EMERGENCE (32 page)

Not looking forward to spending night here, but will manage: Made up only moderately uncomfortable bed beneath wing; consists of moss, leaves, etc. C-rations filled belly, though hardly in style to which accustomed—nothing like Adam's cooking. Located cold, fast-running stream for water. Filled canteen, shook, drained; repeated endlessly until only hint of yummy gasoline flavor remains.

Then sat down to make present update. Which have. That's where things stand now.

Time to try to get some sleep.

If possible.

Know am acting like fool, jittering like this. Physically verified trees' separation, marked route clearly. No possibility of getting lost, encountering trees too closely spaced for plane's passage. Nothing to worry about.

But can't help it.

Do so
hate
waiting . . . !

Oh, Posterity,
Posterity . . .

If get through this without blowing punch line will surely validate claim to histographer's mantle. So much to tell; so little time . . . .

However. Remember histographer's creed: Unemotionally, deliberately, chronologically. Therefore:

Woke next morning at sunup, stiff, sore, cold. Night spent curled into fetal position on pile of moss no match for cozy trailer bed, clean sheets, warm blankets. Guess am spoiled.

Hearing back to normal: Ringing gone; could hear birds calling, insects humming, etc. Quite relieved, despite confidence affliction only temporary. Doubt deafness much fun—besides, countersurvival: What if failed to hear immigrant carnivore's approach?

Stumbled down from log to stream; sloshed water on face, shrieking, gasping, sputtering in reaction—couldn't have been warmer than 33 degrees! Did clear away cobwebs . . . .

Performed morning elimination. (Amazing how few people grasp importance of emptying bladder, bowel, before risking possible injury. Daddy occasionally served as trackside physician for local quarter-mile stock-car racers. Pet peeve was heroes who, despite oft-repeated warnings, started race without first making personal pit stop. Lost count of those whose only injury following minor shunt was ruptured bladder, bowel. Daddy often remarked on dearth of repeaters: Burning, urine-filled void between thigh muscles, under skin, and/or peritonitis, both followed by otherwise unnecessary surgery, quite educational.)

Performed abbreviated
kata
to loosen up musculature, hone reflexes; followed by scant breakfast of C-rations.

Then was time. Removed tiedowns; coiled, stowed line; resecured emergency kit behind seat.

Inserted earplugs; pulled on helmet. Started engine, settled in seat, fastened harness.

Checked all controls; performed two-minute full-power test; during which relaxed; expanded consciousness, alertness. Combat computer assumed control.

Released brakes. Only peripherally aware of wheels' pounding over rough bark as ship accelerated.

Lifted nosewheel before 50-foot mark; popped 50 percent flaperons as airspeed hit 22 knots. Total takeoff roll less than 75 feet. Zeroed in on first pair of sequoias framing entrance to in/out plunge through forest. Pegged airspeed at 30 knots for best angle-of-climb; watched trunks loom large ahead, pass on either side—then into woods proper, concentrating on remaining centered in premarked corridor.

But no surprises, no stark maneuvering (trees hadn't moved since yesterday). Pylon dodge'em game without drama this time; plenty of room all the way in, around, back. Emerged from forest already halfway to lowest branches.

Flying level, almost within reach of greenery, by glade's far end. Performed steeply banked 180; leveled, headed for opening, building speed.

Going almost 60 when yanked back stick, shot up through small opening into chimney. Immediately lowered nose, stabilized airspeed at 35 knots (best rate-of-climb speed also); rolled into endless climbing turn.

Breathed huge sigh of relief as emerged from shaft above treetops—then inexplicably giggled again, wishing Terry were here. Would have enjoyed ride so much, even if less exciting than yesterday. Could almost see twin now, bobbing head, wings half-spread, wearing expression of utter delight. Missed him dreadfully.

Missed Adam, too. And Kim, Lisa. Tora-chan, too.

Missed family.

Climbed toward cruising altitude. Reached for helmet radio switch, intending to try to raise them once above intervening peaks—only to discover already on; batteries stone dead, apparently left on yesterday.

Oh, well. Irritation, not problem.

(But
major
irritation . . . .)

