Tibor

Chapter 17 of Microcosmia

Microcosmia

Chapter 17

Tibor

It was that golden hour of day when the world seems to slow; when work is done or slated for the morrow, when east-leaning shadows grow heavier even as one peers. At this hour men are prone to easy discourse, and domesticated animals, picking up on the murmur, find their eyelids beginning to weigh.

The music of an early whippoorwill whistled between the gills of Vane’s Domo, for a tantalizing second seeming to mimic the strains of Ravel’s Bolero on his boom box. Lateral shadows had snuck across his desk, leaving his Mamuset memoirs half-illuminated. He adjusted the manuscript to catch the light. Vane was tempted to press on with his Microcosmia, or The Man Who Broke Honey, but it was that golden hour of day when intellectual pursuits move to the back burner. Vane was bored, his mind wandering no less resolutely than those slats of light and shadow. He finished off his kirsch in a quick swallow and lit another cheroot. Solomon, nudged accidentally, shifted gears in his dream and nestled closer to his master’s feet. The dog was a healthy, handsome yearling who loved children, hated camels, and was embarrassingly jealous of his master’s affection. Vane stretched to his feet and ejected the CD, switched off the player. He stepped over Solomon carefully, but the dog, like all dogs, was attuned to the whims of his owner, and leaped to be first to the door.

Vane scratched Solomon’s eager punkin head as they made their way through the clutter. Over the last half year his Domo had deteriorated to a chaotic museum-garage, bursting at the seams with miscellaneous gifts. There were dusty portraits by children, long-stale pastries prepared by Afar women, piled baskets and mats, utensils from faceless Mamusetan artisans. There was even an oversized, sun-dried stick-and-mud statue of Solomon, called by the children Saumun Vahn, to reflect his master’s name. Vane was known as Khrisa Vahn, and Mudhead, by association, as Muh-Muh Vahn. Gifts were generally just heaped in corners and stacked along the walls. When space grew too dear, the stuff was toted across his Yard to Mudhead’s and stored before being moved to Warehouse or Basement.

Vane’s place, due to his continuous experiments in creating the ideal bohemian Domo, was without a doubt the most exotic home in Mamuset. Certain innovations, such as his erector shelves and collapsible woven partitions, had been adopted by neighbors. Other imported ideas, such as the rock garden and mood lighting, made no sense to the Africans, and remained mesmerizing features of his revered residence. The Afar had by degrees, and almost apologetically, covered their Domos with thatch in deference to their customary homes, then secured their solar panels atop these new thatch beds. Vane, picking up on the idea, tied thatch on his own roof and found it to be excellent insulation. Vane’s pad was ever dark, cool and airy, aromatic with gifts of baked goods, with spices, with incense and potpourri. The grateful Afar had insisted his Yards receive the finest specimens of trees and birds, and in quantity. As a result his Square was part arboretum, part jungle.

Now Vane donned his turban, threw back his flowing black robes, and drew open the door. In two steps he and Solomon were swallowed by his garden--the master of Mamuset was way behind in his Yard chores. A pair of trellises were sagging under the weight of African marigolds, the storage shed was shifting over the avocado’s roots. Grass and weeds had almost eradicated the inlaid rock path leading to his front gate. Spider webs glistened in rare shafts of sun, wasps whirled in and out of a particularly dark space between trunks. His orchids were flagging, and one corner of his backyard was a marsh over a broken pipe. As he did every day, Vane swore that today was the day he’d get around to it.

Solomon was off like a shot through the Yard. Worthless, half-asleep on her pad, caught the black streak out of the corner of her eye, but wasn’t quick enough to evade another nip to the bottom. Her head lanced out, the great incisors snapped, and Solomon began dancing side to side excitedly. Vane pounded his fist twice on the back of the camel’s neck. Worthless rose with that old, irksome series of roars and hisses that meant Solomon was just asking for it.

Worthless was the grudging possessor of a gorgeous polished crocodile hide saddle, a gift from the Banke’s president. The saddle had sheaths to hold the spyglass and jile, along with snap pouches for pager and walkie-talkie. Vane was proud of it, and dependent on it, for he’d failed to master both the blanket and the bareback method. It was possible to loop great saddlebags over grooved bosses, and so use Worthless as an agile supply vehicle. Vane did a daily round of the Rim, bringing treats for the Guards and their children.

Having warned off Solomon, he was leading Worthless to the front gate when he was startled by a puff of sparrows bursting from his neighbors’ trees. They shot into the sky whirling, joined a different flock and just as abruptly dispersed. Watching agape, Vane noticed dozens of distant flocks spiraling in all directions, soaring and plunging, breaking apart and converging. This phenomenon struck him, even then, as somehow ominous. Still staring, he kicked open his front gate and stepped out onto Stage Street. His Square’s front chain link fence, overgrown with creepers, was sagging with rose garlands and the usual mounds of gifts piled high. Vane sampled curiously, running his hands over a few unfamiliar bulges while Solomon and Worthless sniffed alongside. He saw that Mudhead had toted a couple of jugs of homemade beer from Cellar and deposited them on either side of the gate. Vane stuffed a jug in each saddlebag, then broke a large chunk off a date and honey cake, took a bite and passed the rest to his animals.

A big eye appeared behind a pile twenty feet along. Solomon went down on his belly, his rear end oscillating as two other children peeked around the first. There were a couple of squeals. Solomon barked delightedly. Worthless shied and the children ran off giggling, Solomon running circles around them.

Vane filled the saddlebags with flatbread, fig jam, and sweetmeats, then pounded Worthless twice on the back of her neck. She knelt and he mounted awkwardly, carefully positioning his moccasins in the stirrups, still determined to become an adept camel rider on these daily rounds. He rode clumsily along the shady side of Stage Street while Solomon bedeviled Worthless. Other dogs and camels responded to their familiar barks and roars.

