The Man Who Lost the Sea (30 page)

 … just to the right of Einstein’s brief immortal perfect statement of mass-energy conversion, the comment:

WELL, SOMETIMES

written on,
written into the bicrovalloy plate
.

And there were two corrections in the Heisenberg statement, strikeouts and carelessly scribbled figures which seemed to have been scribed deep in the impervious metal by a single small foreclaw …

But it was what had been done to the new De Wald plate that dealt me that blinding blow, from which I recovered (was it an hour later?) so slowly. For under that climactic, breathtaking achievement of intuitive mathematics, that most transcendental of all human statements, the De Wald Synthesis, the otter had scrawled:

NONSENSE!

I write no more odes. As for you who find this, and the plates which are its proof, do as you will. Have a suicide wave if you like. Or gather round in chittering groups and make wild surmise about the true source of the encephalitis which destroyed us, and great agonized guesses as to whether the otter was truly not quite aware of my presence and the significance of these plates and this whole occasion, and as to whether he and his kind are or are not impatient for our little remnant, with all our powers and resources, to be broken and maddened and die and go away. Or send your divers out if you like, to salvage that which he used to crack a clam—it’s out there, not far—and prove to yourself that it is indeed the corner he broke off the De Wald plate with his bare paws; pick it up and fit it back again and pass it around and turn your silly laboratories loose on it. Maybe some of you will finally begin to roar with laughter, sob with merriment, as I have done to the point of exhaustion and helplessness, unable to get out of your minds the enormity of this one ridiculous fact: How
childish
is his handwriting!… so go, do any of these things, or none of them, or something, out of the vast store of your pride and knowledge, of your own devising.

But me, I’m a joyful throwback … I’m one with my eager ancestors:—I’m going hunting.

Ninety-four miles an hour. In the back of the bus somebody was dead. In the front of the bus, a scared little guy with thick wrists was going to be dead.

Ninety-six miles an hour. He had a choice to make, he realized as he manhandled the twelve-ton monster through a rocky gap and down around a turn so sharp that loose material from the shoulder sprayed out into space. He had this choice (at a hundred and two miles per hour): He could die alone, blindfolded and strapped to a chair, while a prison chaplain made things easy as he could; or he could just forget to turn the wheel at the next curve, or the one after, and die that way.

Along with thirty-two other guys. Thirty-two innocent guys and a murderer. That, thought little Paul Cahill, half out of his seat to whip the wheel around, that might be worth the price. A good clean finish to the dirty story of Romeo.

The name really was Romeo … Charley Romeo. Only nobody kidded Romeo about it. That could be because he was just under six five and stood about this wide. Or it could he because he was proud of it. He acted the part, Charley Romeo did, hollering
Watch Me, World
the whole time. He played basketball, and girls. When he made a pass, it stayed made. From any corner—anybody’s corner—he sank his shots whenever he felt like it. And if he had to stand taller to do it he’d just as soon stand on somebody’s face.

Even Paul Cahill would admit that Charley Romeo was a great basketball player. There was only one thing in all the world that meant more to Paul Cahill than basketball—especially Hill City basketball. He drove the bus at the little mountain school, but he never missed a home game either. The one thing in all his world was
Jenny Cahill, his brand new, late-model wife. Some model. They still make that kind, but not often. Jenny Cahill worked in the school office.

Ever since Charley Romeo came to Hill City, his idea of top comedy was to ride the little bus driver. But when Charley Romeo got a look at Jenny Cahill, and when his first easy hook-shot her way not only missed the hoop but the backboard as well, why, the wisecracks got a little rougher than funny. Romeo never let up on Paul Cahill, nor Jenny either.

Paul Cahill was a little guy; but he was a gutsy little guy, and he wouldn’t have held still for much of this if it had not been for “Turk” McGurk, the coach; for the school; for basketball itself. Paul felt deep loyalties to all these, and there was no arguing the fact that in his big fast hands Charley Romeo held the Conference win and the Invitation—things that the little school wanted and needed, things that Paul Cahill wanted for the school almost as much as Coach McGurk. And as for Coach McGurk, if he ever felt anything or thought anything but basketball, he fought it down till it didn’t show. That meant that if, to win, Charley Romeo had to pull the wings off flies, Coach McGurk would go catch flies for him.

