They came in with hot water, towels, toilet articles, and fresh linen. After we were bathed and dressed the two returned with instructions. “Slow circle counterclockwise. Guig on Natoma’s right. Brother behind groom. Second behind bride. Dignified and stately. No horseplay despite any and all provocation. I know I can depend on you for that, Guig.”
“Wilco.”
“I only wish I could say the same for my sister. Nobody ever knows what she’ll do next.”
We started the procession and all was dignified and stately. Then I suppose Natoma’s pride in us couldn’t be contained. She raised both fists high and banged them together four times. There was no mistaking the message and a roar of approval went up. Behind me I heard Sequoya groan something like “Oi gevalt,” but it was more likely the Cherokee equivalent. She kept on parading and boasting and there were some amusing reactions. Wives began berating husbands, which didn’t seem fair; they weren’t newlyweds. Young braves signed to me that they could double my score any night. Old women darted up to me to give my crotch a congratulatory handshake. Natoma slapped their hands away. No trespassing.
It took us two hours to break it up and say good-bye to the crowd, M’bantu carefully coaching me in tribalese. “This is now your clan, both direct and collateral, Guig. No one can be slighted or it may be the start of a blood feud, the worst kind. I’ll guide you through the totemic degrees of precedence.”
So I made sure not to slight anyone in the tribe and at last went into the tepee and collapsed. Sequoya and M’bantu were washing their ceremonial paint off. “I’m not complaining,” I said. “I’m just grateful that I’m an orphan.”
“Ah, but there’s another clan, Guig, the Group, and they must meet your lovely new wife.”
“Now, M’bantu?”
“Alas, now, otherwise feelings will be hurt. Shall I bring them?”
“No, we’ll go to the house… . The Chief’s house.”
Sequoya stared at me. I nodded. “You gave me your tepee. I give you my house. Only take those goddamn wolves with you.”
“But—”
“Not to argue, Dr. Guess. It is the equivalent of our African custom of new friends giving each other their names.”
The Chief shook his head dazedly. All this anthropology was a little too much for him. “But Natoma can’t leave,” her brother, Sequoya Curzon Guess, said.
“Why not?” her husband, Edward Guess Curzon, demanded.
“Custom. Her place is in the home. She must never leave it again.”
“Not even to go shopping?”
“Not even that.”
I hesitated for a moment. I’d really had the tradition bit up to here, but was this the time to make an issue of it? I did what any sensible coward would do; I put it on my wife. “Chief, will you translate this for me very carefully, please?” I turned to Natoma, who seemed fascinated by the argument. “I love you with all of me… .” (Cherokee) “No matter where I go or what I do I want you at my side… .” (Lots of Cherokee) “It’s against your people’s custom but will you break the tradition for me?” (Cherokee finale)
Her face broke into a smile that opened up yet another world for me. “Jas, Glig,” she said.
I nearly broke her back. “That was XX,” I shouted. “Did you hear it? She answered me in XX.”
“Yes, we’ve always been quick studies,” the Chief said disgustedly. “And I can see you destroying every sacred custom in Erie. R. Let’s take this liberated squaw to your—my house. Button your collar, Guig. Your neck’s covered with bite marks.”
The Group, minus the Syndicate, was in the house. When last heard from, Poulos Poulos had checked in from the twin cities, Procter and Gamble, but that was before I’d reported finding our Wandering Boy. No one had the faintest idea of what the Greek was doing in the mighty metrop. of P&G, which now covered half of Missouri. I have to be honest; I was relieved that he wasn’t there. He can enchant any woman he fancies and I figured a little extra time might help me strengthen my defenses.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this lady is Sequoya’s sister, who speaks nothing but Cherokee. Please make her welcome and comfort her. Her name is Natoma Curzon and she has the misfortune to be my wife.”
