EMERGENCE (26 page)

Ten days now since killing. Beginning to come to grips with guilt.

Adam big help: Pointed out, and cannot disagree, am no more responsible for Rollo's death than unfamiliar firearm with which had managed to shoot himself. Am Sixth Degree Black Belt. And female. Terry my sibling/child-substitute.

Rollo's murderous lunge triggered maternal protective instinct, which in turn set off conditioned-response matrix at starkest level. Probably wouldn't have reacted with such single-minded, nonstop efficiency if merely swung at me—but my retarded
baby brother . . .
!

Besides, had hurried me.

Okay. Absorbed that; do believe it. Intellectually.

Problem is, haven't resolved it yet on gut level. Still hurts. Lots. Rollo nice man, basically good—certainly no saint, but frank about it. Made straightforward offer, value for value, yes or no, my choice. No doubt would have lived up to his end.

Adam thinks Terry sensed Rollo had violent temper; hence instant antipathy. Possibly. Equally possible: Just plain terribly painful bite—sure looked it. Adam disagrees; been hurt accidentally himself by people, once seriously. Managed without going
musth.

Granted. But even if true, character flaw only; not capital crime. Nothing for which deserved to die. And could have prevented harm to Terry without killing, but for programmed response.

Therein lies hard-to-swallow part: Killed innocent person—unnecessarily. No getting around it:
Unnecessarily.
Unavoidably, true, given circumstances; but still unnecessarily.

And still dead.

Worse, little nagging voice in back of head keeps suggesting may not have been
completely
unavoidable. Maybe subconsciously
wanted
to let programming run amok because had me cornered. Don't think so, but disquieting notion.

In any event, will
not
happen again. Been drilling past ten days with modified
kata,
sparring routine. Working to eradicate all automatically lethal responses. Programming deep-seated; will take time to effect changes. But am walking time bomb as things stand; waiting to explode, hurt, kill people upon cue—even inadvertent cue! Lots of work involved, and accomplishment not without risk.

But necessary: Intend
never to kill again
. . . !

Have gone through Mount Palomar facilities with great care. Nothing about contents to suggest AAs' presence in recent past. But sweep not entirely unproductive: Found Cal-Tech staff directory in one office—containing name, address of Tarzan File AA living in Pasadena! Will follow up on that tomorrow morning, unless . . .

Posterity, you simply won't
believe
what Adam did today. Remember bundle of tubing, cloth, traveling on trailer roof? Well, found out what it is.

I had complained, following search of observatory, that if AAs' secret rendezvous only hundred yards off road, would never find it in densely wooded, mountainous terrain. Suggested we track down U. S. Geological Service and Forest Service section maps; uncouple trailer, explore logging roads in van alone. Might turn up something.

Adam agreed in principle, but said had better idea—and
did
. . . !

Whereupon, removed mysterious bundle from trailer roof and, in space of probably 30 minutes, unfolded, unrolled, then assembled
airplane
—full-sized, man-carrying, aluminum-tubing-and-fabric ultralight. Disappeared briefly into trailer; emerged carrying breadbox-sized, metal-bound wooden case from which took miniature engine, propeller, snapped into place.

"Another benefit of growing up rich and neglected." Eyes twinkled as mixed gas, oil; filled tank. " '
Mom
, all the
other
kids have ultralights this summer!' It was an election year, you see; she didn't have time to check into the story—which
was
true . . ." continued impishly, squirming past fuselage tubes, settling into pilot's seat; fastening five-point harness; strapping on helmet; checking control surface movement as wiggled stick, pedals, " . . . depending on what neighborhood you canvassed and what numbers you considered a representative sample."

Yanked on pull-cord; engine snarled into life with literally deafening racket (started life as two-stroke motorcycle engine; Adam, per usual practice, modified for additional power, reliability; replaced muffler with "tuned" megaphone exhaust—result sounded like steroid-fed chainsaw). I jammed fingers in ears. Tora-chan dived under trailer; nothing showed but two orange-glowing spots of outrage. Terry's reaction, on other hand, surprisingly mild: Merely flapped wings to indicate disapproval—usually that much noise inspires feather-head to go for help.

