived flat to the water, sliced neatly under a wave, and paddled out to waist-height. He paused there. He held his nose and worked his arms up and down, blowing air through his mouth and swallowing at the same time. What looked like long, hairline scars between his lower ribs came open. Red-orange fringes became visible inside them, and gradually lowered. He was no longer an air-breather.

He dived again, mouth open, and this time he did not come up. His esophagus and trachea closed and a new valve came into operation. It would pass water in only one direction, so his diaphragm now functioned as a pump pulling water through his mouth and forcing it out through the gill-slits. The water flowing through this lower chest area caused his gills to engorge with blood, turning them purplish-red and forcing his lungs to collapse upward into his chest cavity. Bubbles of air trickled out his sides, then stopped. His transition was complete.

The water seemed to grow warmer around him. It had been pleasantly cool; now it seemed no temperature at all. It was the result of his body temperature lowering in response to hormones released by an artificial gland in his cranium. He could not afford to burn energy at the rate he had done in the air; the water was too efficient a coolant for that. All through his body arteries and capillaries were constricting as parts of him stabilized at a lower rate of function.

No naturally evolved mammal had ever made the switch from air to water breathing, and the project had taxed the resources of bio-engineering to its limits. But everything in Piri’s body was a living part of him. It had taken two full days to install it all.

He knew nothing of the chemical complexities that kept him alive where he should have died quickly from heat loss or oxygen starvation. He knew only the joy of arrowing along the white sandy bottom. The water was clear, blue-green in the distance.

The bottom kept dropping away from him, until suddenly it reached for the waves. He angled up the wall of the reef until his head broke the surface, climbed up the knobs and ledges until he
was standing in the sunlight. He took a deep breath and became an air-breather again.

The change cost him some discomfort. He waited until the dizziness and fit of coughing had passed, shivering a little as his body rapidly underwent a reversal to a warm-blooded economy.

It was time for breakfast.

He spent the morning foraging among the tidepools. There were dozens of plants and animals that he had learned to eat raw. He ate a great deal, storing up energy for the afternoon’s expedition on the outer reef.

Piri avoided looking at the sky. He wasn’t alarmed by it; it did not disconcert him as it did the others. But he had to preserve the illusion that he was actually on a tropical reef in the Pacific Ocean, a castaway, and not a vacationer in an environment bubble below the surface of Pluto.

Soon he became a fish again, and dived off the sea side of the reef.

The water around the reef was oxygen-rich from the constant wave action. Even here, though, he had to remain in motion to keep enough water flowing past his external gill fringes. But he could move more slowly as he wound his way down into the darker reaches of the sheer reef face. The reds and yellows of his world were swallowed by the blues and greens and purples. It was quiet. There were sounds to hear, but his ears were not adapted to them. He moved slowly through shafts of blue light, keeping up the bare minimum of water flow.

He hesitated at the ten-meter level. He had thought he was going to his Atlantis Grotto to check out his crab farm. Then he wondered if he ought to hunt up Ocho the Octopus instead. For a panicky moment he was afflicted with the bane of childhood: an inability to decide what to do with himself. Or maybe it was worse, he thought. Maybe it was a sign of growing up. The crab farm bored him, or at least it did today.

He waffled back and forth for several minutes, idly chasing the tiny red fish that flirted with the anemones. He never caught one. This was no good at all. Surely there was an adventure in this silent fairyland. He had to find one.

An adventure found him, instead. Piri saw something swimming out in the open water, almost at the limits of his vision. It
was long and pale, an attenuated missile of raw death. His heart squeezed in panic, and he scuttled for a hollow in the reef.