Scented Song and Borgia surrounded Natoma and smothered her. Edison hugged her so hard he probably gave her an electric shock. M’bantu summoned Nemo, who climbed out of the pool and drenched her. Fee-5, black with rage, slapped her twice. I started forward in a fury but Natoma grabbed my arm and held me. In a calm voice Borgia said, “Sibling cyclone. Let me handle this. We’ll have to let it run its course.”
Fee-5 Cyclone tore through the house. She ripped down every picture projector, trampled cassettes, destroyed the few rare print books I’d managed to collect. She smashed the perspex pool, flooding the drawing room, living room, and Sabu. She demolished the terminal keyboard of my diary. Upstairs she tore my bed and clothes to shreds. All this in a horrid hissing silence. Then she ran into her room and crumpled on her bed in the fetal position with a thumb in her mouth.
“R. Good sign.” Borgia sounded pleased.
“What’s so good?”
“The bad cases usually end up masturbating. We’ll pull her through. Put her in that chair, Guig.”
“I’m afraid she’ll tear my head off.”
“N, N. She’s completely dissociated. She’s been functioning on the unconscious level.”
So I put.
“Now we’ll have a tea party,” Borgia ordered. “Whatever you drink at this hour and lots of casual conversation. Bring a tray of goodies, Guig. Talk, everybody. About anything. That’s the scene I want when she comes to.”
I loaded my biggest floater with spin-globes, caviar, and pastries, and when I sailed it into Fee’s room you would have thought it was a diplomatic party from Talleyrand’s (the real one) time. M’bantu was deep in conversation with Natoma, trying to discover whether any of the jillion languages and dialects he speaks had roots in common with Cherokee. She was laughing and practicing her XX on him: The princess and the Chief were arguing about how to get Sabu out of the cellar (ramp v. derrick). Nemo and Borgia were on his current obsessions, transplants. The only one who seemed out of it was Edison, so I served him first.
Ed spun two mouthfuls into himself (probably his full quota for a year) and by the time I’d finished serving the first round he was beaming like a clown. “I will now,” he announced, “tell a funny story.”
The Group was superb. Not a sign of anguish appeared on any face. We all spun and ate and looked at Ed with eager anticipation. At that moment the blessed Fee-5 Cyclone stretched, yawned, and croaked, “Oh, sorry. Excuse me. I think I dozed off.”
I forward-passed the tray to her. “Just a little celebration,” I said.
“Celebration of what?” she asked as she stood up to harbor the floater. Then she glanced into my room and her dark eyes widened. She let the floater hang and went into my room. I started to follow but Borgia shook her head and motioned us to go on talking. We go on and I was now stuck with Ed’s funny story. Through it I could hear Fee exploring the house and letting out gasps of astonishment. When she returned to us she looked as though she’d been poleaxed (nineteenth-century method of slaughtering cattle which I explain for the sake of my diary, which will never speak through its smashed terminal again).
“Hey,” Fee said. “What happened to this place?” Borgia took over as usual. “Oh, a kid got in and ripped it.”
“Who kid? What kid?”
“A three-year-old.”
“And you just let her?”
“We had to, Fee.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“Because she’s a relation of yours.”
“A relation?”
“Your sister.”
“But I haven’t any three-year-old sister.”
“Yes, you do. Inside yourself.”
Fee sat down slowly. “I’m not twigging this. You’re saying I did it?”
“L
isten, love. I’ve seen you grow up overnight. You’re a woman now, but a part of you was left behind. That’s the three-year-old kid sister. She’ll always be with you and you’ll have to control her. You’re not freaked out. We all have the same problem. Some of us shape up and cope; others not. I know you’ll make it because I … all of us … have tremendous admiration for you.”
“But why? What happened?”
“The brat in you thinks she was deserted by her father, so she ran wild.”
“Her father? In Grauman’s Chinese?”
“No. Guig.”
“He’s my father?”
“Vero. For the past three years. But he got married and a cyclone erupted. Now… . Would you like to meet his new wife? Not your new mother; his new wife. Here she is, Natoma Curzon.”