"Actually," Adam yelled, pulling down goggles, "I think she thought an ultralight was about three feet long and flown by radio-control." With which he rammed throttle to stop, pulled back stick, accelerated to about human running speed, lifted gently from parking lot, soared out over Cleveland National Forestlands, leaving me standing wide-eyed, chin resting on toes.

Managed to follow part of flight with binoculars: Brightly colored midge visible for many miles from catwalk encircling 200-inch reflector's dome. Adam checked every logging road, cowpath, nature trail within 25-mile radius of observatory. Looked especially closely for indications of isolated structures—facilities
not
accessible by road, or whose construction and/or placement suggested attempted concealment.

Gone three hours, but eventually floated lightly from sky, touching down at walking pace, gently as falling leaf. Killed engine, removed helmet.

"If they're out there, they're well hidden," he shouted into silence; then added more softly, "Am I talking too loudly? I usually do after flying this. You're supposed to use acoustical earplugs, but I always forget."

Too close to dark to continue by time he returned, so spending night in observatory parking lot.

Adam glowing all over; simply irrepressible: bursting with puns, teasing, good humor—never seen
anyone
appreciate own cleverness so much. . . .

Oh, well, minor irritation, really. Of more concern is change in self: Since watching Adam fly ultralight, have felt unaccustomed longing, yearning, wish, want, desire, yen, attraction, need, craving—no-holds-barred pathological
obsession!
For first time, understand Mr. Toad's reaction to initial sight of motorcar. . . .

Oh, Posterity, been such
exciting
two days . . . ! But shall adhere to histographers' discipline; set down events as transpired, without giving hints, muddling chronology—possibly losing later-important details in process.

So: Departed Mount Palomar early this morning; set course for Pasadena. Got as far as Riverside before routine shattered:

Adam rounded corner in usual gentle fashion—and small child on bicycle shot from behind abandoned car, directly into path, mere yards from bumper. Adam yanked steering wheel; almost simultaneously locked up brakes. Somehow missed child; stopped partially jackknifed on spot had occupied heartbeat previously.

Kid continued across street, darted between two buildings, out of sight.

As one we sprang from van, landed running. Adam, well in lead, covered good 200 yards, calling out reassuringly, before misjudging height of obstacle, snagging toe midvault, crashing heavily to ground. And since karate training still not implanted in reflexes, fell wrong: on left elbow. Bone's snap even louder than anguished gasp, curse.

Arrived on scene. Cautioned, "Don't move"; restrained bodily. Adam's karate discipline manifested then; late, but still useful: White, sweating but calm, lay still as examined. Explored as gently as possible, but still elicited grimaces, gasps. Upper arm visibly shorter, plus had grown extra elbow.

"Humerus," was verdict.

Even in agony Adam couldn't resist: "Not to me," he puffed through gritted teeth. Then spark faded, leaving only pain: "I thought so. Can you set it?"

(
Rollo could,
mocked little voice inside skull. But ignored it; concentrated on Adam [fixing broken arm challenge enough without compounding problems by indulging in guilt trip].)

"I
know
how to do it; I've never set one myself, of course. And you aren't going to enjoy it. The ends are overriding; you know what that means."

Adam knew. Grew even whiter.

Helped him to feet, supporting arm to immobilize. Returned to trailer. Strapped upper arm temporarily to torso then adjourned to nearest hospital. Located plastic splint—and mouthpiece.

Helped Adam onto table, strapped down. "I don't know anything about anesthesia. I'm more likely to kill you that not if I give you anything." He nodded, staring at ceiling, already sweating in anticipation.

"Now, the only way I can overcome the muscle spasms holding those bone ends overlapped is by tapping my hysterical strength. Once I start, I'll have to forge ahead and finish in one pass, regardless how much it hurts. Otherwise I'll burn out and you'll end up with a short, crooked arm, or worse."

"I know," he replied tightly. Inserted mouthpiece, set teeth. Took deep breath, closed eyes, indistinctly grunted,
"Do it!"

Placed knee in armpit. Grasped elbow firmly in right hand; clamped forearm under own armpit. Placed left hand over break, and . . .

