Pagina creata il 16 Novembre 1997
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The receding tide left Conan stranded on a pebbly bit of sand studded with boulders. He could make them out dimly in the first vague light, but for a little while he could not associate them with anything. They were just forms without meaning, yet somehow they seemed to have a kinship to the roaring in his head, and to the distant roaring of the storm that had nearly spent itself.
Then, as the light sharpened, he saw a torn food package partially buried in the sand. Beyond it was a plastic bottle like those he had used for carrying water. Slowly recognition came. Memory followed, swift and terrible.
He staggered to his feet with a hoarse cry.
"Teacher!" he called. "Teacher!"
There was no answer. He took a few ragged steps forward and stopped, for there was nowhere to go. Before him was a great jagged pinnacle of rock. At its base were other rocks, and all around it the sea. The dark sea, with its wind-torn strands of mist and the eternal haze that hid all horizons.
"Teacher!" he screamed.
Still there was no answer. He sobbed and ran wildly around the great rock. Back in seconds where he had started, he began beating his clenched hands upon the cold granite.
"Why have you done this to us?" he cried, as if the voice that had saved him once had finally tricked him and played him false. "Why? Why? What’s the reason for it?"
His cry was an anguished outpouring that came from the complete hopelessness he felt, for it seemed now that everything was lost. Not only Teacher, but all the world that might have been because of Teacher, including Lanna.
The last thing he expected at that moment was for the voice to reply. But suddenly it spoke, quietly and clearly.
"Conan," said the voice. "There is reason and meaning in everything. Look around you."
It shocked him into a kind of wakefulness he had never quite attained before. He forgot the painful battering the sea had given him. Trembling, he jerked about, searching.
He saw it almost immediately—first, the spot of red, and in front of it at the edge of the tide the rock that wasn’t a rock though it looked like one. There were countless rocks scattered all through the sea and up to the pinnacle on every side, and this was just another. Except that it was really a plastic bag. And the spot of red that had caught his eye was the cross on Teacher’s forehead.
In seconds he had carried Teacher up to the base of the pinnacle, stripped off his sodden clothing, and wrapped him in a blanket from the bag. All the water seemed to have drained from the old man’s lungs, and miraculously he was still breathing. But his breath was faint and his limp hands were icy.
Then Conan stiffened at the sight of the tidal mark on the rock. Already the tide was creeping in, and when it was full this tiny bit of land would be covered with more than six feet of water. Only the jagged arms of the reaching pinnacle would be above it.
It was a chilling discovery. But for the fact that he had heard the voice again, he would have been overcome with the absolute hopelessness of their position. But he thought, There must be something I can do. There must be....
He looked at the bag and at Teacher, and it occurred to him that if the bag was emptied it would almost hold Teacher’s long body. Surely it was large enough to fasten under his armpits. It would keep him dry and warm, if some way could be found to hold his head and shoulders above the water.
Conan did not even allow himself to reflect upon how many flood tides they would be able to endure in this attempt to survive. There was only the knowledge that the attempt had to be made. It was followed by the realization that, in order to stay alive, they would need everything he could find that had been washed here from the boat. This last thought sent him rushing about, snatching up a dozen small items and tossing them over near Teacher before the rising tide could sweep them away.
There were several bottles of precious water, a few packages of food, a now useless can of cement, and the remainder of the coil of line that had been used to rig their boat. The discovery of the line solved a problem that had been worrying him.
He was splashing back with it, thinking how he could loop it around the rock to hold Teacher above the high-tide mark, when the seabirds found him. Three gulls, winging toward the pinnacle, swooped low and suddenly began circling him, screaming excitedly.
He dropped the line and held out his hands to them in incredulous wonder. It couldn’t be, but it was.
"Mara... Jeddi... Rilla," he whispered, recognizing each and calling it by name. "What are you doing here? How did you ever—?"
He stared up at the pinnacle. Could this be one of the tiny islets that had flanked his home? Turning, he strained to see through the haze. Presently he found what he sought—not where he had imagined it would be, but almost in the opposite direction. He could hardly make it out, and it took him long seconds to get his directions straight and assure himself of the truth.
