Afar

Chapter 8 of Microcosmia

Microcosmia

Chapter Eight

Afar

Precisely one minute and five seconds before the sun’s first ray burned across the Great Danakil Depression, a chord like thunder resounded over an endless field of perfectly-squared Shade Canopies.

The day’s pre-dawn convoy had already imported, along with tons of rice and barley, truckloads of tools and building materials. Mamuset, beginning this morning, was to be built from the ground up. Flatbed after flatbed flowed into Dock, hauling bags of cement and fertilizers, loads of fodder, lengths of polyvinyl chloride pipe. Pickups and forklifts moved it all into Warehouse. Also on this run were the initial loads of 15 x 15 solar panels, conveyed in six foot-high stacks on trailer roofs. A groggy Vane received some astounding news with his grits and coffee: his entire Highway, An’erim to Onramp, was fully navigable.

Much of the hangar-like tent of Warehouse was now crammed with pallets of dried food and fodder, interspersed with tools and building material. Basement was being stocked with perishables; Cellar with beer, wine, and dairy. Vane’s technical team had programmed the generators to fire automatically whenever Cellar’s temperature rose above forty degrees. The propane tank now squatted behind and to one side of Warehouse. On the other side rested the gasoline tanker, minus truck. Both were sheltered by peaked canvas.

All this came together in the dark while Vane was still unconscious, Mudhead demonstrating surprising effectiveness directing on his own. And the Afar were showing a real talent for getting things down with minimal supervision. Volunteers and specialists performed not only smoothly, but with zeal. At Dock the drums were already steaming.

Everybody, it seemed, was out to steal his thunder.

And now here came that arrogant drum-beater Mudhead, trudging up to the Stage in a godly fanfare of strings, brass, and tympani. Vane’s welcoming smile was taut. “Tell them,” he grated as the echoes blew away, “that the sun will rise at a slightly different time each consecutive morning, and that we Western men of science, having accurately gauged the immediate heavens, know exactly when that first ray will hit. Tell them they’ll be seeing the first stab of sun every morning precisely at a particular point in the music, right on my down stroke.”

Mudhead yawned. He threw his arms wide above the much-improved community, his white sleeves rising angelically. Vane’s eyes narrowed. “Bossman move too fast. Too early physic 101. For now, keep foot on ground, head out cloud.” He used those spread arms to pantomime embracing the raw, spotless sky. “Figure speech. Important thing now breakfast. How Afarman learn science on empty stomach?”

“They’ll eat. And I don’t think it’ll be too great a draw on a man’s strength to learn an interesting fact between chew and swallow. I mean, come on now, how much of your day did you just forfeit by hearing one simple fact?”

Mudhead yawned again. “Easy, Bossman. Take easy. Point is, how much Mudahid remember? If Mudahid have walking sick, if Mudahid have crybelly, how much attention Mudahid pay?”

“Uh-uh, man. The point is, if Mudhead hears the same thing every morning, how long’s it gonna take before Mudhead remembers the thing?”

Mudhead considered this. He raised a forefinger. “Point is…what is point? How Mudahid know what time sun show help Mudahid be not sick, not hungry?”

“The point is:” Vane dug, “what if Mudhead heard other facts every morning, until these facts were stuck in his head? What if there were endless facts to learn, and plenty of them were important to Mudhead’s everyday survival? What if Mudhead learned, say, how to avoid being sick, or which steps to take for recovery? What if he learned all about nutrition, and vitamins, and exercise? What if he became, little by little, a well-rounded student of his neighbors’ problems, as well as his own, and an expert on how to solve them?”

“Then,” Mudhead said, “poor Mudahid skull all full. Mudahid no time eat, no time watch sun, no time hear music.” He placed his hands on his hips. “Then, Bossman, Mudahid no time Mudahid.” He shook his head categorically. “Africaman have all time world, but no time play schoolboy.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re gravely mistaken, Africaman. Life can be far richer than simple survival.”

Mudhead, looking away, said levelly, “Rich life okay richman. What good music do dying desertman?”

“But what if that man learned about irrigation? What if he learned about the nitrogen cycle? How about if he were to learn all about soil management, fertilization, and crop rotation?”

Sudden revelation burned behind the tiny round lenses. “Mudahid see! Dyingman sing song about pretty garden when sun come up right on time.”