The Mount’s east face was covered with velvet rosettes, patches of scarlet African violets, and a great variety of succulents. No protocol existed for Stage access, and, since camels were notoriously skittish on the Steps, dozens of wending and intersecting paths had been stamped into the slope. Vane let Worthless pick her own way while his dog bounded up the Steps to avoid being pricked. Under the Big Tarp’s shade he pulled out his spyglass and took a long look around his paradise. Lazy tails rose from cooking fires, here and there a strolling figure appeared and disappeared between the trees. He took the Stage Ramp back down and clopped up Bisecting Way clear to North Rim, waving heartily to children while nonchalantly clinging to his ride’s scruffy mane. The Rim was now Mamuset’s most neglected area; Rim Road had fallen into disrepair, Inner Slopes were a canopied riot of wildflowers, impatiens, and blushing mums. Tranquility had completely lowered Mamuset’s guard, making the siesta more a pursuit than a pastime. Field workers moved languidly, avoiding the sun, while Guards, constantly found napping at their Posts, faced only effusive apologies when wakened.

Vane, in his theatrical getup and casual ways, unconsciously encouraged the general lassitude. Occasionally he and Mudhead threw a surprise Ripple, wherein squads of defenders in the beds of pickups raced to man Bulwarks, while flanking arms of ammunition-toting women and children scampered up the Inner Slopes behind them. But lately these drills had been lackluster and abbreviated. It wasn’t that the Afar weren’t into it; they still came running at the wail of a siren. The fault was solely Vane’s. He’d become lazy and distant, was putting on weight. The fact that his sole turn-on was writing his memoirs made him admit, sometimes to himself and sometimes in unintended asides, that the project was complete. And so he flirted with ideas of moving on.

Now, with his mind adrift on a lovely dying afternoon, he was completely caught off guard by the faraway cry of a hand-cranked West Rim siren. He urged Worthless into a cockeyed gallop along the overgrown Rim Road, his adrenaline up for the first time in months. But the desert was dead as far as his glass could discern. Vane rang the Stage and waited impatiently, watching a number of running bodies in the Streets. After a long minute Mudhead reported, “Runner.” That was all. Vane focused away from the desert, tweaking his spyglass. Finally he made out a flailing speck on Inner West Slope. He jabbed his walkie-talkie’s transmit button.

“Why isn’t he using the Ramp?”

“Big hurry. Run straight through Guard.”

“I’ll be there in two shakes.” Vane clung like a woman as Worthless galloped erratically, avoiding Solomon’s teeth, and by the time they’d reached the Stage he was a breath away from losing it. Solomon chomped Worthless a good one just as she was kneeling, which put her nauseous rider down hard on his tailbone. Mudhead helped him up and over to his Eyes. They watched the runner staggering between patches of alfalfa and millet, only to be brought down kicking by workers leaping out of the grain. A crowd quickly grew. Vane and Mudhead saw the tacklers rough the man up and interrogate him one after the other. Finally an old man addressed the crowd excitedly. Two Afar thereupon hauled the runner upright. They walked him a ways, but that tackle, after all his exertion, had just been too much. He dropped like a dead man. Immediately he was hoisted by four workers, one on each limb, and trotted toward the Mount. Four others took over after a few minutes of hard pacing by the original quartet, and the pace was redoubled. In this manner the dangling man was passed along between Field Squares, wrestled and mauled up the Steps, and deposited in a pile of arms and legs.

“Bring him in the shade,” Vane said, directing with his hands. The panting men heaved the runner under the Big Tarp, where he kicked like a dog having a nightmare. Mudhead nudged him with a foot. The runner jabbered softly and his eyelids fluttered. He tucked his hands between his drawn-up knees. Mudhead tried him in basic Saho, in Amharic and Tigrinya. He was surprised when the man responded to a hailing in Ge’eg.

“Falasha,” Mudhead muttered, shaking his head. “Come long way.”

Vane drew a Bowlful of water and splashed some on the man’s face and hair. At the shock of wetness the runner opened his eyes and sat upright, took a few sips and nodded gratefully. Mudhead crouched to question him, his hands dangling off his knees. He remained hunched, listening intently, for the longest time.

“Well?” Vane said.

Mudhead didn’t move.

“Well?”

“Falashaman,” Mudhead said quietly, “run many day. Stop only small sleep.” He sighed and shook his head resignedly. “Falashaman famous run long haul.” He looked up. “Bossman famous all Ethiopia.”

“Tell him I’m flattered. Now let’s get him something to eat. He’s all skin and bones.”

“Come long way,” Mudhead repeated. He rose, removed his spectacles and wiped the lenses on his robe. Such a move was offensive even for a reprobate; he was clearly distracted. Mudhead replaced his spectacles and looked thoughtfully at the northwest horizon. He walked over to Top Step, let a foot hover. Casually he began his descent.

“Wait a minute,” Vane said. “Where’re you going?” Mudhead disappeared in eight-inch sections, one Step at a time. When the top of his cap had vanished Vane walked over and looked down. “Mudhead.”

The African either didn’t hear him or ignored him completely. Vane pursued him Step for Step, repeatedly calling his name. When Mudhead reached Stage Street he turned like an automaton and paced south.

“Mudhead!” Vane caught up with him and draped an arm over his shoulders. Mudhead went straight down, as if a supporting wire had been cut, landing heavily on his rear. Vane sat opposite. “What’s bugging you, man? Why’d you take off like that?” When Mudhead looked up, Vane was surprised to see his friend’s eyes glistening. Mudhead’s mouth trembled. He pushed himself to his feet and walked back the way he’d come. Vane caught him at Bottom Step and shook him by the shoulders. “What did he tell you?”

Mudhead’s answering stare was blank. He turned and began climbing the Steps.

“Jesus!” Vane lunged after him. At Top Step he pushed him down and held him down. “Tell me, already! What’d he say?”

“Locust,” Mudhead said matter-of-factly. “Plague. Falasha see from Ras Dashen. Plague out of Sudan. Eat everything crazy. Nothing stand, manyman die. Never such swarm.”

“Oh…man,” Vane said, rolling his head. He nodded and sighed. “I’m just so sorry, Mudhead. Really.” He sat hard and squeezed his friend’s knee. “You…you had friends in Sudan?”

Mudhead turned to gape at him. “No,” he mumbled at last, “no friend.”