He was standing on the western islet where, two years ago, he had come on a long and dangerous swim in a search for wood. Only, the place had looked entirely different then. He had approached it from the other side, and there had been high ground where he was standing now. But the storms of two years had battered it all away, leaving the rocks.
His first quick surge of relief and delight at his discovery was instantly tempered when he glanced over at Teacher. How could he possibly get Teacher across that threatening sweep of water to the safety of the main islet? Towing him, even buoyed by some of the empty water containers, was out of the question. The distance was too great, the currents too strong.
Then it came to him in a rush how the thing could be managed. The answer lay over on the main islet.
He was suddenly relieved to see that Teacher’s good eye was open, watching him curiously. "Conan," the old man whispered, "Conan, what are you up to?"
Conan caught up the coil of line he had dropped and hastened toward him. "I’m planning how to get us to High Harbor," he announced.
* * *
It took only a few minutes to lash together the objects he had salvaged and secure them against the tide. More time was required to pile a six-foot pyramid of rocks against the base of the pinnacle and fasten Teacher above it to one of the jagged arms. When he scrambled down, the tide was already up to his knees.
"You’ve got to hang on till I get back," he said to Teacher. "If the wind’s against me, I won’t be able to make it until tomorrow. Just hang on."
In spite of his weakness and the hazardous hours ahead, the old man managed to chuckle. "Oh, I’ll be here," he replied. "The way you’ve got me bagged and tied... Just take it easy, son—don’t worry about me."
Conan studied the sea, then began swimming slowly but steadily, quartering into the tidal current to make allowance for his drift. Trailing behind him on a length of line fastened to his waist was a nearly empty water bottle which he could cling to in an emergency. It was insurance he hadn’t had on his first trip. He had nearly drowned then, and it had taken him two days to make it to the pinnacle and back. If the wind hadn’t turned against him and kicked up a sea, he might have managed it in half the time.
At the moment, everything seemed to be in his favor. Because it was in his favor, he was tempted to swim faster for a while. Then prudently he slowed again, knowing it would be better to save his strength for a last-minute battle if conditions changed. They could change in a flash, and he knew he wasn’t fooling Teacher a bit by mentioning that he might not return until tomorrow. The weather could separate them for a good many tomorrows. But at least Teacher had a bottle of water hanging near him, as well as a slightly damp package of the New Order’s sandwiches. They had agreed that a little seawater might help the flavor of the things.
Conan was more than halfway to his destination when suddenly, for seemingly no reason, he began thinking of the miles of towering cliffs beyond Industria. Why had they seemed so threatening? Was it because the fracture under the city extended all the way up to the break where they had rigged the boat? All at once, remembering the things Teacher had said, he was sure of it.
What would happen when the fracture gave way and that whole stretch of coast slipped down into the sea?
Teacher had mentioned a tsunami, and had tried to hide his concern about it. A tsunami was a wave, caused by a shock. A deep shock in the earth’s crust, making a sort of tidal wave.
Conan missed a stroke, and a dollop of seawater caught him in the face. He had just remembered something he had read years ago, something he almost wished he could forget.
Shock waves were huge. They could be mountainous things, great roaring cliffs of water that traveled at incredible speed. They could cross an ocean in very little time, and bring devastation to places thousands of miles away.
The vision stayed with him, and almost spoiled his feeling of accomplishment when he finally stumbled ashore, hungry and exhausted, upon the walled and fortresslike islet that had been his home
More birds met him here, joining those which had followed him across. He was obliged to pause and greet each in turn before he could hasten to the pile of salvage he had gleaned through the years and dig down through the protecting rocks to make sure that certain priceless objects were safe. They were. Reassured, he peered around almost fondly at his domain. It was hard to believe that only a few weeks had passed. It seemed as if he’d been away for years. The storm had done some damage to the outer wall and one of the fish traps, but that was to be expected. An hour’s work would repair it.