“Now you’ve got it, Sancho. So just freaking tell them that the time of sunrise changes each day, and that the proof is in the Big Clock behind us, which will show a different reading every morning when the music peaks and the sun breaks in simultaneously. Then tell them it’s not a trick, and that it’s not magic. Say it’s an entirely predictable, completely demonstrable fact. Explain that the solar system is like an enormous timepiece, and that we’ll explore that in depth as we go along.”

Mudhead approached the microphone, now positioned on a stand between the two mounted binoculars. “Mudahid,” he muttered, “make sure all Afarman set watch.” He snapped out a string of terse sentences. After staring humbly for a few seconds, the gaping Afar turned as one to face the blinding sun.

“Okay. You can tell them to look away now. I hope you mentioned that the goofy white guy is done making a fool of himself.”

“Professor Bossman, Mudahid make sure everyman never forget lesson one.”

“I’ve just got to learn Saho. Okay, man, let’s get breakfast rolling. But this time I want my people to pass the Bowls on their own, without the Runners. Try to talk them into standing behind one another in rough lines. Explain, explain, explain: organization is gonna be very important around here! Ring up Kitchen and tell them to get the lead out. I’ve got some PR work to do.” He patted his walkie-talkie. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Mudhead watched darkly as his boss scampered down the slope. Vane marched across his dirt Square and stopped pointedly in the marked-off abutting Street, then turned to wave while gesturing proudly at his neighboring Square. Mudhead did not return the wave. After a minute he began snapping out instructions. As soon as he was done he sank into his chair and reached for a humongous pair of headphones.

This was a major moment for the incongruous, freely perspiring American. Though his long-anticipated approach was perfectly nonchalant, his new neighbors crept backward a step for every pace, finally huddling under their lonely scarecrow of a Canopy. Their Square also contained an affronted-looking camel, a reclining long-horned cow, and one of the scrawniest mongrels Vane had ever seen. The camel stank from ten feet away.

Having crossed the Street template, he smiled politely and pointed down at the aluminum tube that was the Square’s temporary southern border. “May I?” he tried. The family, a man, woman, and two children, grinned back nervously and clung that much tighter. After pantomiming opening a door, Vane gingerly stepped over the tube and strolled up, feeling like a visitor from another planet. He crouched casually, forearm resting on extended knee.

It was his first real close-up of an Afar group. Fleshless as they were, they didn’t look nearly as moribund as he’d predicted. Skins presented an unexpected glow. Eyes were clear, teeth bright and strong.

Vane was absolutely stumped by the encounter’s awkwardness. His fantasies had always included a kind of mute rapport; a toasty-warm exchange of sign language accompanied by spontaneous expressions of human universality. He now saw himself as a profound anomaly: a trespasser, a white ogre. And his great big plastic grin was killing him. The family, smiling back uncertainly, compressed itself further and avoided his eyes. Terribly embarrassed, Vane straightened slowly, turned like an automaton, and found himself nose-to-nose with the family’s camel. The beast roared in his face. No funkier stench had ever, could ever…Vane threw his hands over his face and stumbled out of the Square. The gaunt dog ran circles round his feet, nipping furiously.

He staggered across the Street into his own Square, retching and slapping dust from his face. Once he’d caught his breath he blew a string of oaths into his walkie-talkie.

The dour figure of Mudhead rose behind his microphone like a white-swathed praying mantis. “Yes, Bossman?”

“For Christ’s sake, wake up, Mudhead! Tell Kid we’ll need all the Runners down here, and pronto! He’s got to get the Crew hustling if we’re ever gonna get the Grid mapped out! Hop! Hop! Acknowledged?”

Two embers flashed behind the mic. There was the longest pause. At last the African switched channels and began barking orders.

In less than a minute Kid came swaggering up, a long ratty emu’s feather trailing from a rag tied around his forehead. He grinned conspiratorially and copied Vane’s posture.

Vane slowly shook his head and raised his walkie-talkie. “What’s Kid’s problem?”

“Kid big man now. Kid Bossman number Two. Feather show rank.”

“Tell him it’s gorgeous. But there is no hierarchy in Mamuset. His position as Lead Officer is an honor, and nothing else. There is no higher status involved.”

Mudhead switched back. Vane and Kid listened to the Operation Manager’s flurry of Saho snapping from the radio. It was all Greek to Vane, but it made Kid’s expression fall. In the next second the youngster’s disappointed look had rebounded to the typical Afar toothy grin. He bowed deeply, plucked the feather from the rag, handed it to Vane. Vane, accepting, smiled and bowed in return. “Tell him,” he said into his walkie-talkie, “that paleface will give it a place of honor on the Stage.” Kid listened closely to the translation. He bowed even deeper. “And now tell him to cut it out. I feel like the freaking Queen of England.

