Outerbridge Reach (47 page)

“Who,” Strickland asked, “me?”

“Who knows,” Thorne said, “maybe even you. A man risks his life and you look for small significances.”

“Small significances,” Strickland said, “are neat.”

Thorne put his glasses back on and settled into a chair.

“Some people go out and do things,” Thorne said. “They put life and reputation on the line. Others seem to see their role as following after. Checking up. With a flashlight. Looking for cracks.”

“Or a shovel,” Strickland said, “looking for bullshit.” He did not stop filming. Thorne laughed amiably.

“What I'm saying,” Thorne said, “is there's a difference between people who actually do things and people who find fault and poke holes and make judgments.”

“It isn't true,” Strickland said, “that I don't do anything. A film is something.”

“Not one of your films, Strickland. A film of yours is just an attitude about something.”

Reflecting on the notion, Strickland put his camera aside and turned to the window to check the declining light. On the street below he saw the Brownes' sedan draw up against the curb opposite. Anne got out, looked at her watch and locked the car.

“That has its uses, I guess,” Harry Thorne was saying. “Opinion making is important. That's why I was advised to hire you. I think now I was ill-advised. I think it was a waste of time.”

“You're probably right about that,” Strickland said, watching the street. Anne came straight for the street door of his building. She seemed not to notice Thorne's Lincoln, parked near the corner of Eleventh with its driver at the wheel. “You would have been better advised to get a different man.”

“It was Matty,” Thorne said, and shrugged. “Originally. Then Anne. She wanted the film. Anyhow, I think we've reached the parting of the ways.”

The downstairs bell rang. It would be necessary to go down and let her in. There was opportunity enough to turn her away.

“Excuse me,” Strickland said. “I'm expecting company.”

“I'm leaving,” Harry assured him. “My people will be in touch. Do you have anything for me to sign? A release?”

“You don't mind signing a release?”

Thorne seemed pleased with himself. “Glad to have my thoughts on record.”

He put his coat on and they went out and got into the scrofulous, graffiti-ridden elevator. Strickland started it down.

“Too bad it didn't work out,” Strickland said.

“Yeah, too bad,” Harry said.

She was standing square in front of the elevator, framed very nicely when Strickland opened the door. She smiled guiltily, all confusion, and blushed becomingly. It was genuinely embarrassing. Glancing at Harry, Strickland saw his quick gasp and equally quick recovery. He seemed to understand the situation readily enough.

“Harry,” she said, “good Lord, what are you doing here?”

“Anne,” Harry said smoothly. “Nice to see you.” He hurried by her to the curb outside. His car came abreast upon the moment.

“God,” Anne said, riding up with Strickland. “I never expected to see Harry.”

“Yeah,” Strickland said, “he happened by.”

“God,” she said. “I think he knew, don't you? I think he knew about us.”

“I wouldn't think so,” Strickland said. “You were discreet.”

“I was?”

“Sure. Quite matter-of-fact.”

“I don't know about that,” she said. She got out of the elevator with her arms folded, looking at the floor.

The shamefaced posture touched him but he was pleased at her humiliation. He meant no vital harm; his lust was to capture, not to kill. Sometimes he had the fantasy there was some wound he might inflict that could make her into a creature more like himself. For company's sake. So as not to be lonely.

A
T NINETEEN HUNDRED
Zulu time, Browne sat hunched by his radio, waiting. In the same moment, at the Southchester Yacht Club, they were attending the monitor, waiting for his signal, in vain. By nineteen-thirty Zulu, the reaching out would begin. Borne by Whiskey Oscar Oscar, by Kilo Oscar India on the cypress cliffs of Marin, by Whiskey Oscar India on the Florida Gold Coast, on the hour and the half hour, all the concerned souls in the other world would start singing him home. He waited, smiling, with his lie coiled, ready to spring it into space.

At nineteen-seventeen, on 21.390 megahertz, he heard Mad Max's frenetic fist.

“CQ DE ZRA1J563, CQ DE ZRA1J563.” Over and over again.

Max was CQ-ing the entire planet to advertise his antic presence, inviting discourse. Browne decided to give him a thrill. He tapped out his call sign and the bitch's name,
Nona,
on Max's frequency. Max was delighted.