“Still a shame,” Vane said. He gestured broadly, searching for words. “This country’s a monster. But I guess people have adapted to it. Over the ages, I mean.” He added philosophically, “Where I come from you can die from a bullet and never even know what hit you. Death,” he said, spreading his arms, “is death.” He shook his head sharply. “Forgive me, Mudhead; I’m rambling.” He studied the back of his hands. When no response came he stole a glance.

Mudhead’s eyes were burning at the sky. “Death,” he echoed. “Death.”

Vane stood up. The horizon was spotless. He patted Mudhead’s shoulder. “Buck up, buddy. I’ll get us a weather report.”

In twenty minutes he had the score out of Addis Ababa. The swarm, one of the largest ever observed, had crossed the Red Sea from the Saudi Peninsula in early March, impelled as a natural consequence of the drought’s broad cycle, and by now had devastated the east coast of Sudan. Sudanese planes cooperatively provided information to Sudan’s southern neighbors, but ceased tracking, as per United Nations directives, at the border. The latest report was a week old. Vane was dryly informed that the swarm’s progress would be monitored by an office of the National Game Reserve in Gondar, and that that office would fax relevant data to another in Dese, and so on, until the swarm had made its way into Somalia or Kenya. The culled information would be ordered into a synopsis and correlated with prior swarms.

Plagues of desert locusts, Vane was told, were natural and inevitable. They were cyclical events in Africa and Saudi Arabia, as given and irrepressible as storms. No real preventive measures were taken, no institutions meaningfully devoted to their future eradication. They were the hand of Allah, and were taken in stride.

Vane, getting nervous, had his call transferred to the Game Reserve in Gondar. Gondar reported the swarm’s position as presently south of Eritrea’s capitol Asmera. It was a tremendously destructive movement, taking out fields, villages, and tribes in sporadic barrages greater than any military drive. Vane learned that this swarm’s direction was determined by March wind currents, and could only be altered by meteorological events such as pounding rain and overwhelming crosswinds.

No rain was foreseen any time soon. Winds were steadily moving south.

All things considered, the hand of Allah was heading straight for the Danakil, and would soon be passing directly over Mamuset.

By now Vane’s blood pressure was rising. He again rang the capitol and got on to Honey liaison Muhammed Tibor. The cold, thick voice informed him that there was little to be offered in the way of aid or advice. Tibor apologized without a trace of compassion, explaining that the country was at war. Vane would have to use his own measures to evacuate the site. He then offered to connect him directly with Honey over the diplomatic channel.

“Do that,” Vane grated. “And while you’re at it try hooking me up with somebody who gives a damn.”

There was an excruciating hour of dead air. During this period Vane paced with increasing misery while Mudhead flogged him with tales of uncontainable insect frenzy and ravaged populations. His palms grew clammy as Mudhead described the desert locust’s uncanny sense of smell, and how frenzy was biochemically produced when food was sensed by any part of a swarm. But formidable as Mudhead made these creatures out to be, Vane wouldn’t accept an inevitable apocalypse. A pest was only a pest, he argued, and Mamuset wasn’t some lame tribe of superstitious stampeding savages--it was a cooperative, productive entity trained as a fighting machine. Surely brains and teamwork, combined with cash and connections, could kick a*s on a bunch of dumb grasshoppers in the twenty-first century.

When the new voice came over the speaker, identifying itself as belonging to one Professor Essahal of Dire Dawa University, Vane sprinted across the Stage and switched from speaker to phone receiver. “Right to the point,” he puffed. “Tibor wouldn’t have connected us if he didn’t think you could help me. You’re familiar with these bugs?”

The voice was heavy and pedantic. “I,” it sniffed, “sir, am an entomologist specializing in the physiology and migratory patterns of acridids.” There was an impatient sigh. “Our campus is indebted to Mr. Tibor. This is why you and I are speaking together now. But I have a full workload, and the hours are short. So…as you say, ‘right to the point.’ I do not mean to be rude.”

“That’s good of you,” Vane said through his teeth. “So how can I stop these insects before they reach my property? What should I do?”

“Stop them?”

“Kill them, turn them aside, lure them elsewhere. What do you guys do when you want to stop a swarm?” Vane could have sworn he heard a truncated laugh on the other end. “This isn’t funny, professor.”

“Of course it is not. Sir, there is no way to deter a desert locust swarm. You will perhaps appreciate my natural reaction to the naiveté of your question.”

“Fair enough. But the question remains. Rephrase it any way you want. What can I do?” He bit his lip. “Professor Assahol, I’d like you to understand that I’m so wealthy it’s beyond scary. With a single transmission over this radio I can draw on Banke Internationale whatever sum is necessary to meet my purposes. You can’t tell me that in these modern times the technology to break this crisis is unavailable at any cost. I’m dead-serious.”

The response was cool. “I am certain you are, sir. And I am not laughing.” There was a pause. “What did you have in mind?”

Vane matched the pause, then said evenly, “Sir, you’re the expert. I’m just the money man.” He waved a hand irritably. “The obvious thing is an aerial drop. Cropdusters. I have an ETA on the swarm of thirty-six hours, so there’s still time to catch it in flight with some kind of pesticide. You’re the one who would know the right stuff to drop.”

The response was so emotionless it struck Vane as supremely bored. “Sir, you know not whereof you speak. Aerial application of pesticides is a tedious process, commenced only after extensive surveys and botanical assessments. It consists essentially of dusting plants in a large, commercially viable crop area, for the sake of minimizing damage to neighboring quadrants. Malathion and carbaryl are commonly used. The acridids ingest the poison during crop consumption, and in most cases achieve demise before they can produce greater damage. The poison is, in any case, fatal to the crops, and is never one hundred percent effective on the insects.”

“Okay, professor,” Vane said slowly. “Call me stupid, but why can’t the Malathion and other stuff be dropped directly on the swarm? Why can’t these bugs be killed in flight?”

There was a long, hollow break, occupied only by a pinging echo. Finally Essahal said, as though with an effort, “Mr. Vane, judging by our knowledge of the extent of this swarm, it would be physically impossible to address it fully with the entirety of the Park and Wildlife’s air services, were there even a poison developed for such an application. Additionally, you would encounter problems in simple physics. These pesticides used on acridids come in both powdered and highly granulated forms. Their manufacture takes into account that this fine, dry product will be carried over wide areas and adhere to the relatively moist surfaces of leaves and stalks. The product currently available is almost as fine as talcum powder.”