Hesitated, struck by idea. Might work or not. Never tried before. But success depended on Adam believing: Positive attitude intrinsic to execution.

Assumed confident aspect, said, "
Whoa . . . !
Adam, we
don't
have to do it the hard way . . . !"

Adam opened eyes, peered up at me cautiously. Removed mouthpiece; bodily tension eased imperceptible fraction. "How else?"

"Hypnosis!" I announced in what hoped was triumphant tone. "I forgot—you're a great hypnotic subject. We'll just put you under and anesthetize your arm. You won't feel a thing."

Adam looked dubious. "It hasn't worked with the hysterical-strength tap."

"Of
course
it hasn't worked; you've been fighting it," I stated positively. "You
know
you have—you're scared of hysterical strength because of what happened to me. You achieve as deep a trance as I do, but you block the suggestion. If you
want
it to work, it
will.
"

Relieved to see hint of hope nudge in alongside pain in Adam's expression. Knew seed planted, taking root; but didn't give him time to think about it. Kept momentum building: continued sales pitch, preinduction psychology:

"Remember my telling you how Daddy did double duty, working as a GP as well as a pathologist? Well, he didn't like drug-assisted deliveries because of the effect on babies; he used chemicals only when a woman absolutely couldn't reach a useful trance state in classes during the months leading up to the delivery. Otherwise he used hypnosis exclusively. I often helped during deliveries, and I never once saw a woman evince discomfort during delivery under hypnosis—and childbirth is the standard against which all other pain is gauged, remember.

"Now, you're already past the hard part: You achieve a full somnambulistic-level trance. Unless you fight the suggestion, it
will work
!"

Adam visibly relieved. "You're right. But I don't think I can do it myself, hurting like this; it's hard to concentrate on anything but the pain. But I can follow your voice. Will you put me under?"

Of course would. And did. Adam responded immediately to preprogrammed induction code; slid into profound trance state as promptly as if session merely another in regular series dealing with focusing
ki,
tapping hysterical strength. Pain-drawn features eased even before turning attention to anesthesia: Total concentration characteristic of deepest trance state precluded sparing attention to notice pain.

However, could hardly count on incidental effects to protect against bone-resetting agony. So proceeded with anesthesia induction: Reminded Adam how sleeping in wrong position sometimes puts arm "to sleep": complete sensation lack, plus motor paralysis. Explained acupressure point just under armpit responsible. Placed finger on supposed location; told him 30 seconds' firm pressure there would put arm to sleep for minimum of two hours; repeatable as necessary.

Pressed firmly and—no wonder primitive societies regarded hypnotism as magic—whole body sagged as relief from pain canceled subconscious adrenaline alert.

More importantly, spasming muscles in damaged arm went limp; perhaps could perform resetting without triggering own hysterical strength. Only one way to find out.

Replaced knee in Adam's armpit. Took elbow in right hand, left hand over break; again clamped forearm under own armpit. Then pulled firmly but with control. Stretched limb until felt broken ends grind clear of each other, opposing bulges disappear beneath left hand. Eased tension, allowed ends to settle into what hoped was apposition.

Studied result. Reduction apparently successful: arm grossly straight, same length as right. But palpation ineffective in final determination, and no knowledge of x-ray. Hoped okay. Best I could do.

Slipped plastic splint halves into place. Strapped upper arm to side; bent elbow 90 degrees, strapped forearm across abdomen.

Gave wake-up code. Adam sighed, stirred—then froze, body tense, apparently awaiting pain's resumption. When failed to materialize, opened eyes cautiously, looked around. "Done?"

"Uh-huh."

"Fixed?"

"I think so. It's straight and they're both the same length. Ask me again in six weeks."

Adam regarded me searchingly. "Are
you
all right? After what happened the last time you used hysterical strength. . . ." Assured him metabolic supercharge unnecessary; had not suffered.

Unstrapped him from table; let sit on edge for while, waiting for residual dizziness, nausea to pass.

Presently shuddered. "That was
not
fun. It doesn't hurt now, but it sure did before." Eyed left hand where protruded from strapping. "This
is
like waking up after sleeping wrong. But it's scary—I assume my hand will work again once it's worn off?"