“The important thing is to get rolling! Try to not get bogged down in details when you’re hinting at the Big Picture, relatively speaking. Okay, Mudhead? Also, make sure you explain the significance of Utility Squares. But keep it simple. Just say each is a non-proprietary intermediate nexus communally appropriated in the service of adjacent Sector Quads, and leave it at that. Don’t get into the math of it. Enlighten Kid on the Grid master plan, so he’ll know where Utility Squares belong. Stay glued to Eyes, man, and if anything gets out of sync, please ring me right up. But we’ve got to get the whole goddamned Grid down, and without getting people bent out of shape because they’re relocating Shade Canopies, or because maybe they feel they’re being eighty-sixed off what they supposed was their duly-granted turf. Stress patience, Mudhead! Let them know they’re not being shuffled indifferently. But for the love of God, don’t bully them! All right? Just tell them their grievances will be addressed as soon as the dust settles.”

“No problem…” Mudhead heaved a sigh “…Bossman!” He stamped his foot and shouted, “Now!” The feedback’s scream prefaced an electronic echo that tightened every tympanic membrane within earshot. “For once Bossman clam up! For once Bossman listen! Then Bossman clam up more!

“Everyman now Mamusetman! Mamusetman do what Bossman say. No riot. No lawsuit. No democratman Mamuset. Noman have whiteman right! Mamusetman dog. Feed Mamusetman, respect Mamusetman, Mamusetman stay, Mamusetman eat heart anyman threaten Bossman. Okay? Be good Bossman, make Mamuset great house, no worry thing. Kick Mamusetman, cuss Mamusetman blue. Mamusetman respect Bossman, Mamusetman love Bossman.” He coughed from the tension. “Easy math.”

A full minute passed before Vane could get himself together. Every eye in the house was on him.

“Bossman?”

Vane cleared his throat. “10-4, Number Two,” he said calmly. “But I’m going to spare the boot. Not my style…now, let’s tackle this damned Grid! What’s your read up there?”

Mudhead matched Vane’s heavy minute with steely poise before casually eyeballing the vicinity. “Total ninety-one basic complete Square Frame around Bossman Square. Hereman work, thereman work, everyman work, work. Someman lay Square Frame right, otherman walk wild side. All canopy up.”

“Ninety-one Square Frames!” Vane exulted. “All right! Only four thousand, nine hundred and nine to go! But instead of celebrating, we’re gonna get humping. Mudhead, order Kid to follow your instructions to the letter. I’m staking my Square, and I want you right on that microphone, man; first describing my actions for nearby Squares, then switching to walkie-talkie. Translate explicitly into Saho for Kid: he’ll have to dictate to all Runners. There’ll be a pause after each step as he gives orders. During that pause you’ll have to make sure through the Eyes that all hitches are reported back and resolved before anything gets hairy.” Vane almost staggered under the load. “I can’t do everything! Make sure Kid knows he’s got to get on his horse. I want him running Square to Square supervising.”

This command was pretty much unnecessary. Kid stamped around him in a tight circle, champing at the bit. Whenever Vane spoke his name the boy nearly jumped out of his skin with anticipation.

“Big doctor call, Bossman.”

“Tell him I’m busy. It’s not an emergency, or he’d be all over it.”

“Lady Honey call.”

“Denise? Jesus. Don’t tell me she’s worked out a direct through Addis Ababa…” He gave a negative sweep of the arm. “Pull the plug on that damned radio. No, wait, wait! Tell her I’ll get back to her.”

A look of deep resentment pleated Mudhead’s brow. The expression was recognizable to Vane forty feet below and two hundred feet away.

“I’m sorry, Mudhead. I realize you didn’t sign up for this. Just wing it; blow her off. Play Dumb Africaman, or say whatever’ll get rid of her. I promise this won’t become a regular thing. But right now we’ve got to get going! And remind me in the future to bring a pocketful of sugar cubes for Kid.” His eyes lit up. “On second thought, put Denise through to Doctor ’Lijah.” He rubbed his palms together. “Let’s see if we can work a little magic.”