Fee-5 got up, went to Natoma, and gave her that lightning raking inspection that only women are capable of. “But you’re beautiful,” she burst out. Then she ran to the Chief and buried herself in him and began to cry. “I love her, but I hate her because I can’t be like her.”
“Maybe she’d like to be like you,” the Chief said.
“Nobody would want to be me.”
“Now I’ve had enough of this nonsense, Fee-Fie. You’re my pride and joy and we have a date in the sterilizer.”
“The centrifuge.” Fee sniffled.
“You’re a remarkable girl. Unique. And I need your help now more than ever before. I need you as much as Guig needs his wife. Now what do you want most in life?”
“To—to be needed by you.”
“You’ve got it. So why all the S?”
“But I want everything else, too.”
“Don’t we all! But we’ve got to work for it.”
A naked model appeared on all fours and spoke while a giant Irish wolfhound mounted her. “The only organic food for your beloved pet is Tumor, the new, improved energizer that gives fast, fast relief from the sexual separation of species… .”
“I thought this house was insulated,” Borgia complained.
The voice of the Syndicate came from below. “It is my fault. I could not close the door.”
Ed looked guilty and shot out of the room as the Greek entered, polished and assured as ever. He encompassed us with his captivating smile but paused when he saw Natoma. After a moment he raised his eyeglass and said, “Ah.’
I started to explain but he cut me off. “If you please, Guig. I am not altogether devoid of faculties. Does madam speak Spang, Euro, Afro, XX? What is her language?”
“She speaks nothing but Cherokee.”
“Try spik wenty.” Natoma smiled.
“So.” The Syndicate went to Natoma, kissed her hand a hell of a lot more gallantly than I ever did, and said in Euro, “You are the sister of Dr. Guess—the resemblance is unmistakable. You are newly married—the flowering of the face and body of a girl of your age is unmistakable. There is only one man in this room worthy of your love—Edward Curzon. You are the new Mrs. Curzon and I felicitate you.”
(Now how can you compete with class like this?)
“Jas,” Natoma smiled and came to me and took my arm proudly.
The Greek reflected. Then he said in XX, “I have a small plantation in Brazil. It is outside Barra on the Rio Sao Francisco—about a thousand hectares—it is my wedding gift to you.”
I started to protest but he cut me off again. “Disraeli will draw up the documents of transfer.” He turned to Hiawatha. “I am pleased to report that I may have discovered the answer to your cryonaut perplexity. Value as yet unknown.”
Geronimo and Fee were electrified, and all of us began to shell Poulos with questions. He endured the barrage patiently but at last spoke in his most persuasive voice. “Please.”
We all please.
“Consolidated Can ran a test of a new product at the bottom of the exhausted Appalachian mine, which is twenty kilometers deep. The object: to discover the shelflife of a novel amalgam container in a neutral environment. Test animals were included in the experiment, housed in sterile habitats in suspended animation. When the research team checked six months later, the containers had held up but the animals were gone. No trace except a small spot of slime in each habitat.”
“Dio!”
“I have here the report. Ecco.” The Greek pulled a cassette out of a pocket and handed it to Sequoya. “Now, query: Could there be any penetration of radiation from space to the depth of twenty kilometers beneath the surface of the Earth?”
“There would be the normal background terrestrial radiation with which we’ve lived and evolved for a billion years.”
“I said from space, Dr. Guess.”
“God, there are a hundred possibilities.”
“As I said, value as yet unknown.”
“Does Consolidated twig?”
“No.”
“Have they examined the slime?”
“No. All they’ve done is file a caveat with the patent office describing the phenomenon and the steps they are going to take to research it.”
“Imbeciles,” the Chief muttered.
“To be sure, but what more can you expect of middle management? I beg you, Dr. Guess, come to Ceres and I. G. Farben.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What’s a caveat?”
The Syndicate gave me a kindly smile. “You will always be poor, Guig. A caveat is a warning to the world that a patent will be filed when the research is completed.”