“O-o-o…kay,” Vane said with great control. “So why won’t it stick to the relatively moist bodies of grasshoppers?” He clenched his free hand repeatedly while listening to the professor suck air. It had seemed an obvious question, so he’d had to ask.

“Sir,” Essahal said gently, as to a child, “plants are stable. They do not jump, they do not fly, they do not migrate. The turbulence created by millions, perhaps tens of millions, of frenzied acridids would serve only to dispel airborne dust. The beating of their wings would have the effect of a hurricane on a field of dandelions.”

“A liquid, then,” Vane groped. “Gasoline maybe?”

“No such application exists.” The professor was thoughtful. “The physical reaction would of course be different. Distillates of petroleum, heavier than air, would at first be dispersed. The cloud would be swept upward only to fall again, be thrust forward and back…a mist would develop, finely coating the acridids. The vapors would certainly affect their respiratory systems adversely, but to what extent I cannot say.” There came a sound Vane recognized as a pencil tapping on a desk. “An interesting proposition for a lunchtime discussion, but now is not the time. Such an application does not exist.” Another pause.

“Professor,” Vane said very directly. “You’ve explained what won’t work. Tell me what will…please.”

The tapping was resumed, then the slow careful voice. “No such application exists.” A tremendous sigh. “Mr. Vane, I sincerely regret the failure of your experiment. I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors. However, the time is really pressing and I have much work of my own. Good day, sir.” The line went dead.

“Good day?” Vane whispered. He replaced the receiver and turned away.

“Egghead always busy,” Mudhead remarked.

“Get Tibor back!” Vane walked over to Top Step and studied the northwest sky, hands clasped behind his back. He raised himself with his toes, relaxed. It was a typically clear, searing afternoon. Fragments of the just-concluded conversation nagged him while he tried to visualize a zillion ravenous locusts. In an instant his mind was made up.

“Tibor back.”

Vane forced a few deep breaths, strode under the Big Tarp and switched to Speaker. “Tibor, pay close attention here! Drop everything and listen like your life depended on it. If you do me right, I’ll make it possible for you to retire before the weekend. I want you to ring up every business that can perform aerial drops: crop dusters, firefighters, Park and Wildlife. Whatever. While you’re dialing, hook up with Denise Waters, the bank, and the Depot. Tell Denise I want complete and instant access to the bank’s deposits. When you get hold of these plane owners, don’t haggle with them. Just meet their demands. Buy whatever they’ve got. They won’t rent them out when they learn what I have in mind; the hoppers and holds could be damaged. Okay? Top dollar to all owners and pilots. Then get hold of the military and see if they’ll give us a hand. After that, ring up every gas station and every refinery and work some magic. I want all the gasoline you can get your hands on, pronto. And anything stronger you can find that’ll mix with it. Talk to the chemical men, call the factories. Time is everything. The money is not an object. Did you catch that? Write it down, Tibor. Underline it, put it in all caps, and relate it that way to Honey. Then secure some hazmat trucks and arrange an airstrip loading zone. Get everybody on their horses! Once you’ve got the timetable--”

“Stop!”

The word came like a pistol shot. “I have been handling your affairs,” Tibor snarled, “for going on two years, and I have yet to raise an objection. It has been my policy to keep my thoughts and feelings to myself, but I am telling you right now, Mr. Ever-loving Vane, that you are the absolute limit. The living end!”

Dead air.

Vane purpled. “Abandoned!” he howled. “Deserted!” He kicked over a table and three chairs, ripped the Big Clock off the Wall. “Betrayed!”

It seemed another entire hour elapsed before that familiar peal sang on the radio. Vane hurried over. “Go.”

“Cris?”

“Miss Waters! What did Tibor tell you?”

“Enough. You’ve got some kind of emergency, and you’re after gas and planes. What’s the story?”

“Okay, listen very closely and try not to interrupt. Time’s the big factor here. Time and you.” He explained the situation calmly and intelligently, laying out his plan with confidence and careful attention to detail. There was the longest pause. Vane banged on the receiver, suspecting a bad wire.

Suddenly Waters screamed, “Get out of there, Cris!” There was a sound of random manic activity. “You’re not thinking clearly, baby! Let your project go. You can start it up again next year, somewhere else, anywhere else! Everybody knows you did your best.”

Vane ground his teeth, realizing he was dangerously close to losing his final bid. “I…I guess you just wouldn’t understand, Denise.”

“Then explain it to me! Tell me why one of the richest, luckiest, most eligible men in the world would commit suicide in an African desert, half a world away from the ones who love him.” She was hyperventilating.

“Take a deep breath.”

“Why do you think I’ve clung to this job for so long, Cris? Why do you think I’ve perched here in this gilded cage, monitoring your progress, handling your affairs, guarding you against enemies you’re not even aware of?”

Vane blinked, sincerely confused. “Perhaps,” he said quietly, “you could fill me in.”

“Not to watch you die in the middle of nowhere, darling. I’m not going to let that happen. I don’t care how pigheaded you are.”

“Miss Waters,” he said levelly, “I’d like you to conference me with Saul Littleroth. Can you do that right away, please?”

“Not until I’ve had a chance to prep him.”

“Miss Waters--”

“Now you take a deep breath, Cristian Vane! You’ll wait your turn.” There was a whispered curse. Half a minute later the voice said professionally, “One moment, sir.” The ether flickered with echoes and pings. A distant droning phased in and out while Vane seethed.

“Cristian?”

“It’s me, Saul. I don’t know what’s gotten into--”

“Now you shut your mouth and listen, boy! I should have whipped the pants off you when I had the chance. You are without a doubt the most irresponsible, fatheaded person I have ever known.”

Vane drew back from the radio. “Is everybody but me having a nervous breakdown?”

“I’ll break you down,” Littleroth swore. “Just as soon as I get my hands on you. I’ve been patient all this time, and I’ve protected your interests at home, because it’s my job. But this is the end of the dance. You’re simply too immature to be let loose on the world. Denise is contacting your mail plane now. Hop aboard and get out of there while you still can.”