“JLY GD RARE DX EXCLT SPR,” he exclaimed. Which Browne understood was Anglo—South African ham for jolly good unusual and interesting long distance transmission excellent super.

Max inquired the weather, as custom decreed. Browne glanced at his most recent weather fax to see if it would indicate conditions at the false coordinates he was about to claim. He had decided to claim approximately fifty-three south, forty-eight east.

Mad Max was impressed. “SPR DX.” He thought it formidable transmission. “QRX?” He was inquiring into the intelligibility of his signal. Browne sent him a numeral five for excellent and asked in turn for Max's location. Max was in Pietermaritzburg, Natal. He asked Browne to mail him a DSL card, the postcard memento that hams exchanged to commemorate their rare DX. Browne readily agreed. Then he gave Max the telephone number of Duffy's office and asked Max to patch him through. Equipped with the number, Max radioed one of his rare DX pals in New Jersey. The ham in Jersey patched the signal to Duffy's phone. In an instant the worried publicist was on the line. Back in the world, Browne thought, but not of it.

“RNDZVS ON 29.871 MZS,” Max broadcast. At the rendezvous, on 29.871 megahertz, Browne found an exasperated Duffy.

“Jesus Christ, chum,” Duffy was saying, “where the hell you been?”

“My tanks were contaminated, Duffy. I couldn't charge my batteries. I just got it squared away.”

In the simplex transmission they could talk to each other easily.

“We thought you sank, babe. Your dingus isn't sending signals.”

“I can't be the only one.”

“You're not,” Duffy said. “Cefalu and Dennis are down too. We haven't heard from Dennis. Where are you?”

Browne gave him the false position.

“You're leading, then. Is everything O.K.?”

“Everything's fine.”

“Can you dream up something for the press?”

“I would hesitate to dream,” Browne said.

“Well, we don't want to seem strange or unusual, chum. And how about calling your wife?”

“Should I?”

“Definitely,” Duffy said.

“I will, then.”

“Maybe we should start preparing the world for a winner. When do you figure on clearing Cape Horn?”

“I'll let you know. It's bad luck to guess.”

“All right, buddy,” Duffy said. “Keep up the good work.”

“I will,” Browne said.

Later Max started sending BTs—dah-dit-dit-dit dah, dah-dit-dit-dit dah, dah-dit-dit-dit dah. It was the Morse equivalent of a stammer. He was thinking of what to say next.

“STNDBY FOR FILS,” he tapped suddenly. Browne tried to remember what HLs were.

“INTERROGATIVE HLS?”

“HA HA HA HA,” Max wired. HLs were laughs.

Browne sighed and sent him a roger.

“HEAR ABOUT MINIATURIZED TRNSMTTR?”

Browne waited.

“FOR PEOPLE WHO LIKE SMALL TALK.”

“HL,” he told Max.

“YOUR CALL STATESIDE LIKE TWO SNAKES FIGHTING.”

Browne was taken with the image. He waited.

“CALL WAS POISON TO POISON.”

“HL,” he sent back.

“ONE HORSE TO OTHERHORSE AT RACECOURSE.”

Browne waited the beat.

“CANT REMEMBER YR MANE BUT YR PACE IS FAMILIAR.”

“HL,” Browne replied. The puns continued for some time. Browne interrupted the next wave of BTs with a sign-off and closed down. He fell to the work of imaginary positions, devising himself eastward, figuring the angles until he grew tired. The fatigue that settled down on him was considerable. He stood up, put on his fur-lined jacket and went on deck for air.

One minute the lagoon was very still, the next a sudden wind from the peaks would race across its surface, addling the reflected sky. Leaning on the rail, Browne had a sudden recollection of himself speaking to the press in the offices of the Joint Public Affairs Office. His manner had commanded an unaccustomed silence. His words, deliberate, grammatical and clearly spoken, had deepened the attention of the room. He had felt transfigured by his own forthrightness and the reporters had sensed his honesty. He could no longer remember the nature of the information he had been providing the press or whether it had been misleading or not. He remembered only the appearance of rectitude that had surrounded him.

I am neither that person, Browne thought, nor the person remembering that person. There had been something like a death. He went back down to the navigation table and looked with loathing at the almanacs. Browne thought he could take no more of it. It was too hard for him. He went back on deck.