All this had been going on for too long a time the afternoon the bus started out for Johnson Mesa and the most important game of the year. Win this one, and the Invitation would be a cinch.

Everyone felt good at first, excited and happy. The big new bus was full—all the second-string players were along to see what they could learn, and a couple of guys to report for the school paper, and that weird-o they called Big Dome Craig. (Wherever you found Charley Romeo, you also found Big Dome—nobody knew why. Except it was Romeo’s idea. Maybe he thought some of Big Dome’s brains would rub off on him.) And of course, Turk McGurk the coach. It was a fine day, and there was some grand country to climb. But really climb—the road wound up and up for eleven and a half miles to a mountain pass nearly seven thousand feet above sea level.

Paul Cahill kept the giant diesel humming along in third and fourth gears in the low range. At first even Paul felt good, in spite of the trouble he knew would come from the big center and his big mouth.
He knew it would come, because it always did on these long hauls. Charley Romeo could look at just so much scenery, and then he’d get bored, and that was when he’d stir up what he called a little fun.

And sure enough, when they were within four miles of the pass, Paul Cahill saw, in the big inside mirror, Romeo suddenly loom up out of his seat. He sat side-saddle on the arm of the seat, about halfway down the aisle, and all the faces from there on back swung toward him.

“Once upon a time—” he bellowed; and all the faces ahead of him swung around to look back.

“Siddown, Romeo,” Paul called out peaceably. “You’re blocking my view.”

“Little man,” said Romeo, “drive your bus.
I
am goin’ to tell a story. A real old bed-time story.”

From the corner of his eye Paul Cahill saw the coach, McGurk, sight down the aisle, look back up at the mirror, and then subside with that give-him-his-head expression. Romeo went on with his yarn, about how “this guy I know”—he meant himself—drew a bead on “a certain chick”—for a bad moment Paul thought he meant … never mind: he wouldn’t even think it … anyway, the story went on and on. The usual proportion of boneheads who always seem ready to encourage a fool egged Romeo on.

Paul Cahill lost track of the story for a while; he had a job to do. The road was none too wide. Sometimes there were wide flat shoulders, then in a few yards they’d be in a cut with jagged rock walls just far enough apart for two squashed lanes of traffic; then again there would be that queasy feeling that if you hung your chin on the right front fender you could look a blue mile straight down.

But at last he reached that long straight slope that approaches the pass, and happened to glance in the mirror. Romeo was still at it, but what jolted Paul Cahill’s attention was the face of young Curtis, white, strained, twisted up on itself with a mixture of held-in anger and disgust; he looked as if he might burst into tears, or throw up, or maybe both. Paul Cahill, driving intently, let himself listen again:

“… but I mean, she had a bedbug on her, but it was pink. Yeah, a pink bedbug, right here.” Romeo demonstrated, and the boneheads roared. The reporter, Curtis, bent way down as if he had a shoe to fix or wanted to hide his face.

Suddenly Paul Cahill understood. He’d seen Romeo giving the quick casual rush to Curtis’ girlfriend Beth, a squeak-sized upcountry kid who’d be no more able to handle the likes of Romeo than a rock slide. So she happened to have a pink mole some place. And now if Curtis made one move to shut him up, the whole bus would suddenly know just who Romeo was talking about; the whole school would know about her “pink bedbug,” yes, and about her and Romeo to boot. Paul Cahill could see Charley Romeo’s quick glances down at Curtis. The big fellow was enjoying himself.

Paul Cahill suddenly bellowed, “Now dammit, Romeo, I said get in your seat. I can’t see out the back.”

Romeo looked around him in stage amazement.

“Any of you fellers hear something?” he said. He made no move to get off his perch. He looked forward, into the big mirror, and that way right into Paul’s face. “You mean to say you don’t know what goes on behind your back, little man?”

Paul Cahill knotted his jaw and drove his bus. He flicked a glance off the road and saw Romeo’s face happy, tense, the flick of his tongue as he wet his lips. He saw McGurk, the coach, looking troubled.

Romeo said, “Tell me something, Shorty, you haul the baseball teams too, don’t you?”

Paul Cahill, seeing the coach’s face, forcing himself to think of the big game, of the tricky road, did not answer.