Suddenly aware of his hunger, and at the same moment remembering what had happened here the day he was taken away, he crawled hastily into the storage hut and began clawing at a pile of dried seaweed and wood chips in one corner. Then he went limp with relief. Dr. Manski and the ship’s captain, who had so enjoyed his smoked fish, had overlooked the main pile of it. He wolfed down several pieces, and stretched out gratefully upon the seaweed to rest.
It was perhaps two hours later when he crawled out, feeling much better, and searched for the sun behind the constant overcast. When he found it he was astonished to discover that it was only a little way beyond Its noon position. Could he have made the swim from the pinnacle in only half a morning? Unquestionably he had.
Most of the afternoon lay before him. If conditions were right, there was all the time he needed to bring Teacher here before dark.
Conan spent several minutes in a careful study of the weather and the sea, then hurriedly unearthed the old and battered surfboard that had been his greatest treasure, and the last one he had found. In seconds he had it in the water and was standing upon it, using a crude paddle fashioned from a board to send him swiftly in the direction of the pinnacle.
He returned late that afternoon, with Teacher trussed like a mummy in the bag and securely lashed to the board.
Ashore, the old man, though still extremely weak, lay back against one of the many protective walls and peered about with a sort of bemused wonder. "So," he murmured. "This is how you developed that set of sculptured muscles! To have shifted so many tons of rock, you must have been busy nearly every daylight hour from the time you arrived here."
"Just about, sir."
Teacher adjusted his piratical patch, which miraculously had survived all the recent violence to which he had been subjected. He squinted at the curved log in the lee of a wall, and said, "That, I presume, will form the main body of the craft you have in mind to take us to High Harbor."
"Y-yes, sir." Try to hide anything from Teacher!
"And the surfboard, on edge, will be used for the outrigger."
"That’s what I thought, sir."
"And that cloth we still have—how fortunate we didn’t use it for the other sail! But we must have needles to sew it with. Needles can be made of this and that, but there are good ones in the tool chest, if it can be found. Needles alone can save us time, and there are chisels and other tools in the chest that can save us weeks in shaping the log. Right now time is rather important on several counts. Every hour we can save—"
"Yes, sir."
Not a word about the tsunami. But there was no need to mention it. Teacher knew that he understood about it now. It hung over them, a threat that would increase with every passing day. It was just one threat of many, for there was the survey ship that was still searching for them somewhere, and the helicopters that were surely able to fly this far from base. And, if they escaped all those, there were the great mists to worry about if they got away from here too late. How could they navigate the mists when their only compass was lost? Every hour saved...
Conan said, "I’m going back to the rock at dawn. The tide will be low then, and I can look around in the deeper water where we hit. That chest is bound to be around there somewhere."
Dawn was only a vague promise behind him when he started out in the morning, but it was all the guide he needed to paddle to the rock again. The tool chest eluded him, though he returned with food packets and water bottles lashed to the board, along with the can of cement and an assortment of plastic scraps which they had intended to use as strengthening for the lost vessel.
"Never mind," said Teacher, who had spent the morning chipping away at the log with one of Conan’s old stone tools. "The chest is there, and you’ll find it at the next low tide. I’m sure of it."
Teacher was right. He found the tool chest intact with all its contents the next morning. And on the way back to the islet with it he found something else. The circling birds called his attention to it first, and he had to paddle hard a quarter of a mile out of his way to overtake it before wind and current would carry it out of sight.
It was a life raft containing the limp figure of a man sprawled facedown on the bottom.
Conan did not waste time in an attempt to give aid to the man. Swiftly he attached a towline to the raft and began paddling furiously for the islet, which already was fading in the distance. Tool chest and bobbing raft slowed his pace to a crawl. It became a long, exhausting battle against the wind before he reached the narrow beach where Teacher stood anxiously waiting.
"I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t see far enough—" Teacher began, then exclaimed, "Good heavens, what have we here?"
Wearily Conan hauled the raft up on the beach, then stooped to lift the occupant. He’d thought it was a man, but now he saw it was a woman. Suddenly he gasped in astonishment. "Why, it’s Dr. Manski!"
"So it is," Teacher murmured. "And this means the survey vessel must have gone down in the same storm that wrecked us. Ah me, the curious ways of fate.... Conan, take her into the little hut, and I’ll bring a bottle of water and a blanket. She’s suffering from exposure and thirst."