Vane dragged Kid over to Stage Street, where the youngster began dancing and snorting like a boxer, waiting only a nudge. Vane held him back while Mudhead’s basic directions came over the radio. Once schooled, Kid bounced Runner to Runner, shoving, shouting, gesticulating madly. The Runners scattered like chickens.

“No gold bricks here!” Vane called delightedly. “Let’s have us a look.”

He climbed back up to the Stage, turning an ankle on the way. “Make a note, my friend. We’re gonna have to cut us some Steps.”

Mudhead bent to his Eyes. After a weighty silence he said tentatively, carefully, “Mamuset great big pie. Endless…” he mumbled, searching for the apt phrase, “endless little neighbor tribe.”

“One big tribe,” Vane countered. “But in a way you’re right.” He peered through his own instrument. “Amigo, I’m guessing this whole concept must still seem pretty strange to you. But it’s really important, to a Western man’s way of thinking, to have everything organized and accounted for. Not only that; to my way of thinking it has to be both organized and fair.

“And as far as great big pies go…well, this operation isn’t exactly on a budget, but the projected cost is staggering. In the months since my father died I’ve had to work it all out mathematically, with the Honey Foundation cutting every corner. So it’s not about having some great big money bin I can just draw on to my heart’s content. It’s a tug of war with Honey all the way. That’s what the call from Denise’ll be about. You see, Mudhead, Honey has to mollify clients while it’s funding this operation. We’re leaking the word that Cristian Vane is involved in natural gas and bauxite sites in Ghana and Sierra Leone. That way the clients will think, hopefully, that all this money I’m going through will pay off in the long run. If nothing else, we’re buying time”

Mudhead grunted. “So America moneyman pretty scared.”

“Nah. They’re hip to checks and balances. Banks all around the world rely on the Foundation staying healthy, so keeping me and the old Vane Empire strong and happy is just good business. Banke Internationale, with the commitment they’ve made, would fold in no time if Honey withdrew. That would be a small domino, but a domino nonetheless, and there are a gazillion enterprises that stand or fall on the Foundation. Honey is technically politically neutral, but it bends with the wind; supplying warring nations with arms, petroleum, grain, and pharmaceuticals. Karl, the man who was the vital link between Father and Honey, once told me that the Foundation could control the turns of power in Eurasia by way of coup, gas, bread, or overdose. Father himself, in his final senile years, knew nothing. All he could do was veto by power of insanity. And he expected me to get sucked into all that. Phew!”

Vane grinned goofily. “Okay, so I lied! There isn’t a cloud in our financial sky. Mudhead…do you realize--do you have any idea--what a billion dollars can do? It’s an almost unimaginable sum. A farsighted man with only a million dollars, in this part of the world, can live a long, obscene life. He can buy businesses. He can equip a private army. He can well-nigh topple a government if he applies his time, energy, and wealth wisely. And still retire rich, without having invested a birr!

“A billionaire can do that a thousand times over. He can have all he wants, and he can have it whenever he wants it. He can drive himself--he can rise early and buy everything in sight as fast as he can, and still die an old man with more money than he could ever count.”

Vane decompressed a chestful of stress. “I’m worth eleven and a half billion dollars, man.” He raised a hand. “I say this not to impress you with my wealth. I only want you to understand the uniqueness of our position.

“I can order whatever I desire, and not have to take its cost into account. Add to this the fact that I have an organization behind me getting the best deals possible, steered by a very savvy lady who, for some reason, has decided to bend to my every whim, and you get a pretty round idea of our situation. A hedonist’s fantasy, an accountant’s nightmare.”

“And Bossman?”

“And a bossman’s opportunity.”

Mudhead, standing erect, asked uncomfortably, “Opportunity how? Mudahid Asafu-Adjaye never ask, Daddy Bigbuck never tell.” His arms embraced the crater. “Master Bossman?”

Vane cocked his head. “No…more like a self-contained community, I guess.” He too stood erect. “Hey, man. Just what are you driving at?”

Mudhead shrugged and bent back to his Eyes. “Bossman could be king,” he mumbled. “Maybe king all planet.”

“Tell you what. The position’s yours if you want it. I can make it happen. How’d you like to be king of the planet?”

Mudhead shook his head vigorously. “Mudahid still try figure Mamuset.”

“Then you’re a wise man, Mudhead. Let’s keep it all close to home.” He copied the African’s stoop, and said through his teeth, “As soon as the Grid’s down we can start moving upward, instead of just outward.”

