“Now, for small fee I can have Vusi or one of my other nephews or nieces take you safe back to Cape Town. Is rough ride but not so far from here. From here to nowhere, where you want to go is, I say off top of my old head, a thousand kilometers or so. As the igwababa flies.”
There was silence in the soundproofed cab of the transporter. Outside, relatives of all ages were busy stowing the results of their patriarch’s illegal activities deep within the capacious barn. It was beginning to grow dark.
Ingrid Seastrom looked long and hard at her companion. Torn as usual between common sense and innate greed, he said nothing. No words passed between them. She turned back to their host.
“We’ve come a long way to get this close. We’ve been through a lot. A good friend and mentor of mine was nearly killed by unknown parties seeking the same things that we are. Both of us have nearly been killed, twice, by a professional assassin we left behind in the Little Karoo, and we don’t even know if he’s dead or still coming after us.” She leaned toward the old man and her voice uncharacteristically hardened. The most stalwart of her patients would have been taken aback by the change in her personality.
“There are things, Josini Jay-Joh Umfolozi, that I need to know. There are questions I have that require answers. My friend is interested in their financial potential. I’m not. But I am no less driven or determined because of that. Science is as powerful a motivating force as money. A thirst for knowledge can motivate people as powerfully as the desire for money. You poach some animals because you have to. I intend to poach some information because I need to. Will you take us?”
Leaning forward sharply and without warning, Umfolozi kissed her square on the lips.
As she drew back, startled, and wiped at her mouth, the old man threw his head back and filled the transporter cab with a delighted cackle. Confused and flustered, Ingrid glared at him.
“That wasn’t funny!”
“Oh, I dunno …,” a muted voice off to her left started to comment. She whirled on a grinning Whispr.
“You shut up!” Her head snapping around, she glared at their host. “If you agree to take us, that childish little imposition is coming off your fee!”
As he slapped his knees with both open palms, Umfolozi’s laughter faded like steam from a kettle that had been taken off the fire. “Okay, pretty lady. Calm down. You not appear to be in much pain. We settle on value of kiss later when we finalize price.”
Some of her outrage slipped away. “So you will take us?”
His satisfaction at having surprised her now gave way to unavoidable reality. “I am sorry, but Vusi cannot take you to Nerens. Is simply not doable. Not possible for Vusi, not for me, not for anybodies, py damn.” He eyed her evenly. “But carrying cargo as disguise and rationale is good idea. Nearest town-place we could get you where cops would not hassle non-SICK visitors on sight is also only town in southern Namib. Orangemund is at delta mouth of Orange River and so is longtime historical recreational place. Even ordinary tourists must have special pass to get into town and stay there, just to play seeker or bird-watch or lie on beaches. I can get necessary permits faked and box-transferred from Pretoria.” He smiled hugely. “Extra cost, of course.”
Ingrid looked for help to her advisor in such matters.
“We’ll take the permits,” Whispr replied, “and if necessary we’ll use ’em, but it would be better for our purposes if Vusi or whoever takes us up there can get us into town without our having to check with local security. Even though we’ll be traveling under assumed idents, and even if those looking for us haven’t managed to snag those details, there might be a country-wide alert out for a Namerican man and woman traveling together.”
Umfolozi shrugged. “I would not worry about that. Is a description could fit thousands of tourists. Even if a special corner is set up in the SICK box to weed out all possibilities, is still unlikely would single-search you down to a place like Orangemund.”
“Nevertheless,” Whispr insisted, “it would still be better for us if we could slip in quietly.”
Their host sighed heavily. “You are even more mistrustful than old Umfolozi when he is making business in the box. I salute your paranoia.” He slapped a hand down on the upholstery, which immediately tried to conform itself to his spread fingers. “I promise Umfolozi will make this happen for you!” His attention shifted mischievously to Ingrid. “Was pleasure knowing you, pretty intellect lady. If you somehow survive and find yourself come back this way, know that poor old scavenging man Josini still has room in his house for one more wife.”