“There are over five thousand people here with me, Saul. It’s a small plane.”

“They’ll deal with it the way they always have. They’ve lived for ages in that damned desert. They’ll get along just fine once your little garden’s gone.”

“Are you finished?”

“I’m just getting started.”

“Good. Saul, I want every detail of this conversation recorded.”

“Done. That was my first move.”

“Denise, I want this call recorded on your end, too. Both records are to be time-stamped, copied onto floppies and hard disk. Transcribed, signed, notarized, sealed. Copies are to be held independently by both parties on this line. Should any of these conditions not be met, this order is to be considered legally null and void.”

Denise sighed. “Alright, Cris. We’re on.”

“Go ahead,” Littleroth said, speaking very clearly, very carefully. His voice came across like a sound-check.

“By this transmission I, Cristian Honey Vane, officially relinquish my position as chief executive officer of the Honey Foundation in all its offices domestic and foreign. That position is hereby awarded to the Foundation’s very able presiding officer, Denise Waters. I declare myself sound of mind and body, and not under coercion.

“Denise, you are now in full command of Honey’s assets; lock, stock, and barrel. I admit it, you guys; I admit it, I admit it. I’m not cut out for responsibility. Saul’s right, and you’re right. I’m a walking disaster. For Christ’s sake, Saul, is any of this legal?”

Littleroth grunted. “Nothing’s finalized, Cristian. What this record demonstrates is that you are unfit to manage Honey by proxy.” He hesitated. “We won’t pretend any longer that your position is anything other than symbolic, if that’s your wish.” Littleroth sighed hugely. “Why was everybody expecting this call? And why do you always have to be so abrupt?”

“Is this cool, or isn’t it?”

“You have the legal right to release any or all of your interests to anyone you choose.”

“Well, I’ve made my choice! And now maybe you two can start pulling Honey out of the red.”

“Why not discuss some options first?”

“You’d have to be here to understand,” Vane said.

There was an undertone of excitement, of envy, in Littleroth’s response. “You’re really facing a plague of grasshoppers?”

Vane drew his jile and turned it flashing in the sun. “Desert locusts.” He attempted to throw back his robes, but found he was standing on a hem. Vane knelt and very carefully rubbed out the smudge.

“What’s it like?”

“The feeling?” He stood erect, puffed his cheeks and blew out the breath. “It’s immense! Insane! Fantastic! Unreal!”

“Listen to him!” Denise said.

“Cris,” Littleroth said quickly, “get out of there. Now! I watched you grow up, boy. I was one of the guys who made sure nobody took advantage of you. And I saw a young man with tremendous potential, not a loser gobbled up by grasshoppers in the armpit of the world. Now listen to me, son. Get yourself a sleeping bag and a good bicycle. Wheel around the world and see and feel all the wonderful, all the real things Denise and I will never see and feel. Fall in love, fall out of love. Win and lose and start all over. You’ve got the stuff to make a real go of it, boy. Don’t let your heart mess up your head. Wire me, or wire Denise, whenever you need cash, and we’ll be right on it. Live, Cristian! Don’t be a sentimental a*s.”

Vane jumped right back at him. “It’s not sentimentality, Saul! I’m being practical. I’ve done a lot of growing up since I’ve been here. I’ve built something, I’ve made it work, and I’m not giving up on it! I…I talked to a scientist about this, Saul, an entomologist at Gabadube University, and he said I was practically a genius. My idea is not only right-on, it’s groundbreaking. We went over and over this for hours, you guys, and he guaranteed me it’ll work. The desert locust can’t breathe in a gas-air medium. I mean, think about it. Could you?” He had a sudden brainstorm. “What’s the name of that stuff you spray into carburetors to make engines start quick? Paris used to use it when the Lincoln was cold. Ethel Somebody…”

“Ethyl ether?” Littleroth wondered.

“Yeah! That’s what that bug scientist called it. He said my idea would work a thousand times better if it was mixed in with regular gasoline. Completely cuts off the insects’ oxygen supply.”

“Cris,” Denise said quietly. “Do you know how strong that stuff is? It’s liquid dynamite.”

“What of it? Noboy’ll be hanging around smoking, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not crazy, Miss Waters. We’re as good as out of here. But I’m not just passively surrendering everything I’ve worked for to a bunch of goddamned grasshoppers! If this stuff’ll kill ’em before they get to my place then it’s worth any expense to me. I can always come back later, clean it all up and start over. But I want something to come back to! Don’t doubt me on this, Denise. I will start all over; I’ll start from scratch if I have to. But why should I? And why shouldn’t we make these drops to save the trees and gardens? Do you want to go through all that again? The purchases? The shipments, for God’s sake?”

Littleroth cleared his throat.

Denise shot, “Don’t help me, Saul! I can see whose side you’re on. And don’t waste any more breath trying to reason with him. He’s not listening. He’s got a martyr complex. It’s not his fault, and he’s not even aware of it. Shut up, Cris!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to. You were all set to make a lovely politically-correct speech about doing the right thing in a wrong world. You were just about to try to make us all feel not only guilty, but downright evil because of your project’s demise.” She was stuttering.

“Oh, come on--”

“Shut up! Shut up and listen.” Waters took a deep breath. “Before I’ll agree to anything, I want to know you’re out of there.”

“You’ve got it. But, Miss Waters, the clock.”

“The clock is stopped. I want your word.”

“Can you pull it off?”

“Mr. Tibor said the contacts are open for petroleum and equipment, as well as for a variety of volatile chemicals. The man was quite busy while we were waiting to be put through. You’re lucky to have such an efficient person on your side.”

“Don’t I know it!” Vane gushed. “Me and good old Tibor are just about as tight as tight can be. God bless him, and God bless you too, Miss Waters.”

“Cristian?”

“We’re evacuating everybody right now, using pickup trucks. I’ll call you the moment I reach the Depot.”

“Cristian…”

“I give you my word, Miss Waters; my solemn, inviolable word. I swear on my life. I swear on my mother…besides, it’s my money, and I can use it any way I feel. That has nothing to do with Honey, right, Saul? Isn’t it mine?”

“Shut up! I’m the boss now, Cristian.”