Mudhead made no reply. After a long minute Vane unbent slowly. “What the hell do you mean, ‘Master’?” Mudhead didn’t budge. Vane stumbled down to his Square and assembled his Core group. He used gestures to communicate while roughing up and leveling his foundation with shovel and hoe. Extensions were removed. Lunch came and went. Vane got back to Waters who, now in command of a bridged link to Mamuset, had been guaranteed unmolested transmissions by both Ethiopia and her warring neighbor Eritrea. Vane was expecting a lecture. Instead he received much-needed encouragement and a birthday greeting.

“I didn’t…realize,” he stammered, his mind fogging. “Well. Thanks, Denise. Um…how old am I?”

“You’re thirty, Cris. A good age.”

“A good age.”

Dead air. “See you later, sweetheart. If you don’t keep in touch, I will.” Waters kissed into the mouthpiece. “Many more.”

Vane turned and found himself face to face with Mudhead. “Don’t say it,” he warned. “I don’t get it either.” Expressionless, Mudhead popped in a CD, put on his headphones, and kicked back in his favorite chair. Half a minute later his eyelids were fluttering.

A fresh convoy arrived at four. Crew removed thousands of stacked aluminum slats, along with endless bundles of white-painted pine stakes. Also trucked in were spoon-stacked wheelbarrows of forty-gallon capacity, stamped with Sector, Quadrant, and Square numbers. Included in wheelbarrow kits were shovels and pickaxes, rakes and hoes, mallets, workman’s gloves, and bandanas. Each article was stamped and tagged: Sector, Quadrant, Square.

That night Vane reclined on a huge mound of packing under a sky black and richly lit, watching the flicker of families in the floodlights’ haze. Chopin’s Polonaise stomped and staggered behind him, playing tag with the mantra running round and round in his head: Sector, Quadrant, Square. He popped another beer and saluted the hot raven sky. From where he sat a man could dream of changing the world.

Vane had been led to believe, by every specialist he’d as much as shared a smoke with, that his crude attempts to change Mamuset would entail months of false starts, frustrating digressions, and bungled attempts at cooperation. So he was astounded to see the Grid expand like magic; sometimes the Afar seemed psychic. Lot-chosen supervisors, holding court in newly-cluttered Utility Squares, regally distributed numbered supplies to eagerly queuing Afar men. Excited boys cut a wide line of Steps up the Mount from Stage Street, then delightedly cemented the staircase over. Along with the inevitable footprints, handprints, and finger swirls, the wet cement received a long series of exotic designs created by old men furnished only with pallet splinters and hyperopic imaginations.

On the morning of the third day Vane and his neighbors replaced their aluminum Square Frames with white stakes pounded at guidemarks scored every twelve inches. The CO sat marveling on Top Step while the immediate area was rapidly and collectively staked off into a series of clearly definable Streets and Squares. The remaining aluminum Grid-skeleton, tighter and truer than he had any right to expect, spread all the way to the Rim.

By noon Crew numbered over seventeen hundred members. These men, young and old, were put to work digging Street ditches for the project’s underground system of fresh water-and drainage pipes. PVC sections, still arriving on flatbeds, measured eight inches in diameter for Fields, six inches for Streets. Crew worked from the Mount outward as Extensions were removed, ripping ditches down the centers of Streets. Aluminum Square Frames were inexorably replaced by a solidly visual stakes Grid.

Watching an Afar with a pick and shovel was a mind-boggling experience. The men worked sunup to sundown, intoxicated by the assembly line mentality; some racing waist-deep down Street trenches, some obsessively transforming Squares from metal-frame outlines to stake-dotted sketches in the dust-dry earth. Pine swept away aluminum in a growing frenzy. Everywhere you looked, it was all flying dirt; from Top Step the crater floor appeared under assault by gophers on amphetamines. Unlike Vane, who grew exhausted just watching, the unfit and quarantined men almost went out of their minds observing their fellows at work; at Warehouse even the elderly and infirm fought over spare and broken tools. Kid was the world’s most obnoxious foreman, shouting himself hoarse, demanding and receiving the impossible from everyone in his path. He must have crisscrossed the crater floor a dozen times.

