Vusi grinned. “I’ll leave a couple with your name on them at one of the markets. So that proper agricultural clearance can be conducted, of course.”
The official smiled thinly and nodded. “Always got to make sure nobody brings any bugs in,” he agreed, disregarding the fact that there wasn’t a fruit or vegetable field at risk of infection for a couple of hundred kilometers in any direction. That bit of unofficial customs business concluded, he turned serious again as his attention shifted to the idents of the driver’s companions.
“Namericans? We don’t get so many Namericans here.”
“We’re just tourists.” Ingrid offered her most engaging smile, musing as she did so if this was to be the ultimate result of all those years of study and medical school. “We happen to like visiting out-of-the-way places.”
“And traveling by ourselves, away from other tourists, by non-traditional means.” Though considerably less engaging than that of his now red-haired companion, Whispr offered up his own smile. “If you travel by tour bus or train or floater you never meet anyone interesting or learn anything about the local culture.”
“Like I say to your driver, you pick correctly.”
As the official studied the readout on the privacy screen in front of him, Ingrid found that she was sweating despite the cool air that filled the room.
“We’re especially here to see the birds,” Whispr added, unable to let well enough alone.
In spite of her determination to appear as indifferent as possible to the formal entry procedures Ingrid could not keep herself from glancing warningly at her companion.
“Really?” Suddenly interested, the official eyed the exceptionally slender visitor more closely. “Well, this area is famous for its birds. Because of the river, of course.” One at a time he methodically slid their idents beneath a scanner that electronically embedded them with the necessary visitors’ permits. “I was only going to admit you for a couple of days, but if you are birders then you may need more time.” He chuckled to himself. “Nothing personal, but from what I have seen it is clear that all birders are more than a little crazy. Will two weeks be enough?”
Ingrid tried hard not to betray her relief. “Two weeks should be more than sufficient, thank you.”
“You are welcome. You may go now.” He peered up at Vusi. “Either market is okay to leave the pineapples. Everyone shops everywhere here.”
Once back in the truck Ingrid turned angrily on her companion. “Tell me something, Whispr—what would you have done if that man had asked you what kind of birds we were here to look for?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t think he would. Like he said, even on the street in a place like Savannah everyone knows that birders are crazy. You see them out in the swamps and the drowned territories, sitting in small boats glued to their synoptics and getting eaten alive by bugs. Anyway, what are you so upset about? He bought it, and everything’s fine.”
She turned away from him to stare moodily out the window on her side of the truck cab. “I just wish you’d discuss strategy with me first. There are enough surprises on this journey. I don’t need to have to deal with any extras from you.”
“Then don’t,” he responded sharply.
They didn’t speak to each other as they helped Vusi dispose of his cargo of fruits and vegetables; produce that was always welcome in the isolated community despite the presence of several well-stocked Namdeb corporate stores.
“The company keeps us pretty well supplied,” explained one store manager, “but they have no control over the weather or supply scheduling from the Cape or the east coast. It’s always a bonus when we can lay in extra goods.” He eyed a stack of transparent plastic corkscrews full of tomatoes. The containers would keep their contents in stasis, ripening them only on command.
After the last of the cargo had been sold and unloaded the three visitors had lunch at an outdoor café near the western edge of the sprawling community. A freshening breeze from the ocean mitigated the temperature. Vusi tucked into the remainder of an oversized sandwich whose contents Ingrid was unable to identify. Nor was she sure she wanted to.
“My uncle says that you two are bound and determined to get yourselves killed.”
“Yeah. We’re real single-minded that way.” Whispr chugged Tusker beer from a self-chilling container.
“We are not going to get ourselves killed.”
A glance at their fellow diners told Ingrid that no one was looking in their direction or paying them the least attention. While she and Whispr were not the only authorized tourists in town, their counterparts were not numerous and were widely scattered. Ironically, at this time of day many were out bird-watching on the river or hidden in blinds along the shore. Orangemund was one of many remote underdeveloped communities that received encouragement and support from the government to develop its local tourist industry as a way of diversifying an otherwise limited commercial base. It was not the government’s fault nor for lack of trying on the part of the locals that hardly anyone wanted to go there.
Vusi inhaled the last of his sandwich, chased it with what remained of his own beer, and pushed back from the table. “Well, best of luck to you. It’s likely I’ll never see you again, whether dead or alive.”
His former passengers remained seated and silent. They were in no rush to proceed. Or as Whispr would have put it, in no hurry to get killed. The usual brief and polite words of farewell were exchanged, and then Vusi was gone. The doctor and the deadbeat were on their own again, Ingrid thought. On their own on the southern edge of nowhere, wondering how they were going to get from their present location to Nowhere incorporated.
The tourist industry was sufficient to make going concerns of a couple of small hotels. One was full of backpackers, more than a few of whom were full-time desert lovers. This was evident from their specialized melds: elongated skin flaps to protect the ears, protruding brows to shade the eyes, permanently altered melanin content in their skin, splayed feet with hardened desensitized soles for walking unshod on sand, esophageal reroutes that enabled them to keep their lungs extra moist, and fleshy epidermal catchments to allow for the recycling of perspiration. Where other Melds and no Natural dared not hike without special clothing and equipment, they strode boldly.