“I’ll keep the opening in mind,” she told him dryly. Her gaze dropped to her trail-worn attire. “We could do with some new clothes and we need to replace the supplies we lost in the Karoo, but we dare not go back into Cape Town to go shopping.”
Umfolozi raised an open hand as if bestowing a benediction. “No problem. My first wife Sara and her girls will take necessary measurements and requests. You stay as guests for a few days. They will go into the city and make necessary purchases. No one will question them.” His confidence was infectious. “Not to worry—they will use aliases also. I will make everything good for you. But first you must answer one question for me.”
Ingrid tensed. “What is it?”
“Say my family get you safely to Orangemund. South of Orangemund is hundreds of square kilometers of nothing. East is nothing but river and more nothing. West is only cold ocean. To north is the Namib, which is less than nothing. How you think you going to get to Nerens without being observed or killed? And even if you get there, how you going to get inside?”
She took a deep breath. “We don’t know.”
“Haven’t a clue,” Whispr added moodily. He’d been down this speculative road with his determined but naïve companion before.
Their host considered this response before nodding understandingly. “I think I have decide I like both of you. Glad not have to kill you. I think you even crazier than old fox Umfolozi.” Spinning his seat around to face the dash he ran a finger across the console. The passenger-side door of the big truck hummed as internal motors eased it open. Noise from the busy barn filled the cab.
“Now come sit and have some Rooibos tea with a tired old man and we will discuss the ways you are likely to die—py damn.”
EVEN WITH FOURTEEN-WHEEL drive Ingrid was still astonished how effortlessly Vusi wrestled the big rig over the numerous narrow, unpaved tracks that led steadily northward. Cruising through the isolated Roggeveldberge at what seemed to her to be near suicidal speed their driver relied on the truck’s advanced computerized shock and strut system to compensate for both the uneven terrain and his high rate of travel.
“No one will track us out here,” he told them conversationally. Secure in his driver’s gravity harness he could not turn to look back at them, but his words reached them clear and strong thanks to the transport’s impeccable soundproofing. If they crashed, Ingrid reckoned, they might not hear it.
“We are traveling parallel to but far away from the main north–south roadway, the N7,” he explained. “That’s the road everyone uses. By the time we turn west at Calvinia to join it we will be far, far away from where my uncle found you—and far, far away from anyone who might be looking for you.”
Whispr broached a puzzle that had been bothering him ever since they had left the extended Umfolozi family compound. “You say this N7 off to the west is the main north–south road. But it still doesn’t go anywhere near Nerens?”
Their young driver laughed without turning. “The N7 runs parallel to the coast but not right along it. And when it starts to get closer to the Namib it gets frightened, just like everyone else is frightened of the Namib, and so it turns inland before swinging back north again to reach for Keetsmanshoop. Even roads avoid the Namib.”
“Like your uncle said we should.” Gazing out the right-side window Ingrid was doing her best to enjoy the view.
“Like any sensible person should. But you must h
ave your reasons or uncle would not have asked me to take you to Orangemund.”
Whispr’s thoughts were churning. “Thanks to your uncle’s help we’ll start out with new packs and proper supplies, but there’s still a couple of things I’d like to look for the next time we hit a real town.”
Vusi chuckled and shook his head. “Sorry. There are no more real towns. This isn’t Europe, where there’s a nice little town every ten kilometers. We can try to find what you want in Calvinia, or maybe later in Okiep, but the last real towns are to the south of us now and falling farther behind with every ‘k.’ ” A hand emerged from the driver’s seat to indicate the view through the windshield. “From Worcester north are only tiny farming communities. No shopping. People order everything they need through the box and have it sent up. Cheaper than driving to the Cape.”
Whispr went quiet until Ingrid thought to query him.
“We went over all this with Josini’s wife before she went to Cape Town on our behalf. What did we forget? What else is it you want?”