The trick was to take pleasure in knowing what was true and to deprive the rest of the world of that knowledge. That was the power suggested in the Bible stories. The power of command over reality consisted in being party to its nature and possessing the knowledge exclusively. All at once Browne understood that such power would always be denied him.

“I can't do it,” he said aloud. His voice echoed powerfully off the surrounding rocks.

When he was certain he could not get back to work, he prepared to go ashore again. It was late evening and the sun was low. He climbed into the dinghy and set off westward in the lagoon, hoping to find the house he had seen the day before. When he had gone a few miles and it failed to appear, he backtracked. Eventually he landed in a bay that resembled the one he had seen behind the house. One bay looked very like another here. Walking along the shore, he found the mouth of a clear stream and followed it inland.

The stream was fast, running over black rock and through small meadows of coarse yellow grass. A short distance from the shore it curved and widened to a pool and he went beside it and looked into the water. He was surprised to see salmon in the pool, struggling upstream. He could see them clearly in the fading light—enormous, ponderous fish, their bodies gray and scarred. They held their own against the current and it was possible to imagine them gaining the odd fraction of an inch.

The sight of the salmon moved Browne to tears. He thought he had never seen creatures of such gravity. They had won out over time and the ocean. They had survived everything and come home. Browne thought he would give anything to be in their condition.

Ahead, the stream cascaded down from a three-tiered bluff some ten feet high. Browne followed a path beside it. When he had gained the rise, he heard the crashing sea and saw the house of ashes.

On the way to the house he tried to remember where he had seen salmon before. On the Pacific Coast, he thought, in similar polar light. He could have spent hours watching them.

This time he walked confidently up the porch and through the downstairs rooms. There seemed to be more blackened furniture in the place than he had seen before. On the wall was a faded needlework sampler of Gothic letters in a language he could not understand. Turning, he saw a flash of reflected light. A peeling, shattered mirror was bolted to the wall. Approaching, Browne saw a face in the glass. The face was dark brown and bearded, wild-eyed, like a saddhu's. Or a dervish's, Browne thought, the face of a man in the grip of something powerful and unsound. He raised a hand to his beard. The figure in the glass did the same.

“I can't believe it,” Browne said, laughing. He saw a flash of white teeth in the brown face. The little mirror in the head aboard his boat had been deceiving him.

He went upstairs and opened the door and found the room where he had stood before. A scrimshaw tusk lay on the floor. He heard a scuttling in the shadows and saw that crabs had gathered in the dark part of the room. A carapace cracked underfoot and he stepped back. He believed he had been told that rails and land crabs preyed on each other's eggs. The rails by day, the crabs by night.

“Where are you?” Browne inquired.

With the delicacy of an acrobat and the cunning of an engineer, one of the land crabs was easing itself down a leg of the old rocking chair. It touched one extended claw to the rocking bow while the other clutched an edge of the seat until its armored weight was balanced for the leap. Then it rattled down to the floor and hurried off, like a cavalier dragging his sword behind. Browne walked up to the chair and examined the rotting quilts and horsehair that he had taken for a human figure. Mistaken a crab's nest for his wife.

“Johnny Plowboy,” sang the hard-hearted woman of the shadows. “Johnny Never-Should-Have-Seen-the-Ocean.”

He presumed it was some old song, drawing him into things he wanted no part of.

“Look there away,” sang the crab wench.

Browne wanted to invoke the honest, well-spoken young man he had taken himself for. The role of the information officer was difficult. There were worlds to explain. Something was trying to direct his attention toward the window. Browne stood his ground. He was afraid he might see another face to match his own. Tricks of the mind and of the eye, Browne thought. He had hardly slept for days.

“Look there away,” she said. He thought of a thin woman with watery blue eyes, wailing.

Finally, broken-willed, he consented to turn, dreading the thing that might confront him in the window. There, in place of the declining sun, he saw innumerable misshapen discs stretched in limitless perspective to an expanded horizon. It was a parody of the honest mariner's sighting. Each warped ball was the reflection of another in an index glass, each one hung suspended, half submerged in a frozen sea. They extended forever, to infinity, in a universe of infinite singularities. In the ocean they suggested, there could be no measure and no reason. There could be neither direction nor horizon. It was an ocean without a morning, without sanity or light.