Wouldn’t last a week in Oslo. Ingrid looked on as a young couple that had been so modified headed toward the river without hats or packs and a quantity of water that between them would not have sustained her in similar circumstances for more than twenty-four hours.
Grudgingly resuming conversation out of necessity, she and Whispr spent the next couple of days establishing an identity in the minds of the locals as a pair of unexceptional tourists; lying on the river beaches above the crocodile fences, visiting the mouth of the Orange, shopping for knickknacks they had no intention of taking home, and pretending to record vits of themselves standing in front of each of those locales and more. After the first two days they continued their faux touristic pursuits, except that from time to time Whispr would stop to engage in conversation with newly-made acquaintances whom he deemed to be less than upstanding citizens of either Orangemund or the wider SAEC.
It was on their third night in town as they were eating dinner at a café that overlooked the river that Ingrid, while having found her appetite, nearly lost her patience.
“Are you sure you’re talking to the right people, Whispr? We can’t keep this up forever. Someone’s bound to track us here eventually. It might be the people who attacked my doctor friend. It might be the SAEC government, or recovery people for the agency whose rental we didn’t return, or an entirely new group with an interest in the thread.” She sounded glum. “It might even be that horrible degenerate Molé, if the sloth didn’t kill him. No matter how out of the way it is we can’t spend weeks in a little place like this.”
Whispr gazed across the table and shook his head. “You’re better off leaving the doom and gloom to me, doc. I’m much better at it and I’ve had a lot more practic
e. I’m doing my best.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “What d’you expect me to do? Walk up to a local official and say, ‘I beg your pardon but my companion and I have had enough of bird-watching and what we’d really like to do is visit the super-secure SAEC research facility at Nerens up in the Forbidden Zone. Do be a good fellow now and arrange transportation for us, won’t you? That’s a nice bureaucrat.’ ”
She growled back at him. “There’s no need to be so snide. It’s just that after where we’ve come from and all we’ve been through that we’re so close now.”
“Don’t you think I’m impatient, too?” He scrutinized the other diners. Neither comments nor looks were aimed in their direction. “Listen to me, doc—Ingrid. I’ve seen it before, what happens in situations like this. This is when people slip up. This is when they get themselves found out: right when they’re close to their goal. Right when everything seems within their grasp. That’s when the cops arrive, the bullets burn, and the excrement impacts the air compressor. That’s when you have to move more slowly and carefully than ever. The time to watch your step is when you only have one or two left on your path.”
At which point their waitress, a young woman whose complex cosmetic meld consisted of desert snakes in place of hair, leaned toward them and murmured softly, “I hear you two are trying to get to Nerens?”
Whispr replied before Ingrid could respond with anything more than a startled gasp. “Who says that we are?”
“Sandword says. In a town this size you can’t talk to anyone without someone else eventually finding out about it.” Ingrid noted that the waitress’s eyes were a bright golden hue, with slitted pupils. Whether her hissing of her “s” sounds was due to an epiglottal manip or a conversational affectation the doctor was unable to tell.
Ingrid didn’t care if the girl spat her “p”s. “Suppose we are? Suppose we’ve heard that there are rare species up that way which we could add to our birding lists by going there. Can you help us?”
“Who, me?” The young woman recoiled, while her Medusan coiffure simply coiled. “Are you insane? In this town just talking about helping someone get anywhere near Nerens is enough to get you hauled in for interrogation.”
“Then why,” Whispr inquired reasonably, “are you talking to us about it?”
“One, because if anyone helps you to get up there it’s not going to be me, and two, because you haven’t paid the bill yet—or left a tip.”
Ingrid sighed. Some cultural constants never changed, not even when changing continents. “Tell us what you can.”
Leaning over the table the young woman let two of her serpentine coils deliver the old-fashioned plastic bill. “Corner of Francis and Rico streets, third house toward the sea. A friend of mine is renting it to a transient who might be able to help you.”
“You expect us to believe that some bum has information on how to get to Nerens?” Whispr was openly dubious.
Slitted eyes focused on the stick-man. “The ‘bum’s’ name is Morgan, and he is information. According to my friend, until recently this guy actually used to work at Nerens.”
Beneath the table the excited Ingrid reached across to grasp and squeeze Whispr’s hand. So stunned was he by the unexpected contact that he did not mind the pain. He was also careful not to squeeze back.
“Francis and Rico,” she repeated carefully. “Third house from the sea. How will he know we’re not police or SICK security?”
“Slap the center of the door twice, then kiss it.”
Ingrid frowned. “ ‘Kiss it’?”
“Tactile response entry.”
Whispr did not try to conceal his impatience. “You think he’ll agree to see us?”
“I’ll make sure the word gets to him that you’re clean and to expect you.” The waitress accepted Ingrid’s credcard and ran their bill. “You’d do well to start there now. It’s dark, and tactile door security or not, from what I’ve heard after eleven o’clock I don’t think this guy would open up for Jesus.”
