The Highest Frontier, page 16
From behind, a distant trumpet sounded. Through the open gate, an enormous procession appeared. It snaked toward them, with horsemen in lions’ manes and musicians followed by the Queen of Sheba in a canopied chair upon a camel.
In Jenny’s box a window opened. “You finished in time for lunch,” observed Professor Abaynesh. “Grade A.”
Grade A—after all that? Jenny was stunned. In high school, she’d never earned less than A triple plus.
15
Dylan had just confirmed his Friday appointment with Gil Wickett, with ten minutes to spare before his son was to call from Berkeley. But a window popped up; Nora Kwon, dean of students. She had that grim “thought you ought to know” look about her.
“Nora, what’s up? Tell the parents we’re taking care of the mosquitoes—”
“The Pentagon,” she began. “They traced an attack to one of our student accounts. The Chouiref girl.” The Euro minister’s daughter. “Thought you ought to know.”
“Can’t Toy Land turn up security a notch?”
“Zari says no one can fix the holes this student found. Luis never told us she’s compulsive. And a banished criminal.” The sarcasm made him wince. “Admissions accepts these kids, then expects us to deal.”
“A compulsive hacker?”
“It’s a recognized syndrome, listed on the APA. We’ve got Twelve Step, AA, and Taxplayers Rehab, but this one is new to us. We’re all boning up on it, got her in therapy, Zari is on her case, but—”
“I’m sure Clare will help.” A change of pace for Clare. “Now if you’ll excuse me, could we—”
“And the Dyer girl.” The one with the pearls, from Long Beach. “Mary Dyer shows up for just one course, Phil’s seminar, and she spooks people asking them how to exterminate humans. She’s an omniprosthete—yet she can’t use Toynet? Within FERPA, can’t Luis give me more than that?”
An omniprosthete had total body replacement, only a human brain inside somewhere, typically the “chest” region. A few brain cells away from a DIRG. Dylan checked his notes. “She had childhood osteosarcoma that spread. Her doctor’s well known; his clients include the White House.” The vice president had become an omniprosthete after a hunting accident. Only his original head and hands remained. His hands had a habit of creeping away from himself, hence his nickname, the Creep.
“Osteosarcoma,” Nora breathed. “And no parents. What survivors these kids are.”
“I can give you the clinic’s Toynet window.”
“That’s a help. Don’t go yet—”
Dylan let out a breath, willing himself to be patient.
“A young taxplayer at the Mound sold his ticket home, now he’s stranded. We put him up in an empty dorm room. Thought you ought to know.”
“But—a nonstudent, that’s not our problem. And it’s not supposed to happen.” The Mound sponsored taxplayer rehab, of course, the standard 10 percent mandated by the original Ramos bill. But that was down on Earth, in a Dayton facility.
Nora gave him the “whatever you say” look. “The Mound won’t return calls.”
Of course, they couldn’t just leave the kid out in the cold. Bad for Frontera’s family image. “Couldn’t he just wait tables in Mount Gilead until he pays it off?”
“Father of three, a grocery clerk from Peoria.”
Dylan sighed. “Put him in our rehab.” The college ran their own taxplayers rehab; it had long ago surpassed alcohol and eating disorders. At present, an art history professor and a philosopher were in rehab, along with about forty students. “I’ll talk to Bobby.” Bobby Foxtail Forrester, manager of the Mound—their landlord, Dylan reminded himself.
Thankfully that was it. He managed to settle on the couch with Clare, just in time for Fritz to pop into his toybox. They’d originally picked his name because it was least popular in the name book; then that year, all the boys were named Fritz. Dylan had wanted to culture him from Clare, but Clare had wanted him like Dylan, so they’d gone retro, split the genes fifty-fifty. Their son’s mop of hair, fair and wavy like Clare’s, was ringed by a native swastika headband, while his nose and mouth echoed Dylan’s. He looked gorgeous, despite his perpetually serious expression. “Fritz! How are you, tío?”
“¿Qué haces?” added Clare. “What are you saving this week?”