“Denise,” Littleroth tried.

“You shut up too, Saul!”

“You may be the boss, Miss Waters, but you’re not my boss. Like I said, I quit.”

“Isn’t this just childish,” Littleroth said.

“Yes, it’s childish. It’s childish because I’m dealing with children. Believe it or not, Cristian, there are people who love you, people who would be horribly affected if anything bad were to happen to you.”

“Name two.”

“Childish,” Littleroth muttered.

“Grow up! Stop being so selfish all the time.”

“Yes,” Vane said sarcastically, “mom.”

There was a gasp. For a long cold moment the line was dead. “Denise!” Vane called into his mouthpiece. “Miss Waters!”

“Please don’t do anything foolish,” the voice said quietly. “Think of the people who worry about you.”

“Name one.”

“Cristian!”

Littleroth challenged them both. “Why do I feel like an eavesdropper?”

“Because you’re as immature as this idiot. All you little boys with your little fantasies. Go on, Saul. Gallop off with him. Simply throw off your responsibilities and join Huck wherever he roves. Run barefoot, run naked, run innocent and free. Steal apples instead of serving clients. God knows I’d love to go with you. But some of us grow up, boys.”

“I knew it, Saul! I knew it, man! I knew that I, immature little polliwog that I am, could make at least one adult decision in my life. And I picked the best person on the planet to take over Honey.”

“You did, boy,” Littleroth admitted. “My instincts were right about you.”

“Good luck, Saul.”

“Good luck, son.”

“Shut up, both of you!”

“You’re breaking up, Miss Waters,” Vane said, gradually moving his head back from the transmitter. “You’re…going, girl.”

“Cristian!”

“Believe in me, Deni…show me…care.” He switched off the set and popped out the power cord. “Mudahid Asafu-Adjaye, I think it’s about time you made one of those great speeches of yours I’m so famous for.”

Mudhead bowed almost to the Mat. Vane returned the bow and threw the lever activating Utility Square alarms. After the short triple beeps had died away he enabled all Quad Speakers. To the Afar gathering around the Mount he bowed deepest of all, then looped an arm over his friend’s shoulders, flipped a switch on the motherboard, and steered Mudhead to the microphone. There was a short squeal of feedback. “Go ahead,” he said. “Do me proud.”

Vane sat on a three-legged stool with his hands pressed between his knees and began to speak. “After all we’ve been through together, it looks like we’re all gonna have to shut down together. In a way we got lucky: we’ve got advance notice of a humongous swarm of locusts coming our way. We can’t see the swarm from here, but airplanes like the one that comes every week have seen it from high in the sky, and know its course and speed. The men who talk to the airplanes have told me the swarm will be here some time tomorrow night. It will spare nothing, but, before we all ‘achieve demise’, I don’t see any reason we can’t evacuate this place, working through tonight and tomorrow, using the pickup trucks. We’ve done so many drills it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Mudhead’s translation into Saho tapered off. Other than the small noises of animals and children there was dead silence. With his hands clasped behind his back, Mudhead slowly turned around, his expression bored. “Mamusetman already know plague. Runner tell Fieldman. Fieldman tell boy. Boy tell everyman.” A certain smugness lit his face. “Radio small deal.”

“This isn’t about your stupid pride, Africaman. It’s about survival. I just spent all day arguing with everybody and his mother, trying to make this happen so nobody gets hurt. We’re evacuating! ¿Comprende?” He glared at his motionless audience. “Excuse me. Am I stuttering? Why are all you bozos just standing there?” He rose dramatically, thrusting out his robes like great black wings. “Everybody pack up! You heard the man. Shoo! This fiasco’s history.” His only answer was a field of grins. After a minute he said out of the side of his mouth, “They’re not going anywhere, are they?”

Mudhead shook his head. “Mamusetman.”

Vane threw up his arms. “Idiots!” he cried. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Mudhead nodded ironically. “Pretty amazing idiot.”

The rest of the day was devoted to hammering out a strategy. Zero-hour drills grew increasingly tight and smooth, due both to the Afars’ conditioning and to their almost blind obedience to the harsh translated commands of Mudhead. There was absolutely no indication of a threat on the horizon, but that night dogs were howling like banshees, the bird population was all in a flap, and bawling cats were taking to the rooftops and Fields. Goats bleated, camels roared, children screamed at the constantly rattling hatches and coops. Fathers sent boys and girls shinnying up trees to hand down nestlings, and before dawn the last birds took off, ditching paradise for Hell. Within the hour they were all back, lighting in the canopies and rebounding. It was a big desert out there.

When Vane opened the new morning with Strauss, he was surprised and elated to be standing before a perfectly clear sky. He spent half the day up on North Rim, pinching himself with one hand and gripping his walkie-talkie with the other, giving useless reports to Mudhead while wrestling with the idea of telling Tibor to call it off. Vane searched the horizon until his eyes were burning. A little after noon he noticed a wavy haze that gradually condensed into a thin dark line. The line wobbled at its flanks, appearing to thicken even as he stared.

That was enough. He immediately rang up all Posts. At the sirens’ wail the Afar broke into a manic supermarket sweep, hurling everything salvageable into wheelbarrows and truck beds. Immature fruit was ripped from trees, leaves of root vegetables were hacked off for fodder, livestock and pets were rounded up and tethered indoors. Pickups were moved from Utility Squares to Guard Posts, that Guards might have last-minute transportation to the safety of Basement and Cellar. The Posts wouldn’t last five minutes in the coming storm. Upon completion, the Afar responded to a prolonged series of triple beeps by calmly filing into their Domos and firmly closing their gills and doors. Everything went without a hitch.

With little else to do but be out and visible, Vane devoted himself to Bulwark stops, unable to keep his eyes off the horizon. By three o’clock the dark line was a flat black flow. Occasionally grayish towers would rise a thousand feet and more, collapsing even as others rose. In this way the swarm came on; an unreal, deepening entity lunging in slow motion.