Ingrid rose from her chair. “Thank you so much for the information, and the help!”
A snarl of hair hissed in her direction as the waitress responded with a professional smile. “Thanks for the big tip.”
The doctor blinked in confusion. “I haven’t totaled or signed off on the final bill yet.”
Their waitress and informant smiled, as did her coiffure. “I believe in being proactive.”
FROM THE OUTSIDE THE house in one of the nondescript developments on the edge of town was uncompromisingly ordinary. Illuminated by the moon that floated in the transparent Namib sky it appeared identical to the second house toward the sea, and the fourth. Beyond the last building lay open desert. There were no walls, no hedgerows, no landscaping to commemorate the changeover. After the last yard in back of the last house at the end of the last road, civilization halted and the ancient desert took over. Though laid side by side they were two different books whose contents had nothing in common.
Having taken the precaution of having their autocab drop them several blocks away, Ingrid and Whispr had walked the remaining half mile down paved streets alive with nearly silent automated vacuums. Like giant silvery beetles the automatons were engaged in the never-ending task of slurping up the sand that blew in from the surrounding desert. For the utilitarian street robots their Sisyphean task was to keep the Namib from reclaiming the rows of neat little homes and their incongruously colorful, heavily maniped gardens.
The two Namericans did not linger to inspect their surroundings in greater detail lest someone happen to see them turn up the short winding walkway that led to the door of their intended destination. As they made their way to the front of the house each successive paving stone they stepped on illuminated from within. Without hesitation Ingrid twice slapped the center of the one-piece white barrier with her open palm and then leaned forward to buss it firmly. For the first time in his life Whispr found himself envying a door.
After a pause a deep voice issued from the door’s speaker grid. “Are you the two tourists who wanted some information about desert birding?”
Ingrid replied immediately. “Yes, that’s us.”
Within the door something clicked softly. Instead of opening inward it retracted into the ceiling: a suburban portcullis.
The interior of the house was neatly laid out and decorated in muted colors to match the surrounding countryside. A vit wall in the den presently displayed a tactile alpine scene that emitted cool air, birdsong, and a faint scent of edelweiss. Morgan Ouspel was waiting for them. His eyes kept searching the entryway behind them, as if he expected their meeting to be interrupted at any moment. Of average height with a blond crew cut, his features were fine and almost feminine. He wore secondhand clothes and the look of a man designated to substitute for the fox in the hunt. Recognizing a kindred spirit, Whispr liked him immediately. That did not mean that he trusted him immediately.
“So you’ve worked at Nerens?”
“Quiet, quiet!” Holding a small rectangular instrument out in front of him their agitated host proceeded to nervously pace the circumference of the room, paying particular attention to the one small, heavily curtained window that faced the street. There was no need for a large picture window, Ingrid realized, as it would only look out on the house across the street while forcing the residence’s climate control to work that much harder to keep the home’s interior comfortable.
Only when he was satisfied did Morgan slump into a chair and beckon for them to seat themselves on the couch opposite. While the responsive furniture strove to make them as comfortable as possible their host leaned forward to regard them with an intensity that verged on the fanatic. Though unsettled by his stare, Ingrid knew enough to know that he was not mentally unbalanced: just jumpy. Still, his rapid eye movements and physical twitching added an edge to the conversation that she could have done without.
“I’m told that you want to go to Nerens. I find that not only amusing but ironic because I
want to go anywhere but Nerens. You need information, I need money. Maybe we can help each other.” His attention kept shifting rapidly back and forth between his two visitors. “Why do you want to go to Nerens?”
“Why do you want to get away from it?” Whispr refused to let their host dictate the conversation.
“Because I’ve been there.” Though the rest of him appeared Natural, Morgan’s eyes were open so wide that for a moment Ingrid thought they had been maniped. “Because I’ve seen things there. Things that made me break my contract and my sworn obligation and leave without being officially discharged.” He threw another glance toward the window. “They’re after me, I’m sure of it. Just to check on me, maybe. But I don’t want them checking on me. I don’t want them asking me questions. Not after what I’ve seen.”
This was not at all what Ingrid had expected. “What things? What have you seen?”
“I’ve seen the Big Picture. It’s real, and it moves. I’ve seen the Painters of the Picture, and they move, too. They are not of God. They are …” He paused as if catching himself. “If I tell you any more you’ll think I’m crazy and we won’t have a deal and I won’t get the subsist I need to get away from here so I’m not going to tell you. Once again: why do you want to go to Nerens?”
“None of your business,” Whispr replied promptly.
Their host rose from where he had been sitting. “Nice meeting you. Don’t worry about the door: I’ll close it behind you.”
“Calm down, calm down.” Ingrid shot Whispr a poisonous glance. The stick-man shrugged as if to say, “Just doing my job,” but held his peace. Turning back to Morgan she conjured up a pleasant smile that bordered on the flirtatious. Practice, she thought, was making her better at this, even though it was not a subject she had studied at university.