No, it wasn't the futility of the situation that was making me think about resigning. I'd fight the worms forever, no matter how ugly the odds.
No. This was really about Duke. I felt responsible.
Damn it anyway!
It was Shorty all over again, but with a vengeance. I'd burned Shorty-and the worm that came down on top of him. Shorty had been lucky; he'd died quick; but Duke might take years.
If I did resign, I could probably go to work immediately for Dr. Fletcher. I already had the security clearance.
It was very tempting. I even went so far as to unclip my phone from my belt.
But I didn't call. No. I might be able to resign from the army; I'd fulfilled the basic obligation over a year ago; but I'd never be able to resign from the pain.
And that was the real issue.
I pulled off the freeway in Santa Cruz, but inside my head I was still in the same place. Stuck.
And I wasn't looking forward to seeing my mother either. I knew what that was going to be like.
She had an office-apartment in a private (read fortress) community called Fantasy Valley Towers, a sprawling complex of bubbles, domes, and spires like something out of a Hollywood fairy tale. The style was called Apocalypse Baroque. Inside the walls, it was a maze of arches, terraces and balconies. Before the plagues, it must have been very expensive. Now it looked run down-and even a little wild.
The front doors of Mother's apartment were twice as tall as I was, and they looked like they were made out of crystal. But the effect was spoiled by the unswept leaves piled up against the portico.
Mother answered the door with a flourish and a wild laugh. She was wearing a gaudy concoction of bright silks and feathers; she was a cascade of pink and scarlet-and around her neck, she had a silver and turquoise Navajo squash blossom necklace, with twelve jeweled squashes on each side. It looked heavy. So did the rings on her fingers.
"Ahh-here's my baby now!" she cried. She presented her cheek for a kiss. It tasted of powder. She had a glass in her hand. "I'm sorry we didn't come and visit you in the hospital, but they wouldn't let us-"
"It's all right. I wouldn't have been very good company anyway-"
She took my wrist and led me out onto the terrace, calling loudly, "Alan-! Alan! Jim is here! Jim, you remember Alan, don't you?"
"The surfer-?"
"No, silly. That was Bobbie-" Bobbie had been only two years older than me; when I met him he still hadn't decided what he wanted to be when he grew up. "-This is Alan Wise. You remember, I told you about him-"
"No, you told me about Alan Plaskow."
"I did?"
"Uh huh. I don't think I know this Alan."
"Oh, well-"
This Alan was tall and blond and graying at the temples. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled. His handshake was just a little too hearty, and his chest was in the process of migrating south toward his stomach.
There was another man on the terrace too. He was short and dark and of Japanese descent. He wore thick glasses and a dark gray business suit. He looked like a lawyer. Alan introduced him as Shibumi Takahara. Mr. Takahara bowed politely. I bowed back.
Alan slapped me on the shoulder and said, "Well, son-it must feel good to get home for a little old-fashioned cooking, eh?"
"Uh-yes, sir. It does." Except this wasn't home and my mother hadn't cooked a meal herself since before the Hindenberg went down.
"What are you drinking?" he asked. He was already at the bar, dropping ice into a glass. "'Nita? Do you want a refill?"
"Do you know how to make a Sylvia Plath?" I asked.
"A what-?"
"Never mind. You probably don't have the ingredients anyway."
Mom was looking at me funny. "What's a Sylvia Plath, Jim?"
I shrugged. "It's not important. It was just a joke."
"No, tell us-" she insisted.
Mr. Takahara answered her. "It's a layer of mercury, a layer of salad oil, and a layer of creme de menthe. You drink only the top layer." I looked at him sharply. Behind his glasses, his eyes were twinkling.
Mom frowned. "I'm afraid I don't get the joke. Do you get it, Alan?"
"'Fraid it's a little too deep for me, hon. How's about a Crimson Death?"
"Uh, no thanks. I've had enough Crimson Death this month. I'll just have a beer, if you don't mind."
"Don't mind at all," he said. He ducked behind the bar, muttering to himself. "Beer, beer ... where's the beer-? Ah!" He came up with a slender green bottle. "Here we go-private stock. Imported especially for you from exotic, erotic, exciting... Topeka!" He poured with a flourish.
"Down the side, please-" I pointed.
"Eh?"
"You pour beer down the side of the glass, not the center-"
"Oh, well-it's too late now. Sorry." He handed me the glass of beer suds and the still half-full bottle. "I'll know for next time, right?"
"Yeah, right." There wasn't going to be a next time.
"I guess I'm just not used to pouring my own drinks," he said, sitting again. He patted the couch next to him and glanced toward my mother. She came over and sat down-a little too close. "I'm too used to being taken care of." He grinned and slid his arm around my mother's shoulders.
Mother said, "Alan-Jim's been off fighting those awful Chatorrans-."
"Oh? Really?" He looked interested. "Have you actually seen any-?"
"Uh-first of all, it's pronounced `Ktorran.' The `Ch' is silent. It's sort of a click before the `T.' Just say the word `victor' and leave off the 'vi-."'
"Oh, well-" my mother said, excusing herself with a wave. "I never watch the news. I only read about them in the morning papers.
"-And, yes," I said to Alan of the hearty handshake; I said it coldly, "I have seen a few. Quite a few, in fact."
"Really?" he asked. "They really exist?"
I nodded. I sipped at my beer. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I was debating inside whether I should be polite or tell the truth. My mother had the "dance for Grandma" expression on her face, Alan Wise wore a big plastic smile, but Mr. Takahara was watching me quietly. The truth won out.
I looked across at Alan Wise and asked, "Where have you been that you don't know what's happening?"
He shrugged, "Right here. The good old U. S. of A. Where have you been?"
"Colorado. Wyoming. Northern California."
"You're kidding! We have-how do you say it?-Torrans right here in California?"
"One of the worst infestations I've ever seen. Just north of Clear Lake. "
"Well... I'll be damned." He looked at my mother and gave her a little squeeze. "I didn't know that. Maybe we should drive up some Sunday and have a look. What do you think, 'Nita?"
I blinked. He couldn't really have meant that! I put my glass down on the end table, and said quietly, "That area is sealed off. And even if it weren't, that wouldn't be a very good idea."
"Oh, come now-" He dismissed me as casually as if I'd just told him the sky was pink. This far south and this close to the coast, it wasn't. "I think you're exaggerating the case, son. It's just some more of that same military thinking that got us into Pakistan thirteen-fourteen years ago. Of course, you probably don't remember that. You were just a little tyke then-"
"I know about Pakistan," I said. I'd had time to do a lot of reading in the hospital.
"Well-let me tell you something, son. You're too close to the forest. You don't have the perspective. You don't have objectivity. Y'see, this thing with the Ch'torrans, K'torrans, whatever-it's overrated. Oh, now-'' he held up a hand to keep me from interrupting "-I'll grant that there's really something out there. I'm sure that some old lady somewhere was actually frightened out of her panties by a big pink caterpillar; but when you look at the whole picture-like I have-you'll see that a young man like yourself needs to be looking toward the future."
"If there is one," I said dryly. Mr. Takahara's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.