Four hours later the skyline was a heaving black shelf under the natural deep blue of twilight. Through his glass Vane could see dozens of swarm appendages appearing as independently flaring plumes; visible one moment, replaced by flanking plumes the next. The Afar remained locked inside their Domos, gills drawn. Only Vane, Mudhead, Kid, and the Guards were up on the Rim, watching the black cloud appear to compress itself as it approached. Soon it was so dense it completely obscured the world behind it.

While they waited they grew aware of the swarm faintly pattering, its numberless wings beating like a distant downfall. Vane, twirling his forearms, signaled a Guard to trigger the chain of sirens. He was just turning over his pickup when a black hand found his shoulder. Though Mudhead brought his face up close, he couldn’t be heard under the sirens. At last he pointed upward. Vane leaned out. At around four thousand feet the fading sunlight was being reflected by a slowly banking particle.

In Mudhead’s binoculars the object became a helicopter flying well above and ahead of the swarm. As Vane gazed, a pair of enormous pontoons dropped from its undercarriage and erupted like pods. Two waves of a pink-green liquid broke up in the air. Behind and above the copter came an old Air Tractor, and behind and above it another little plane, and another. Vane squeezed the binoculars until his knuckles were white. “Saints!” he cried, watching the twin puffs merge into a single slowly expanding cloud. “I’m carried by saints!” The closing Air Tractor cut its engines. A few seconds later a smaller, similarly-colored cloud plunged and evened out. Once clear, the little plane’s engines were re-fired and the red gleam rose, banked, and receded.

Vane swung back to the initial drop, glistening in the setting sun, and saw that the blood-olive droplets were slowly spreading. He lowered his gaze. Through the binoculars, individual insects could now be made out in the swarm, popping about in plumes that distended like flowing smoke and ash. High above and descending from the northwest, the long line of tiny aircraft blinked in the sun, veered deeply north, then swung ahead of the locusts to make their drops. So high were the planes that their loads, five hundred gallons and more, approached the earth only very gradually, buffeted by lofty winds and suspended by rising desert heat. The men on the Rim watched fascinated as each dully gleaming drop expanded to join a massive drifting island of dark greenish-violet mist. As further loads were absorbed, the mass gradually developed tapering limbs, and these fuzzy limbs, blood-and-bile against the glinting black swarm, descended as blown and battered shadow tentacles. The body of locusts couldn’t have been more than a few miles away. The swarm’s head was already being misted.

Vane pounded Mudhead on the shoulder. “This is where they get it!” he exulted. “The end of the ride!” For the benefit of the Guard at his elbow he shouted, “They won’t be able to breathe! That godawful cloud is a mix of straight gas and Ethel Merman. When it gets in their little lungs they’ll suffocate, they’ll drown.” He nodded excitedly. “They’ll be dropping like flies any second now!” The Guard grinned and copied the nod, but as soon as Vane turned away he looked over at Mudhead with a completely perplexed expression. Vane strained against the binoculars until he thought his head would split. “They’re really taking a soaking, you guys! They look like little rubies with that ruddy sun on ’em. Jesus, there must be a billion, ten billion of them.” He sucked a deep breath between his teeth. Then for the longest time there was nothing to be heard but that otherworldly pattering of numberless wings. Finally Vane lowered the binoculars and squinted thoughtfully. “They don’t die all that easy, do they?”

Mudhead grabbed his arm and shook it hard. “No more scienceman!” he said with uncharacteristic fervor. Vane didn’t like the look on his friend’s face at all. His eyes slid away guiltily. “Into house!” Mudhead snapped. “Now! Everyman! Go now!”

Vane angrily yanked his arm free and stared up through the binoculars, desperately searching for anything unusual--a break in the pattern, a show of sluggishness…anything. What he saw was tens of thousands of frenzied locusts smashing into one another, zipping in and out of view, so close they seemed almost in his face. Behind the front runners, countless vaulting insects flashed like sparks before the setting sun.

Like sparks. Like sparks…inspiration rocked Vane, ignited his brain, shook him like a wet dog. He dropped the binoculars and shoved Mudhead passionately. “Get in, man; get in-in-in-in in!” Mudhead backed away, regarding him strangely. After a sufficient pause he primly adjusted his white robes, walked with dignity around the front of the truck, and climbed in decorously. Before the door was halfway closed Vane had thrown the truck into first and taken off in a storm of dust and pebbles. “Tell the Guards,” he hollered, “to ditch their Posts. Order them to man the Bulwarks instead. I want holes cut in the tops.” Mudhead’s mouth worked soundlessly. Before he could frame a sentence Vane had pushed the truck to the nearest Post and yelled, “East!” Mudhead leaned out barking instructions, hanging on with his left arm and pointing with his right. The Guard immediately sprinted for the neighboring Bulwark. Vane sped along to the next Post and screamed, “West!” Mudhead shouted the message while making chopping motions with his left arm. The Guard ran off.

Vane tore down a Ramp honking the horn like a lunatic. The Afar popped out of Domos and came running behind, leaping into the truck’s bed recklessly. Vane fishtailed into a Utility Square and continued to hammer the horn while shouting himself hoarse. Mudhead, confused and unnerved, could only cling to the door and translate urgently. A dozen men and boys obediently grabbed pails and hopped aboard. Vane threw her into gear and made straight for the Mount. The nearest trucks, filling quickly with bucket-wielding bodies, fired up and raced right along behind him.

The Afar, leaping out before their trucks had slowed, hit the ground running and made for the tarp-covered gasoline tanker. Nobody pushed, nobody fought or fell; each man balanced his pail as it was filled and jogged back to a waiting truck without spilling a drop.

Once the bed of Vane’s pickup was full he stalled in reverse, lurched in first, nearly stalled again. The men and boys in back balanced their pails frantically, using their cupped hands to scrape spilled gas off the bed even as their driver careened across Ridge Bridge with the other trucks close on his tail. When Vane hit Rim Road he was so blown away he almost stalled the truck again. He drove weaving like a drunk to the bleak oblong silhouette of Bulwark NW14, the roiling, glistening spectacle filling his vision. A Guard stood on top waving his machete, looking like an animated scarecrow before a sky that was all locusts. Men leaped out of the truck and immediately formed a brigade up a ladder leaning against the Bulwark’s flank. While boys doused the Bulwark’s taut walls, the Guard ran back and forth along the top, pouring gasoline through holes he’d chopped in the canvas.