By late afternoon the Awash pipeline’s great multi-armed breakdown unit, West Comb, was being bolted and sealed by Vane’s engineers at West Rim’s steel-reinforced Inner Slope. A corresponding series of descending subcombs lay in place, each successive subcomb’s conduits, or teeth, having diameters decreased by half. A grid of cemented pipe lengths was waiting in ditches, Ridge-to-Rim. In the Fields, hordes of filthy, joyous men and women, as per Mudhead’s eagerly-passed instructions, were busily cementing vertical PVC shoots into lines every ten feet, even as competing families, now accustomed to the copycat method, installed Laterals and Uprights in their Squares in what seemed the blink of an eye. Vane could barely keep up with his immediate neighbors. But he continued gamely shouting instructions into his walkie-talkie, dangling from his neck like a pendant with its transmit switch taped open, though fresh water lines were being laid down west-east Streets almost before he could get the words out. Engineers and volunteers quickly patched these lines to a comb on one end, capped and valved their Uprights in Square centers on the other. Parallel sewage lines were positioned directly on the heels of the fresh water lines, without a hitch or a b***h. Vane was staggered. Before the sun had set the system was all but completed.

Mamuset would take advantage of the Danakil’s gentle easterly slope; all outflow would be centralized at Delta’s East Comb, a breakdown unit identical to the fixture on West Rim. Used, contaminated, and otherwise unwanted water would be channeled out into the deep desert, where the water would soon evaporate and its particulates bake into dust. On the fourth day the Afar worked back toward the middle, measuring levels and inspecting joins, packing dirt round the lines, burying the system and rebuilding Streets. Just at dusk, the Reservoir was stress-tested and engaged. That night, under a gibbous moon, the soil of Mamuset had its first drink in years.

The fifth day found Vane and Mudhead eyeballing the site from Gondar’s little mail plane. Vane’s chessboard stared back up at him, fully mapped-out, each white-dotted section with its own tiny mushroom canopy. And on that chessboard thousands of black ants were hard at work, breaking up and turning their Squares’ moistened earth with shovels and hoes. Not a man snuck a break. There were no loiterers, no pockets of loafing pals. Even the smallest children were hard into it, dragging parcels and crates from Dock to Warehouse like plainsmen hauling slain antelopes. The tiny plane’s confines were almost unbearably tight. Mudhead, on the window, looked down with his trademark stoneface, squirming every time Vane brushed against him for a better look. The stubborn young American came this close to admitting he’d sold the Africans short.

And on that fifth day Crew completed their prepping of the crater’s floor. By now all Sectors were cooperating via Utility Quads; the site’s abundant water supply made cement-mixing possible at the thousands of individual Squares.

It was a big day for Vane, the day he’d dreamt of since that bleak moment he’d come to his senses on his father’s hard crypt floor, weeping from nightmares of dead black babies in the dirt. In the wholesome muscularity of subsequent fantasies, he became the quintessential bronzed demigod, perfecting his model Square foundation with the patience of a saint and the intensity of a blacksmith. But no matter how willing the spirit, nothing in his dreams or training prepared him for this brutal task. Still he toughed it out, hour after agonizing hour, unable to bear the prospect of failing in public. He badly strained his back digging his foundation’s foot-deep, 20 x 20 space, came up with a major groin pull, and twice almost collapsed from heat exhaustion.

Gasping horribly, a nearly delirious Vane forced in his excavation’s four locking aluminum retaining walls, weaving on his blistered hands and knees, every joint on fire. And, though his gloved hands were raw and bleeding, though his thighs and underarms were badly chafed, he nevertheless summoned the cojones to align and lock the walls’ corner post guides. His neighbors bent over backwards to drag along in time, but they were frustrated, champing at the bit…unintentionally mimicking him as he clung like a drunk to a propped-up, barely-vertical steel corner post . . . anticipating his moves, far too quickly, as he demonstrated assessing verticality with a plumb line. But once he’d found his second wind he showed all those impatient sons of b*****s just how cleverly a steady-as-they-came Westerner could make critical adjustments on upright posts using only simple shims…showed them how they, too, could bolt down perforated steel corner posts if the damned cement ever set…showed them how a proud white man, out of his element and wheezing like a middle-aged marathoner, could still focus--how he could, no matter how tough the going, still manage the breath to explain, even with that pitiless black b*****d’s pushy translation searing out of UQ speakers, the correct placement of these bruising roof posts…cross posts…how the freaking corner posts’ holes would accept a completed domicile’s foot-wide, twenty-foot-long aluminum “gills,” and how those gills could be opened manually and locked in place, allowing the domicile, which was basically a one-room, four hundred square-foot aluminum cabin, to, finally, “breathe.”