He gazed out the cab’s heavily polarized window. “I’d like to have another battery pack for the gun she bought; for charging the shells in case the original in the grip fails.”
She sighed wearily. “We’ve been over this, Whispr. You need to arm yourself with curiosity and care and stop worrying so much about weapons. If we end up in a fight we’ll never get inside Nerens.”
He offered a wan smile by way of reply. “Old habits die hard. The more caliber I can carry, the more comfortable I feel.”
She did not try to hide her annoyance. “Keep that in mind if we find ourselves on foot again. Every extra gram is going to feel like a kilo after we’ve been hiking for a while.”
“If we have to hike,” he reminded her.
“Yes—if.”
Now that they were drawing comparatively near to their goal they could no longer put off wondering how they were going to get inside the secretive research facility. Whispr’s innate desire for ever more ordnance notwithstanding, they needed to begin concocting a suitable narrative. Ingrid was convinced that only subterfuge would gain them admittance. Her profession offered a starting point for a story that might provide a means of entry, but if they chose that tack she was going to be hard-pressed to pass Whispr off as her assistant.
They still had time, she told herself. They would think of something. They had made it this far. She had dealt with extensive security at a number of medical centers, and Whispr had already demonstrated his mastery of other potentially useful skills. But before story or skills could be brought into play, first they had to get to Nerens, and to get to Nerens they had to go through Orangemund.
At the moment, Whispr was brooding on other matters.
“He’ll never give up, you know.”
“What? Oh, you mean Molé. We don’t even know if he’s still alive.” Staring out the window she watched increasingly barren hills and mountains rush past. Despite a road that in places seemed to disappear completely the big rig’s automatic leveling system kept the ride remarkably comfortable. “That giant ground sloth might have killed him.”
Whispr was not as easily convinced. “One thing about hunters like Molé: they don’t die easy. Our assassin is an old assassin, and professional assassins don’t live to be old unless they’re very, very good at what they do. This is twice now that we’ve been lucky with him.” One corner of his small mouth turned upward. “Both times we’ve been saved by the intervention of animals: first in Florida and now here. Almost makes me want to get a dog.”
“Yeah, that’s what we need now,” she murmured sardonically. “A dog.”
“Or something. Considering how critters have come to our aid, even if unintentionally, a superstitious type would start thinking of them as good luck charms.”
“Thanks for the thought, but I’d prefer to continue relying on common sense, sound preparation, and your skills, Whispr. I do have to agree with you on one thing—Molé is not only scary, he’s relentless.”
Her companion was nodding knowingly. “I know guys like him. Not as good as him, but like him.” He crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “They never give up. They’re like machines. You’ve seen Molé, you’ve heard him. He’ll get us or he’ll die trying.”
“I know, I know,” she agreed worriedly. “That’s why I’m hoping the ground sloth got him. Molé, he’s almost like an alien or something.”
“Or he’s one hell of a meld job,” Whispr muttered.
She was quiet for several moments. Then, unexpectedly, she leaned toward him. One small but strong hand came to rest on his bony right knee.
“You’re one hell of a meld job, Whispr. No matter how much subsist was at stake a lot of guys would have given up by now. On this quest. On me. Don’t think I don’t know that.”
He looked down at her hand. It was a doctor’s hand, clean and sure. Much more important, it was her hand. Though the touch was light, it burned.
“Yeah, well, money is a great motivator. I figure this is my one chance at something big. And even a slug like me can hope that there might be more at the end of this razor-edged rainbow than just subsist.” He stared into her eyes meaningfully.
As if suddenly aware of where it had strayed, she withdrew her hand. “I don’t know what to say, Whispr. I thought I’d already made my feelings clear about—that. You’re not my type.”