Dr. Manski was conscious enough to drink greedily from the bottle Conan held for her. But it was some time before she recognized him, and the day was almost gone before she found the strength to crawl from the hut.
With one hand clutching the blanket about her, she peered curiously around and slowly approached the log where Conan was working. "What a crazy thing this is!" she began, her harsh voice little more than a croak. "Who would have thought, when I rescued you a few weeks ago, that I would find myself back here—"
Dr. Manski stopped, and Conan saw that she was staring at Teacher, whose presence she evidently had not been aware of before. "You!" she cried. "You! You scheming old rascal! What kind of mad tale did you tell the commissioners to make them send my ship after you?" She was trembling now, her voice rising with fury. "The ship’s lost now—and you’re to blame for it! And every man aboard was lost, all because of some mad tale—"
"Hey," said Conan. "Just a moment. Who do you think he is?"
"I know who he is!" Dr. Manski cried. "He’s that old devil, Patch, and why he wasn’t disqualified years ago—"
"He’s not Patch," Conan told her. "I mean, his real name is Briac Roa."
"Briac Roa!" She laughed harshly. "Is that what he told you? And you’re fool enough to believe it?"
"But you don’t understand—" Conan began, and stopped when he saw Teacher shake his head
"Dr. Manski," Teacher said, "if you want to call me Patch, by all means do so. But I suggest that you go back and get some rest. You’ve had a very bad experience, and you’re still feeling the effects of shock and exposure."
She glared at him a moment, turned angrily away, took several faltering steps, and suddenly began to crumple.
Conan caught her before she fell and carried her to the hut.
When he returned to the log and picked up the hatchet he had been using, he said bitterly, "Of all things to happen! Why did it have to be her we’re stuck with?"
"I can think of far worse," Teacher said mildly. "Besides, she may be of help to us."
"Help, my foot! I don’t want anything to do with her. I hate her."
"You don’t really. You just hate the ideas she reflects."
"Maybe so, but it makes me hate her. I hate everything about the New Order. Don’t you?"
"No, I don’t feel that way."
Conan dropped his hatchet. "But—but you were their prisoner for four years! " he exclaimed. "You must hate them!"
"Son, I can’t hate them. I have only admiration for most of them."
"But how can you? They branded you and beat you and made slaves of I don’t know how many and killed I don’t know how many more. They’re warped and twisted, and absolutely merciless—"
"Yes, Conan," Teacher interrupted. "All you say is true. But you forget that they were fighting a terrible battle for survival, and had nothing but a few machines to do it with. Industria was paralyzed, and it still is, largely. It took the sternest of measures to stay alive and keep their few machines going. And in such circumstances it’s usually the toughest ones, with the least to offer, who grab the power." Teacher paused, then said, "Don’t judge the many by the few. There are some fine people in Industria, and they deserve only praise for what they’ve done. Those are the ones the world can’t afford to lose—that’s why I had to go back and warn them. As for the others—"
"What about the others?"
Teacher shrugged. "The deadliest drug in the world is power. The commissioners who are running things are going to lose it unless they can expand and get more power. Taking over High Harbor will help. But it will help them more to regain other powers that were lost with the Change. Now do you understand?"
"I—I think I do, sir."
The old man glanced at the smaller hut. "As for her, let her go on believing I’m old Patch. It will be easier. She’s dedicated to the New Order, because that’s all she has left. You’ll never change how she thinks by appealing to her reason. Let her come to her own conclusions without any aid from us. In the meantime she can be of immense help to us."
"Help? How?"
"By sewing the sail. By catching and smoking the fish we’ll have to take with us to eat. By doing a hundred things that will save us time. For we’ve got to do the impossible. We must build our new craft, and get away from here, in little more than a week."
"A week!" Conan swallowed. "But you know we can’t."
"We can. And we must. Or we’ll be caught in the mists and never see High Harbor again. Now get busy. We’ve good tools to work with. You’ll be surprised how fast we can chip out this log and turn it into a sailing canoe."