Domiciles, explained a haggard Vane, or Domos, would face south, allowing their roofs’ sloping solar panels to take maximum advantage of the sun. These panels would generate enough energy to power a Domo’s ceiling fan, and charge house batteries with sufficient juice to burn four twelve-volt lights over a twelve-hour period.

Vane now tottered to his Canopy and came down hard on the mat, every muscle seizing, his back and neck in serious pain. It was all he could do to recline regally, and to fan himself without looking effete. But his performance was already old news. In Core Squares Afar men were digging and locking with delight, shoveling dirt in and out excitedly, begging neighbors for a chance to contribute. Flung dirt arced through the air like streamers.

Under a straight, tight Canopy next door, Mudhead sat in a bored slump, duly facing Mecca while thrilled youngsters dug out his foundation’s space. Vane groaned to his feet and grabbed his Upright’s hose. Held it over his head. Turned on the spigot. He howled with pain and shot out of his Square--the water was scalding. Vane kept running, all the way up to Top Step, where he fell back in his favorite chair under the Big Tarp. He cracked open a well-deserved, lukewarm beer.

The odd mix of Afar work ethics--cooperative and competitive--made the scene below a fast-forwarded 3D movie. He slowly shook his head as finished workers, pacing their Squares in anguish, broke to assist their neighbors’ neighbors. Others, beaten to the punch, returned to desperately rake and re-rake their own Squares. For half a minute Vane hated the Afar almost as much as he hated himself. He forced himself up and peered through his Eyes.

Nothing but unbridled excitement. Folks were running like spiders, in and out of nearly completed foundation excavations. Experimenting men and boys, having fitted stray gills into adjacent propped-up corner posts, were tweaking and spinning those gills intently. Again Vane was struck by their innate cleverness. He panned Sectors. The entire field was well-mapped and ready to go. Pickups, moving up nicely-aligned Streets, were dropping off stacks of gills to impetuous Afar. Other trucks transported eagerly-unloaded bags of cement. Vane leaned on his tripod; one useless Stage prop on another.

Mudhead was the crater’s only other inactive party. Exhausted by all these clamoring children, he could only glare and mumble orders, stuffed in a Square resembling more a playground than a work site. His worn-out old eyes caught the gleam of Vane’s mounted binoculars, trained dead on him. Staring back glumly, he made the old throat-slitting gesture with a forefinger. Vane cursed the vile day they’d met before hobbling down the Steps, his Core neighbors watching like dogs waiting for a ball to be tossed. He dragged Mudhead up to translate, then painfully galloped back down. He began blending cement and water in his wheelbarrow, pausing to carefully describe each step over his walkie-talkie. Mudhead’s kids went wild with excitement.

Once he’d plugged his guides with dummy posts, Vane stirred, poured, and spread his cement. It was grueling work, almost as tough as the digging, but a kind of giddiness produced by the heat pushed him on--leveling, dousing, and smoothing--to the imaginary cheers of an engrossed and grateful crowd. Vane’s cement foundation, under the fierce East African sun, was fully set in an hour, and that hour’s rest, along with sufficient shade and irrigation, was enough to get him back in the saddle. Instructing with great care, he righted a corner post in its guide, checked and rechecked it with his plumb line, knocked in a pair of shims, and bolted the post in tight. His final check passed with flying colors. Vane wobbled around proudly.

Corner posts were popping up all over the place, a dozen in the wink of an eye. The b******s were racing him! In one Square a knight’s move away, an elderly man already had three set up and was reaching for his fourth. Vane immediately scooped up his remaining three and ran puffing around his Square, plunging the posts in their guides, pounding in shims and bolts. After cursory checks for verticality, he ran dragging a twenty-foot steel roof post while barking out instructions for installation. He kicked his folding footstool to a foundation corner, but by the time he had the little aluminum monster in place a neighbor had already installed his first roof post and was excitedly eyeballing the next.

Vane bashed his knuckles raw and almost pinched off a finger tightening down his first roof post. He hung from the post for a few seconds before dropping to his foundation like a dead man, only to find that his surrounding Squares already had all four posts bolted in place. All his neighbors were squatting in a hard circle, watching; hyperactive children forced to sit still. And it hit him: taking his sweet time was his best defense. No one could copy the undemonstrated. Likewise, Mudhead couldn’t translate without instructions. Vane dawdled with his roof frame, then took a good long smoke break before bolting in his cross posts with exaggerated care. He droned on and on over his walkie-talkie, pissing off Mudhead and confusing the hell out of his neighbors. Vane watched, yawning, while volunteers drove Square to Square; dropping off photoelectric panels, deep-cycle batteries, fan motors and blades, picking up crusty wheelbarrows for Utility Square washings.