Settled down on return course. Resisted urge to push throttle to max. Unsure of fuel situation, but knew was tight. Gritted teeth, cut back to efficient minimum cruise.

No sweat; arrived at departure point with fuel to spare—but
nobody there . . . .

Landed, looked around for note, clue to whereabouts. Found nothing—fine quandary!

Indulged in moment's self-pity; then thought matter through: Put self in Adam's, Kim's shoes. Of course: Gone to look for me—exactly what would have done were positions reversed.

Well, easily enough solved: Obtain fresh radio batteries, return to area where forced down, fly around until family notices, switches on own radio (surely will; exhaust note probably audible for five-mile radius). Once in contact, arrange location to meet.

Okay, problem solved.

Restarted again, lifted back into air, flying slowly, low. Looked for, found gas station. Buzzed, inspected; apparently in good shape. Landed in street, taxied up apron. Access to station no problem; standing wide open. Rummaged briefly; found hose, pump, couple cans of two-stroke oil. Mixed up formula, refueled.

Located electronics store next. Managed to find carton of appropriate 9-volt radio dry cells, plus tester with which to determine condition. Replaced helmet batteries with best of lot; stuffed extras in pockets.

Stepped outside just in time to feel ground tremble, hear concussion. Looked up, motivated by ancient habit; noted barely visible, fast-moving contrail splitting sky, heading south-southwest. Continued toward ultralight without breaking stride. Donned helmet and . . .

Contrail?

CONTRAIL . . . !

Went briefly out of control then, Posterity. Must have. How else to explain certified genius running back, forth in street; dancing up, down; waving, screaming—at aircraft five miles up . . . .

Hysteria ended abruptly as begun: Winds aloft shredding vapor; evidence rapidly dissipating.

Moved quickly; probably set record for ultralight engine start, takeoff, climb-out. Aligned own craft with contrail as cleared ground. Maintained course, watching compass, as continued maximum climb. Needed sufficient altitude to ensure local magnetic anomalies (ferrous accumulations, etc.) not affecting reading.

Five minutes, 3,000 feet later, contrail's last fleecy wisp lost in distance, heading unchanged.

Leaving Junior Birdwoman again dangling skewered on dilemma's needle-pointed horns:

Pacific 150-200 miles ahead on present course, according to memory. Unless headed overseas, jet's destination lay somewhere within three and half hours' flying time at ultralight's peak cruise.

But following up would cost at least eight hours' round trip; add full day to separation from family—cruel to leave Adam, Kim, et al., in doubt, combing sequoia forest, searching for own tattered remains.

On other hand, at least day's work involved in locating, rejoining them. Even if landed somewhere ahead, jet could be on other side of globe before found family, returned.

(Leadership sure is lonely business sometimes!)

But some decisions easier than others, though not necessarily pleasant:
Had
to chase jet while trail still warm. Simply no alternative.

So ignored anguished little voice worrying about family; concentrated on course, terrain ahead. For next three and half hours.

Embarrassing, really, how completely by surprise otherwise well-informed person can be taken. Despite own keen interest in things scientific, substantial knowledge of geography, never suspected jet's destination until loomed out of distance, so huge, size alone misled perspective.

Not until very close did recognition set in. First experienced pang of disappointment as perceived coastline; feared had missed landing site, or perhaps jet continued out over water.

Only after blunt-nosed, moth-shaped silver barnacle—adhering halfway up huge, sharply dome-topped, dark beige tower rearing amidst cluster of even larger structures—caught eye, held it, did I recognize Vandenberg Space Shuttle Launch Complex.

But technical wonders held attention only briefly: Moments later, could discern moving vehicles scurrying about shuttle's base . . .

And people . . .

People everywhere—
lots of people
. . . !

Don't know how managed to land in one piece. Certainly in no condition to fly by then: senses reeling, heart racing, breath coming in sobs, half blinded by tears. Only know that presently ultralight bumped to stop in shadow of monster spaceship.

People converged; helped me off with harness, helmet; pulled me to feet.

Strangers all, but reminded me somehow of Daddy during first moments. Men, women both; mostly young; kindly features, concerned expressions; vital, handsome people.

Hardly anyone uttered intelligible word at first. But no need: Even with everyone laughing, crying, passing me from hug to hug like stuffed toy—never doubted for instant!