“Groundhogs,” Fritz answered, all business as usual. “Marmota monax. They’re endangered—nearly gone.” He stared at Dylan. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Groundhogs?” repeated Dylan halfheartedly. “I’ll have to look up groundhog preservation. Ask Quade—”
Fritz rolled his eyes. “Dad—you know, groundhogs? Groundhog Day, and Punxatawny Phil? Do you realize there are no groundhogs left in all of Pennsylvania and Ohio? Doesn’t the history loss even bother you?”
Clare said, “Of course it does. A field without groundhogs would be unthinkable. I’m sure you’re holding a benefit.”
“The biggest ever. It will be, but we have to raise funds up front.”
A pitch for funds—that Dylan understood. “Sure, tío. How much do you need?”
A look of pain darkened Fritz’s face. “I told you not to call me that.”
Dylan bit his tongue. This was his third term of endearment crossed out, and he was at a loss for another.
“Fritz, you know we’ll send what you need,” added Clare. “Just make sure it’s effective, remember? Effective philanthropy, I always say.”
“Sure, Pop,” said Fritz, “I know what you mean. Just don’t let Reesie hear you use those gender-exclusionary words.”
“Reesie?” Dylan asked. “Do we know Reesie? Caroline was a nice chica—”
“Caroline was last week.” A moment’s pause. “Don’t look at me like that, Dad. What do you expect—a man my age to settle down?” He pointed an accusing finger. “Look at your own elite college, a raft full of hedonistic rich kids. Thinking you’ll all outlive spaceship Earth.”
“Okay, okay.” Dylan raised both hands. “Never mind. I love you … son, no matter what.”
Fritz’s brow wrinkled, the way it looked when he would have said “I love you,” if he could. “Babylon,” he muttered. “Your school’s got quite a rep, you know. Everyone knows. Just remember—I’m keeping an eye on you.” A momentary glare, then his tousled head vanished.
Silence lengthened. Dylan held Clare’s hand. “Why did we make him hetero?”
“It was your idea,” said Clare. “Greater mate choice, you said.”
Dylan winced. “He doesn’t appreciate it. He thinks love is … disposable.”
“At least he’ll never have to go through what I did.” Abdominal implantation.
“Was it so bad, the Swedish clinic? Nine months on your back, the pool every day, the masseur, the chanterelles?”
“The preboiled potatoes—the memory still makes me sick.”
“Groundhogs,” muttered Dylan, shaking his head over his son. “What’ll he be saving next? Mosquitoes?”
Clare looked up. “What’s the latest? Any help from Life?”
“From chemistry.” An estimate had already come through his toybox. He didn’t like the total. “I’m out to Gil’s in the morning, to spring a few million for smartspray.”
* * *
Early Friday morning, on his way out to the anthrax, Dylan paused at the door. Clare came over and grasped both sides of his jacket. Dylan took a deep breath, feeling light-headed. Clare eyed Dylan’s tie, the one with the alphabet blocks, a tricycle, and a mallet with colored pegs. “Heading down to Gil’s?”
He nodded.
“A big ask?”
“I wish.” Dylan loved fundraising; to connect earnest donors’ assets with the dreams of highly talented students was his greatest satisfaction. But just to kill bugs—what a waste.
Clare thought a moment. “Have a safe trip. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Something in the way he said it made Dylan blink rapidly. “Of course not, sweet. God forbid.” A long kiss.
The space lift left on time, but it stalled halfway down to Earth; one of its anthrax cords got clipped by debris, and they had to wait for Anthradyne to slide in another, always in reserve. After a two-hour delay, at last he got below, to find Gil’s solar shuttle waiting. The shuttle streaked down to Ohio, above the brown windswept plain just a hundred miles north of the Death Belt.
The Toynet Corporation Headquarters stood outside Dayton, not far from where the Wright brothers first played with bikes and kites. The headquarters took the shape of a gigantic alphabet block, the letter A, of course, and the number 1. Well-watered lawns surrounded the colossal cube, though they could not escape the tumbleweeds blowing in.
As the shuttle landed, a transfer car came up to dock. The shuttle door opened, but the car’s snout came forward just too late to engage. Through the door came an oven blast of outdoor air. The blast caught Dylan in the face. His lungs choked, and his eyes streamed. For a moment he was back in the charcoal desert of his Ohio childhood.