He lit another cigar, casually toured his perimeter. From three sides of his foundation, he could peer down strange tunnels of Domo frames, seeing which posts were absolutely vertical and which required alignment. Most were dead-on. A fair measure of conceit helped fuel his stately, cigar-chomping march halfway up the Mount’s eastern slope, but it wasn’t enough to take him to the top. On one footfall like any other his entire body cramped up on him. Vane went down hard on his face. He writhed in the dirt like an epileptic until a small herd of doctors got their mitts on him. They irrigated and fanned him, kneaded his muscles and joints, crammed tongue depressors in his mouth. After a buzzing confab, he was ported to his foundation like a battlefield casualty. There Mudhead, having ordered everyone within earshot to hang mats from the Square’s roof posts for shade, spread Vane out face-down in the dirt. He placed all his weight on the man’s arched back, deaf to his howls.

“Boss…man…hold…still!” He hauled back on the shoulders until Vane thought his arms would be torn from their sockets. Vane screamed like a woman while Mudhead balanced one foot on the back of his neck and the other on the small of his spine. The African placed an unopened bottle of beer in front of Vane’s twisted face. “Bossman bite this.” He pushed his way outside. In a few minutes Vane heard the famous Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock…of the Chambers Brothers’ psychedelic masterpiece Time Has Come Today, coming full-blast from the Stage speakers. Just as the interlude’s scream fest began, Mudhead stepped back inside and grabbed an arm and leg. “Now Bossman holler.”

That night the Afar slept on cement floors for the first time, using their former homes’ hides as mats. While they were still up, conversing, Mudhead borrowed swarms of children to build Vane a sprawling bed of packing, hides, and blankets. When they were gone he stuffed Vane’s face in those blankets and got back to work on him. The humbled master of Mamuset spent half the night on his back, absolutely motionless, staring at a shrinking candle.

When he woke it was way light. The computer had automatically opened the day with Strauss, over an hour ago, and Kitchen had already served breakfast; his own full Bowl and a mug of coffee were perched on his foundation’s tilted lip. He’d never felt so limber, never so refreshed. Crossing his foundation was like walking on air. Vane pulled aside a pair of mats to greet the new day. He was astonished; in that single hour the unsupervised Afar had assembled their Domos from the ground up. Stretching across the crater’s floor was a vast community of topless aluminum boxes.

They were not, however, identical boxes. Domos’ gills are continuous only on two sides. Post extensions on the southern face produce a doorway requiring shorter gills, the northern face uses gills with louver-window inserts, along with a bottom gill designed to accept fresh water-and sewage pipes. The Afar could not have known this. Parts had been shuffled and traded experimentally; results were all over the place. But Vane, by ordering reassembly, bought plenty of time to properly set up his own gills. He was elated to have the first Mamuset Domo with walls correctly faced. Vane strutted in and out of his doorway while his neighbors cheered maniacally. Those cheers spread like wildfire. After a while even the most distant Afar, without the least idea why, were kicking up their heels.

Vane thereupon, while balancing on his folding ladder, bolted up his triangular north and south roof braces and face plates, horizontal spire post, eave ribs, and solar panels. Eventually guards, rather like inverted gutters, would be fitted across the roofs’ spires, and protective strips snapped over channels between joined solar panels. Vane knew that someday rain would again find the Danakil. His brainchild would be ready.

At high noon he was hard at work inside a strange aluminum cabin, describing his actions over his walkie-talkie while he ran wires from solar panels to the fan motor bolted at the cross posts’ junction. Vane screwed in the blades, wired the battery into the loop, and flicked the motor’s switch. The blades began their gentle revolution. It wasn’t much, but it was circulation. And once he’d locked open his Domo’s gills the effect was heavenly.

The Afar whispered and tiptoed late into the night, though Vane slept with the dead. In a haze of moonlight they silently tore down and rebuilt their new homes, opened and closed doors, repeatedly walked inside and out. Thousands of gills whispered up and down in an odd communal Morse. Then, one by one, Domos threw out long slats of twelve-volt light, until the burgeoning desert oasis glowed like a little pool of stars.