“We can’t let them,” Fee cried. “We can’t let them beat us out.”
“They will not, my dear.”
“How can you stop it?”
“I bought it.”
“How in hell can you buy a warning?” I asked.
“N.” The Greek grinned. “I bought Consolidated Can. That’s what I was doing in P&G. It is my gift to Group research headed by our most distinguished new recruit, Dr. Sequoya Guess.
Fee threw herself at Poulos and hugged him so violently that there was a tinkle; she’d broken his eyeglass. The Greek laughed, kissed her soundly, and spun her around to face Powhattan.
“What now?” she asked. “What do we do now, Chief? Quick, quick, quick.”
The Chief spoke dreamily, which was a little surprising. “There are waves and particles. Cold radio at the bottom of the e.m. spectrum; many of my colleagues speculate that they’re the residue of the Big Bang origin of the universe. Soft X-rays couldn’t penetrate but hard X-rays might. Cosmic rays, of course. Neutrinos—they have no charge and nothing attracts them—they can pass through solid lead light-years thick. And then there are the particles blasted out by degenerating stars as they collapse into a gravitational hole, which brings up another fascinating possibility—are we being machine-gunned by particles from a contrauniverse? What?”
“We didn’t say anything.”
“Oh. I thought I heard—A satellite out in space would increase the chances of encounters by about fifty percent.”
“And that’s what happened to the cryonauts. Yes, Chief?”
“Possibly.”
“So what do we do now?”
He didn’t answer; just gazed dreamily into space, maybe trying to spot a passing particle.
“Chief, what are we going to do now?” Fee persisted.
Still no response.
I whispered to Borgia, “Not the catatonic bit again?” She shrugged.
Then Uncas spoke, so slowly that it seemed he was listening to somebody else. “The question is … whether to maintain all systems … in the cryocapsule … here on Earth … or orbit again to accelerate the … process.”
“If it is to be here on Earth,” the Syndicate said briskly, “I own a mine in Thailand which is thirty kilometers of depth. You are welcome to use it.”
“It might be better … to orbit again … or take the capsule … out to the orbiting … Con Ed twenty-mile cyclotron.”
“But will U-Con finance it?” I asked.
“I beg you, Dr. Guess, come to I. G. Farben. No objections, ple
ase, Miss Fee. You will live in the most beautiful villa on Ceres where there will be no worry about being beaten out.”
At this point the Chief drifted off again, listening to a soundless conversation and we waited, we waited, we waited. Edison came barging into the room, triumphant. Obviously he’d repaired the front iris but we shut him up before he could report his victory. We waited, we waited, we waited… .
“I didn’t hear that,” the Chief said.
“We didn’t say anything,” I said.
The printout of my diary downstairs burst into its clatter. We all jumped. I was absolutely flabbergasted.
“But it’s impossible,” I said. “That damn fool thing only responds to instructions from the terminal keyboard, which Fee smashed forever ago.”
“Interesting,” Sequoya said, quite himself again, which was a surprise. (This Cherokee caper was turning into one astonishment after another.) “We’d better have a look. Probably a delayed response to the keyboard demolition. Machines do get emotional at times.”
We trooped downstairs. Natoma nuzzled my ear and whispered, “Glig, what kleyborg?” All I could do was kiss her quick study in gratitude. The printout had stopped its racket by the time we arrived in the study and a long strip of tape was dangling from it. I tore it off and had a quick look. “You’re right, Cochise. Delayed hysterics. Nothing but ones and zeros. Binary gibberish.”
I handed the strip to him. He looked. He looked again. He looked again so hard that I thought it was another fit.
“This is housekeeping,” he said incredulously.
“What?”
“It’s the housekeeping data-retrieval from the cryocapsule.”
“N.”
“Y.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You better believe it, dude.”
“But it’s impossible. In my diary?”
“In your diary.”
“But how—Oh, the hell with this. Come on, Natoma. We’re going to Brazil.”