Vane watched the trucks pulling up down the line, saw the spiders scurrying up the tall ladders. He ran to a Post where he could observe from between Bulwarks, and found himself confronting a solid wall of insects, completely saturated and coming on strong. He scanned high with Mudhead’s binoculars. The last plane was receding to the west, the final light in a string of minuscule jewels.

He dashed back to his truck, hauled up Mudhead and yelled instructions in his face while leaning on the horn. In thirty seconds the bed was full of black clinging bodies. Pickups along the Rim honked in acknowledgment and raced to follow the leader. Mudhead leaned out the passenger’s window and coughed out directions in Saho as Vane sped along East Rim. The smell of gasoline was everywhere. They took a Ramp on two wheels, came down hard on Bisecting Way, and made straight for Stage Street. Other trucks, responding to the waved signals of Vane’s bailing riders, shot into the community, the men and boys spilling out and sprinting for their Domos.

Vane hurtled round the Mount and straight into gutted Warehouse, taking out a stack of pallets and almost turning the truck on her side before stalling in a cloud of flour. The men staggered out coughing; Mudhead to a broad wood centerpost, Vane to a lethal pile in the corner. Vane commenced scattering boxes of explosives, miscellaneous chemical stores, and bits of broken machinery every which way, at last letting go with a whoop of triumph. That sound verified Mudhead’s worst fear, and when he saw Vane hauling out the sealed crate of flares he dropped to his knees in horror. “No, Bossman!” he gasped. “Not fire…” The apocalyptic vision was too much for him. Mudhead collapsed on a pile of damaged gills, hands clutching his chest. Vane backpedaled dragging the crate, and as he crouched over Mudhead the gangly figure of Kid appeared outside, creeping up between the truck’s tracks. His black flashing eyes ran over the pickup, the men, the crate of flares between them. Putting two and two together, Kid ran inside, grabbed the dead end of the crate and helped Vane heave it onto the bed just behind the cab. He watched intently as Vane stumbled back to help his number two.

Vane had Mudhead halfway to his feet when he was arrested by the sound of shattering glass. Both men turned to see Kid spinning a pickax above his head and grinning wildly. The youngster cleared the remaining glass from the truck’s rear window by swiping the tool side to side, jumped behind the wheel and started the engine, revved it dramatically.

“Not yet!” Vane hacked. “Guards first. Stop!” He sagged in the weight of Mudhead’s embrace. “God damn it, Kid, that’s an order!” Kid saluted smartly and threw the truck in reverse. He slammed it into a mound of loose fertilizer, jammed it in first and tore outside, barely keeping the truck under control. Still clinging, Vane and Mudhead ran wheezing up the Mount’s west slope just as the pickup swerved out of view. They froze in each other’s arms on the Stage, overwhelmed by the strangeness of the view. The entire northern sky was heaving with insects.

Something wet slapped Vane’s face. He put a hand to his cheek and brought back a struggling locust, threw it down in disgust, stamped on it twice. The next thing he knew they were plummeting all around; bouncing off the Big Tarp, slamming into the Stage, instantly rebounding in the direction of anything growing. Vane bent to his Eyes in a dark driving rain. North and West Rims looked like fog banks dissolving in a blizzard. Behind this blizzard a black wave was crashing in slow motion. He scanned Rim Road rapidly, west to east, until he caught the little white truck reeling through the blur. A tiny red light appeared above the cab. A second later it was arcing toward a Bulwark’s wall.

“Go!” Vane shouted. He shoved Mudhead hard. “Run like hell.”

Mudhead fluttered down the Steps toward his Domo, slipping on flopping insects, while Vane watched Kid tossing flares as fast as he could reach back and grab them. Gas-soaked canvas caught immediately. Flames raced up the sides, danced along the tops, and then a strange, jerky strand of fire was leaping Bulwark to Bulwark. Landing locusts combusted and shot off like sparks in a foundry, blew away as fiery puffs, ignited pyrotechnically in random clumps and streaks. Silhouetted against leaping spires, the wriggly sticks of burning Guards ran staggering down the Inner Slopes.

Kid’s weaving pickup slammed into a Bulwark and bounced away, red tendrils clinging to its side. An instant later the little truck was a fireball spinning down East Inner Slope. Right before Vane’s eyes, the entire Rim blew into a swirling ring of fire. He pried himself from his Eyes and tumbled down the Steps to Stage Street, his body casting erratic shadows in all directions. He paused in the middle of the Street, unable to resist a last look. The Bulwarks were now a string of exploding firecrackers, hurling lightning-like prominences in all directions. Behind this intense display, the great wave of locusts was just breaking on the bright hoop of leaping flames.

Vane put down his head and ran, kicked open his gate and staggered through his front Yard in a vile downpour. And then all hell broke loose: locusts, exploding in pockets, shot into the crater as flaring pinwheels, radiated shrapnel-wise, flashed and passed. Those insects separated by a yard or more caught fire individually, while those coming down in tight groups went right back up like sparklers. Locusts in actual physical contact created zigzagging streamers and wobbly arms.

A tower of flame rose out of West Rim. Another appeared to the north. Vivid red veils swayed back and forth, momentarily spiking at points of particular intensity. Then, in one great spewing ejaculation, the entire Rim became a broad envelope of flame. Overhead, a cloud of tiny meteors shot past in a dazzling rush, their moist smoke tails dropping to drag through the trees as long wavy ghosts. Suffocating in a hot noxious fog, Vane shielded his face, was knocked on his side, groped to his feet and was knocked right back down. He scrambled to his knees and pitched headfirst through his front door, pulling a cloak of smoke in behind him. He slammed the door, his eyes and lungs on fire. The door flew back open. A heartbeat later a hundred lunatics were hammering on his roof.

Worthless and Solomon lay huddled in a far corner, trying to escape the inrushing smoke. Vane was overcome by coughing. On his knees, he swam blindly through the acrid fumes and lunged into the huddle.

Just outside, a torrent of flaming locusts spattered and skidded on the walk. The last thing Vane remembered was choking on a mouthful of fur in a jackhammer hail. He and his beasts, competing for air, went spinning into abyss.