“There’s no meld for hope.” The truck’s cab seemed to shrink around him, the air to grow hotter despite the almost oppressively efficient climate control. “Even a false hope is better than no hope at all. Don’t try to tell me that it’s not. I’ve spent my whole life dealing with false hopes, but I never give up. Call it a mental narcotic and me a hopeful addict. You wouldn’t deny me that little thing, would you, doc—Ingrid?”
She exhaled heavily. “All right, Whispr. I promise that I won’t deny you any false hopes.”
The smile that resulted spread across the majority of his narrow face.
“What more could any man ask?”
The Orange River was a lot bigger than Ingrid expected, and the town much smaller.
How the river had acquired its name she could not imagine. Anything but orange, it was brown and muddy and turbid with pieces of Africa that had been washed all the way down from the center of the continent. For millions of years it had also carried diamonds among the dirt. Picking the gem quality stones up from the river’s mouth the chill Benguela current had flicked them northward to be deposited on the ocean floor, the beaches, and the marine terraces of the Sperrgebeit.
In that Forbidden Zone modern technology had allowed mining to continue. New technologies such as spray-foam sea walls allowed the Namdeb corporation (a division of SAEC Ltd.) to keep the hungry sea at bay. Solar- and wind-powered pumps kept the ocean from seeping in to flood the vast excavations. Melded workers whose skin had been maniped to cope with the searing sun of the Namib labored in absurdly light clothing to maintain the activity around the clock. Even more than tourism and fishing, the support of diamond mining was the main reason for Orangemund’s continued existence. The town contained no support facilities for the research center at distant Nerens and there was no road linking the two SAEC enterprises.
Having turned off the autoroad at Vloolsdrift, Vusi had been intent on the task of hands-on driving ever since. Now he guided the big truck across the bridge that spanned the Orange. After the endless kilometers of Namaqualand and the southernmost Namib, the sight of the river’s broad, steady flow was a shock. So was Orangemund itself. Centered on historical structures that had been saved from the heyday of mining, the New Town was a disappointing sprawl of architecturally and culturally inconsequential single-story structures linked by climate-controlled pedestrian pathways. The village of several thousand was wholly utilitarian and unbeautiful. Like rain-fed streams in the desert, paved roads petered out and disappeared into long, flat stretches of sand and gravel. As far as Ingrid was concerned the area’s only real attraction
was the air itself, which was clearer and purer than any she had ever inhaled.
There was a nervous moment or two as they checked in at the community guard post. While the old town itself was faded and historic, there was nothing outdated about the weapons the guards brandished nor the technology they utilized to check visitors’ idents.
Vusi parked his truck. Under the watchful eyes of a quartet of armed men and women, the three arrivals were escorted into a nearly windowless white building over whose double climate-sealing doors arched a sign that proclaimed “Welcome to Orangemund.” Originating from and terminating in thin air, the image of a miniature Orange River flowed in three dimensions through the arch, gurgling cheerily. To Ingrid the animated holo looked much cleaner and more inviting than its eponymous namesake.
The fortyish official seated behind a simple desk had no hair, dark maniped skin, and only one eyebrow—an odd fashion trait. He accepted their idents without offering a welcome. One by one these were inserted into a reader while a visual scanner played over their bodies, illuminating them lightly.
“What is your purpose in coming to Orangemund?” It was hot outside. Ingrid felt it was rapidly growing warmer inside.
“I’ve got a cargo of fruits and veggies from the Karoo.” Vusi affected the casual air of someone who had done this a hundred times before and who fully anticipated doing it a hundred times again. “From my cousin’s farm. I had a week between contracted loads and both of us figured we could make a small killing by taking the time to sell it in as remote a place as we could find.”
The official grunted understandingly. “You sure did pick well. Piet van Hendrik and Damali Nongoma manage our two main markets. I’m sure they’ll be glad to take your cargo off your hands. Probably bid against each other.” His voice had lost some of its initial official bite. “You bring with you any pineapples, maybe? I haven’t seen a pineapple in two months.”