Joshua reread the letter twice, slid it back into its envelope, and put the envelope in an inside jacket pocket. He was wearing civilian clothes because off-duty American personnel, by treaty stipulation, were not permitted to wear their uniforms in either Marakoi or Bravanumbi. No one on either side wished to foster the impression that the Americans comprised an occupation force. Joshua therefore resembled an ambitious young native politician, a newcomer to the WaBenzi tribe. Although his nervousness distinguished him from most of the other smart go-getters drinking their lunches at Karsanji’s, he had not yet drawn undue attention to himself.
His mind turning like a merry-go-round past all the items in his mother’s letter, he drank, ordered more wine, and drank again. The last shuttle back to base left the embassy grounds at midnight; he could spend the next ten hours right here. For dinner, a kidney pie and a mug of thick Irish stout; then back to wine again. If he could not decide which long-range goal to pursue now that White Sphinx had ended and a thousand conflicting options vied for his approval, at least he could kill the remainder of the day.
Effortlessly. Painlessly.
“May I join you?”
Joshua looked up to see Alistair Patrick Blair standing beside the chair his mother had deserted.
Unenthusiastically he nodded the Great Man into the empty place.
“Where is Mrs. Monegal?”
“Leaving the country.”
“So soon?”
“She’s supposed to begin a promotional tour for her new book. Her visit here required her to drop four stops from her schedule, and her publisher did not exactly smile on the deletion.”
“She should tell her publisher to go to blazes,” Blair said amiably. “I never tour for my books.”
“Only to raise money for your digs.”
“That’s true enough.”
“My mother makes her living from her writing. My father made no arrangements to provide his family with survivors’ benefits, and he died before he got his Air Force pension.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Joshua.”
The two men stared at each other. Yesterday Joshua had unburdened himself of two years of his subjective experience in the distant past. Alternating questions about paleoanthropological and temporal matters, Blair and Kaprow had grilled him for ten solid hours—for the benefit of their own insatiable curiosity and two silently grinding tape machines. Joshua had told all, not omitting the details of his long and intimate relationship with the habiline woman he had named Helen.
That relationship explained the Grub, and Joshua did not intend to yield his daughter to anyone for the purpose of illegal, unethical, and immoral biological experiments. She was, as Kaprow had already conceded, a human being. Any viable offspring of a human parent was by definition—yes, by definition: his —a human being, and by denying him custody of the child, the United States Air Force and the Zarakali government were in violation of one of his most basic human rights. At the end of the ten-hour session Joshua had broken down and cursed both men, surrendering wholeheartedly to rage if not to tears.
“You’ve been drinking quite a lot, I think. Do you mind if I try to overtake you?”
“What for?”
“Well, Joshua, a celebration.”
“Of the fact that I’ve blown your Homo zarakalensis theory right out of the water?”
“If you like. However, I’m not convinced that you have, you know.”
“Or of your scuzzy treatment of my daughter and me?”
“Joshua, the child is a native Zarakali, with all the rights and privileges accruing to citizens of our republic. It’s possible that we could find excuses to limit your freedom, but never hers.”
“What, then, are we celebrating?”
“I thought Americans passed out cigars. I’ve not yet got mine. I suppose this excellent vintage must suffice.”
Joshua stared at the Great Man.
“Your first embarkation on the ocean of fatherhood.” Blair lifted the glass that one of Karasanji’s wine stewards had just provided him. “To Joshua Kampa, the New Adam, Futurity’s Sire.”
“Bullshit.”
“Very pretty, very aromatic bullshit.”
“But bullshit nonetheless.”
“Mzee Tharaka told me this morning that no matter what either I or the American authorities wish, your daughter must be remanded to your custody immediately. Should we balk on this point, he will expel me from my cabinet position and the Americans from their expensive new military facilities.”
“You told him about the Grub?”
“He already knew, Joshua.”
“How?”
“It seems that two of our nation’s would-be astronauts are also intelligence agents. They ran a fishing launch up and down Lake Kiboko during the White Sphinx Project and recorded your return to us through the telephoto lens of a hand-held movie camera. It was impossible to get you and the child from the omnibus to the medical station without bringing you briefly into the open.”
Joshua dimly remembered having seen a boat on the lake—a small boat, always at a distance.
“There’s more. Some of those bothersome Sambusai who occasionally come foraging over the protectorate—well, it appears that one or two of those fellows are also in Mzee Tharaka’s employ, for our President-for-Life has many eyes and ears. He was quite impressed with you the day you visited the Weightlessness Simulation Incline. He considers you a brave man. Before you return to the United States, you will be made an honorary citizen of Zarakal in a private ceremony at the President’s Mansion.
Do you begin to understand what you have to celebrate, Joshua?”
“The Grub is mine!”
“I would think you might wish to give her a more dignified name. Mzee Tharaka is sure to demand that much.”
“How do you think President Tharaka would like Monicah?”
“Monicah?”
“It’s a nice monicker, don’t you think? It’s the name I’ve had in mind, a decent English/Zarakali name.”
When Blair did not reply, Joshua added, “What else does the President intend to demand?”
Nonchalantly sipping, Blair beaded his mustachios with tiny rubies of Chablis. He patted his mouth with a napkin and eyed the passing traffic. “I fear that I’ve misspoken, Joshua. The President hopes you will always consider this country a second homeland; that once you have left the American military you will agree to reside in Zarakal with your daughter for at least a portion of each year. To this end, he has determined that you should receive a small annual stipend for your part in solidifying relations between our two countries. Also, a high-rise apartment here in Marakoi. It would be a shame, he believes, for, ah, Monicah to grow up solely as an American, nourished on hamburgers and banana splits, educated by television programs and cassette recorders, uprooted from the soil, the people, and the culture of her homeland. The idea of such total deracination appalls the President, and he is sure that you, as an intelligent black man, will see the matter pretty much as he does.”
“A high-rise apartment in Marakoi takes care of the problem?”
“Not entirely, no. Mzee Tharaka wishes you to regard yourself as a bridge between two worlds.
Marakoi is merely one of the anchors for the span. The other anchor could be Pensacola, Florida, or Cheyenne, Wyoming, or Wichita, Kansas. Wherever you like. But if you reject the high-rise apartment here in Marakoi, the bridge collapses for want of support, and commerce between your daughter’s native land and her adoptive one must necessarily cease, at least for you and your daughter. President Tharaka’s watchword has always been Let there be commerce.”