“You know what I’m goin’ to do,” chuckled Romeo, “I’m goin’ to stay off the ball team next term. Long as you don’t know what goes on behind you, why, every time we have an ‘away’ game, I’ll just stick right around home and—”

Tires crunched heavily, air shrilled as Paul Cahill tramped on the brake, pulled over to the side, set the emergency. All the passengers, but one, sat in surprised silence in the sudden hush: Coach McGurk, however, was on his feet, leaning close over Paul Cahill’s shoulder—so close, the little driver could not rise.

McGurk said, pretending to point at the dashboard, “Getting hot?”

Paul Cahill nodded curtly. “A little.”

“Listen, boy,” said Coach McGurk. “We don’t want that.”

“Okay, okay,” Paul Cahill muttered, and he really meant to stay in line; but then Romeo spoke up, just as Paul Cahill was about to start the bus again.

“Now don’t that make y’all go pitty-pat!” Romeo drawled. “Just a mention of her, and he gets all warm.”

Paul Cahill was out of his seat and down the aisle before the coach knew he was gone. He stalked up to Charley Romeo, sitting on the arm of his seat in the center of the bus, and looked him in the eye.

“Who’s this ‘her’ you’re talking about?” Paul Cahill demanded.

“Your wife I’m talking about. Jenny, I’m talking about. Why?”

Paul Cahill started his swing with the first spoken syllable of his wife’s name. Romeo caught his wrist with one easy motion and pulled it past him, fast, snatching Cahill right off his feet. He fell heavily, face down in the aisle, and Romeo slid off the arm of the seat and sat down on him.

“I tell you what I’m goin’ to do,” Romeo said. “Tonight I’m gonna run up some points, and just so you’ll enjoy your favorite game even more, for every one I sink I’m goin’ to holler
Hey Jenny!
and since I plan to sink about thirty, that’ll give you lots of chances to do something about it.”

“Get off him,” said Coach McGurk.

“Oh by all means,” said Romeo, getting up, laughing. “Time to get up, little man. Get this show on the road.”

Wheezing, white with fury, Paul Cahill managed to get back on his feet. Coach McGurk put a hand on his arm but he shook it off.

“Romeo,” Paul Cahill said clearly, “I’m going to kill you.”

It was a lousy couple of minutes, and even then, some of the boneheads managed to laugh. Paul Cahill, hurt, angry, and humiliated, let in his clutch, kicked off the emergency, and started uphill again. He drove with especial care all the rest of the way.
One of the first-string forwards gaped at the new sign as they rolled into the Mesa.

“
Science
building? What they done with the casaba pavilion?” he asked.

“There’s enough hardwood left to choke a hoop,” Coach McGurk told him. “Schools all over are making new science buildings out of gyms. Here, they turned the whole north wing over to the science department. But there’s still a court.”

“Education got a way of creeping up on you in this business,” said Romeo. He liked it. He said it three more times.

Paul Cahill shouldered the big bus through the crowded parking lot, and pulled up by the side entrance. The boys bounded out, heading for the dressing rooms, or for the best seats. Paul Cahill stayed a while, gunned his motor once, watching his gauges. He let her idle, switched on the body lights, walked through the bus, sniffed for monoxide around the back, picked up some scraps of paper. In the luggage rack, here and there, were lunch boxes, coffee flasks. He knew them all, who they belonged to; he knew all these guys, what they wanted out of life. He stood a moment, confused by his vague rush of thoughts.

One of the lunches, battered, bright blue, with brass corners, caught his eye. He frowned, picked it up. It was Romeo’s. He knew, just as everyone else knew, that the coffee in it was heavily laced with vodka, which doesn’t smell on the breath. Coach McGurk alone didn’t know it, probably because he didn’t want to. Romeo trained carefully, but on the way back from one of those forty-pointers of his, he just had to celebrate.

Paul Cahill sighed, put the box back, and yanking the keys on the way, hopped out of the bus, closed and locked the doors. Somebody was waiting for him out there. Coach McGurk.

“Don’t go in there, Paul.”

“Don’t what?”

Coach McGurk looked, sounded, very tired. “Stay out of the hall,” he said wearily. “You know that damn fool Romeo will do what he said. Why get yourself all worked up?”

“Oh,” said Paul Cahill, remembering. Romeo was going to yell
Hey Jenny!
every time he hit the bucket. He said coldly, “And you wouldn’t want me maybe to mess up your ball game.”