“Excuse the error,” apologized the shuttle. The door engaged the car, restoring conditioned air.
Catching his breath, Dylan wiped his eyes and stepped into the car. The air cleared; he took a deep breath, as the car sped into Toynet Headquarters through the base of the A.
Outside the office of Chief Executive Officer Guillermo Wickett, Dylan paused to adjust his tie. The doorway shimmered, then the entire wall evaporated. A carpet of amyloid grass with a swing set, and a large soft-fleshed man of boyish proportions riding a rocking horse, the one that adorned the college crest. “Dillie!” The man waved so hard he nearly fell off. He dismounted and hurried forward, pumping his arms vigorously. “Mucho gusto. Can we do the Lunar again? Please?”
Dylan laughed, with his best donor-greeting smile. “Someday soon, Gil. Today—”
Around the room tooted the famous toy train, snaking through villages and tunneling through amyloid mountains. “How is good old Clare?” Gil asked. “When are you coming out to Lila’s Beach?”
“Very soon, I hope.” If only Clare would go; what a treat that would be.
“And how’s your good school, all the chicos and chicas?” Gil rubbed his hands together. “Such a wonderful school. If only it existed back then, I would have gone there.” Gil had quit primary school to found Toynet. His eyes darted back and forth, no doubt answering all his windows.
Dylan patted Gil’s shoulder. “Frontera is thriving,” he assured him. “All the chicos and chicas are well. Your little world in the sky has bloomed in ways no one could have imagined.”
“It’s too fun.” Gil rubbed his hands together. “I ‘visit’ all the time, you know—without telling.”
“But this insect problem—” Dylan shook his head. “It could be the death of us, Gil.”
Gil waved a hand as if batting a fly. “Don’t sound like my auditor. Frontera,” he sighed dreamily, his fantasy come true. “If only I were born there. Well, come, Dillie, let’s talk about your problem.” Turning toward the back of the room, he climbed into the sandbox and picked up a shovel. With the shovel he carefully adjusted the texture of an Egyptian pyramid in the desert. The pyramid had a tunnel carved through, for a train engine and caboose.
Dylan recalled Clare saying, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Of course, Clare would not hesitate; he’d jump right in the sandbox and sketch the Mona Lisa with his finger. With a smile, Dylan stepped in, knowing the routine. The smartsand would not bother his suit; or if it did, the suit was disposable. He took up a handful and idly started shaping an elephant’s head and trunk, the smartsand fading in rainbow hues. Then he thought better of it, hurriedly shaping a maple tree instead.
“What to do,” muttered Gil. “Are the bugs so bad? Why not re-form your hab as a desert? No mosquitoes then.”
“Trees and grass,” Dylan rejoined apologetically. “The parents, you know. They like green.”
Gil looked up. “Trains don’t need grass. I just installed an 1880 Baldwin steam engine on my track! A joy to ride—you must come out and see.”
Dylan grinned. “Dee-lighted, Gil, I’d love to ride your train. As soon as this insect problem is off my mind—I value your judgment, you know I do.”
Gil’s shovel paused above the pyramid. His eyes darted back and forth, scanning his toybox. “Those Super-X flies—no mate with males, no more flies. What a neat scheme.”
“Ingenious,” admitted Dylan. “But we really need to avoid generations—”
“And bats to prey on them.” Gil shook his hand in the air, an excellent imitation of a bat in flight.
“Gil, we need to wipe out the mocs now, before campus visit season. Orin’s identified a highly effective smartspray, which only targets mosquitoes. They use it on golf courses.”
“Are you sure, Dillie?”
“Seguro.”
Gil sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Well, here you go.”
In Dylan’s toybox a window flashed a ten-million-dollar credit. “Thanks so much, Gil; I can’t tell you how much this means for Frontera.”
Gil rose to his feet. “Can we ride the Lunar now?”
Dylan rose and stretched his legs, brushing the smartsand off his suit. “The train,” he corrected. “Sure, let’s go.”
“Oh, but the Lunar Circuit—Dillie, you promised.”
“Someday,” he emphasized. “I promised Clare I’d be home for supper.”
“Oh, Dillie. Your new Anthradyne is just too chulo. And the way you handled the Tycho pin curve—what a finish.”