Had found AAs . . . !

Managed, finally, to blubber name in response to inquiry from gentle young Adonis in charge. Reply caused odd metamorphosis to pass across features; stir ripple through crowd.

But recovered quickly. Smiled, said: "Then here's someone you'll be happy to see again."

Felt pair of hands take me by shoulders from behind. Was turned around.

Then looked up—not very far up—into well-remembered, wizened, elflike features. Inexpressible love, joy beamed from dark, slanted, gently mischievous eyes as, streaming tears himself, Teacher said: "Candidia, my child, the sight of you makes an old man . . ."

Never learned what sight of me did. Voice broke. Teacher enfolded me in arms, held very close.

Whereupon, for very first time in entire life, Candy Smith-Foster—plucky girl adventurer; most promising preadolescent intellect yet discovered amongst
Homo post hominem
population; youngest ever holder of Sixth Degree Black Belt; resourceful, unstoppable, never-say-die superkid; conqueror of unthinkable odds, who searched out, found AAs across length, breadth of North American continent . . .

Fainted.

Evening when awoke. Lay in narrow bed, alone in small, tidy, unmistakably "military-looking" room. First thing to greet eyes was note taped to headboard. Stretched comfortably, pulled down, began reading.

From Teacher: apology for startling me; promise to explain everything at tonight's meeting . . .

Teacher . . . !
Memory flooded in. Sat bolt upright—in process discovering attire limited to birthday suit—stared at note as if might bite. But
how . . .
what . . .

Saved from further blithering by gentle knock on door.

Pulled sheet up around chin; managed, "C-c-come in."

Door opened, woman entered. Perhaps 15 years older than self; tall, marvelous figure; carriage bespoke flawlessly fine-trained physique: Moved with unconscious power, effortless grace of panther. Richly glowing dark hair, bangs in front, rest in waist-length ponytail. Startlingly beautiful features radiated intrinsic warmth; currently wore tentative, gently concerned smile. Reminded me of Kim. Liked her on sight. (But would
kill
to look like that!)

Bundle under arm proved to be my clothes, now clean, dry, neatly folded—badly needed attentions after two exciting, sweaty days.

But sight of completed laundry started wheels turning in head: Must have been out of circulation for several hours minimum; which deduction led to remembering shameful fluttering-ingénue performance upon seeing Teacher; which in turn again recalled incredible shock of
seeing
Teacher—
alive
. . . !

Woman took in expression, posture, paper, trembling hands, all in single glance; correctly evaluated problem. Smile broadened, became infectious grin, as placed clothing on bed. "My guess is that you haven't had much experience meeting ghosts," she offered by way of greeting. Scooted bedside chair close; settled in for cozy chat.

"Teacher asked me to apologize for him," she went on, as I stared blankly. "He knows he gave you quite a shock, and he's terribly sorry. But he's been totally immersed in the project, and your arrival so startled him . . ."

(Quickly bit lip; stifled momentary impulse to burst out in hysterical laughter—she thought
he
was startled!)

". . . and he was so overjoyed to see you, that he forgot, in the excitement of the moment, the impression you must have gotten from the letter he'd left for you with the Tarzan File—at the time, of course, that's pretty much the impression he had himself.

"I'm Gayle Kinnart, by the way," she continued sociably. "I'm one of Teacher's official AA guinea pigs. Until you turned up I was one of his prize exhibits."

Flashed engaging grin, evoking image of mischievous eight-year-old tomboy—then looking
nothing
like Ph.D.-five-times-over rebel who met American Bar on own turf, stomped into ground in head-on clash before Supreme Court!

"Your test results created quite a stir among our little group," she added cheerfully. "No one had an explanation for you. Your upbringing wasn't even close to AA standards; your intellectual development violated all the rules. Of course, Teacher always has said that you never had much use for rules.

"I'm supposed to bring you to the meeting, incidentally. Teacher wanted to be here when you woke up, but he's
so
busy . . ." Expression clouded briefly. "We all are, actually, and time is so short—but Teacher's been doing the work of five of us. I'm just coming on duty and I promised to bring you along. I gather you just this minute woke up?"