Dylan bit his inner lip. Actually he’d promised Clare that he’d quit racing for good, after the crackup in Mare Crisium. “Gil, let’s chat about this again real soon.”
“The frog seminars,” announced Gil. “You said you’d need three positions.”
Startled, Dylan looked up at Gil’s innocent face. Seminar courses reserved for frogs were Dylan’s most cherished priority for the curriculum. But he had only just broached the idea in Senior Staff, and consulted the chairs of Spanish and History. Helen said the faculty would need six new positions to offer live seminars for every first-year student, but Orin had shown that three would do.
“Three endowed chairs.” How did Gil know—of course, he “visited” through Dylan’s toybox, Dylan indulged him that way. “But it’s not been approved. The faculty has yet to—”
“You can have the three chairs, after the Lunar Circuit.”
Dylan had planned to ask for the chairs next spring, but now his plan was preempted. If he declined now, he could hardly come ask again.
16
Stunned by her mediocre grade, Jenny trudged home. Other students had actually got Bs—the grade Somers High gave “sit-ins,” delinquents who sat in study hall just to keep their public funding. Anouk claimed the Life professor never gave frogs more than A.
Back outside Jenny’s cottage, the old bear gouge was still collecting water. A few feet away, a new depression had opened, a dead lizard floating in the murk. It smelled like sewage.
In her toybox she called for Maintenance. As she waited, the tumor mouse from Levi-Montalcini crept about her box, sniffing like a toypet. At last Travis Tharp appeared in her window.
“Dean Kwon promised to fix the leak,” Jenny reminded him.
“We did fix it,” Tharp assured her. “Did it fill again?” He smiled and gave a wink. “Don’t you fret; I’ll be over for a look.”
In her greenhouse, the vanda had already put out new leaves, glistening with drops of moisture from the spray. And three new blossoms had opened, five purple petals outstretched like fingers, each central column pointing upward. Surprised, Jenny looked closer. In just six days since Abaynesh took her plants, the main stalks had grown the length of her hand. How could an orchid grow so fast? Blood Star, too, had grown maybe six months’ worth. She already had to divide and repot it. She’d never seen anything like it, not even in the orchid growers’ toyworld. She’d have to ask that professor, with her two-headed snakes and innervated plants.
The Café de la Paix was closed until Saturday night, as Tom had to do his homework. Jenny was torn between going to the dining center, where Tom went, though the amyloid all tasted the same; or the Ohioana where the slanball team and Anouk went. The dining center was a big gazpacho; would she ever find him there? Homefair, Saturday morning; he said he’d be there.
At the Ohioana, the students all celebrated their first Friday. There were mugs of beer all round, except for the slanball team and Anouk. Charlie was thrilled with success. “That Life toyworld was chulo. I hope we have more classes like that.”
Anouk wrinkled her nose. “Those knights—they were Crusaders. How dare that professor mock Europe’s foremost religion.”
Kendall exchanged a look with Yola. “The Arabs got their revenge,” he told Anouk. “They invented math.”
Yola punched him.
“Well,” observed Anouk, somewhat mollified, “that happens to be true.” She turned to Jenny. “I heard today from Dr. Valadkhani at Toy Land. She invited me to assist teaching her class on Developmental Arithmetic.”
Jenny pushed with her fork at the gravy she had specifically asked the server to omit. In her toybox popped Viv, from the Begonia Garden Club. “Just a reminder, Jenny: We can’t wait to see you at our Sunday afternoon social in the club conservatory.”
“The college is going to spray.” Yola was outraged. “Spray the whole hab, just for those poor mosquitoes.” Flipping her braids, she glared up at the antlered deer head, as if it were President Chase.
Jenny itched just thinking of the mosquitoes.
David Pezarkar took another bite of meatloaf. “They say the spray’s very specific to mosquitoes. Smartspray.”
Kendall frowned. “It’s the principle,” he insisted. “Humans should never use our higher powers to wipe out an entire population of another species. It’s species cleansing.”
“Species cleansing,” agreed his sister. “First, the mosquitoes; next, who knows what? Bears? Poison frogs?” Yola nodded decisively. “We’re organizing a protest. Who’s in?”
