Ignoring a woman asking for help with her stroller — why’d she bring a stroller? — Pearl hopped down, she had to find her son. As she walked she leafed through the Grammar, though this was dicey, she had to keep checking her footing from one tie to the next, and the text was a mash of arcane language — An Object of Whose Possession He Is Jealous, A Victim of the Mistake, A Cause or Author of the Mistake. .
Gip’s face hovered in her thoughts, a pleading look in his eyes, but she couldn’t picture the rest of him — bodiless, an apparition. She returned to the Table of Situations, and there it was, the book’s final chapter: Recovery of a Lost One. Pearl flipped to it greedily. But the section was blank, all the way to the end, page after page wiped clean.
Pearl stumbled, nearly fell, someone seized her arm, told her, I gotcha — probably best to save the book for later, to which Pearl replied feebly, I’m trying to find my son. Someone passing heard this and laughed: She’s trying to find her son! and someone else said, You’re the only one, lady! And the person who’d helped her, a woman in a Y’s cap, suggested, We’re all trying to find someone, hey?
Shaded by the cap’s brim the woman’s eyes were kind: she’d spoken not from scorn, but solidarity, and her grip was gentle. People streamed past, giving them room. If you’re all right, said the woman, we should get going. Looping arms she and Pearl, as teammates in a three-legged marathon, rejoined the march.
Y’s fan? Pearl asked. The woman said, You bet. I used to play for them, Pearl said shyly, and her arm was squeezed and she was told, I know, I know who you are. . Pearl, right? This was dizzying — her own name, spoken aloud, amid all this! Like being kissed. Yes, she said, with the grace of a prayer: Pearl. That’s me, yes.
They spoke of their families — the woman was searching for her two girls, they’d stayed over at friends’ places in Bebrog. While she’d dispatched herself to find them her husband, an NFLM Helper, was rescuing stranded westenders in a catamaran. People Park’s where everyone’s going, she said, that’s where I’ll find my daughters. What conviction, Pearl thought, tightened her grip on the Grammar, leaned close, and said, What about my son? Don’t worry, the woman said, he’ll be there too. Everyone will.
Pearl’s spirits warmed: such faith! And all of these people, together, how could they be wrong? But after a few minutes of walking in silence the woman tensed. Up ahead, where the tracks curled inland, more walkers joined the procession at Bay Junction Station. So many, whispered the woman. Her grip loosened, her pace slowed. And here they were, hundreds of refugees, from both sides of the platform, pouring onto the tracks.
Keep talking, Pearl wanted to say, tell me it’s going to be all right. But the crowd had become oppressive, each person’s mouth pressed to the back of some stranger’s neck. No one could speak, the tracks were so full of people, all those people, still more people. . With a sudden heave from behind, Pearl’s arm was knocked free. She reached for her friend, but the crowd enfolded her, the Y’s cap slipped away.
Stopping was impossible. People were wedged in so tightly Pearl couldn’t even turn to look back. Already she struggled to recall the woman’s face, her voice, the hope shining in it, the warmth of her body against Pearl’s — gone, all of it gone. Except the cap, the logo, that last image of it sucked into the mob. And now she was trapped alone inside this mechanical push toward People Park, the site of the crime, and the only place her son might be.
AS A GUNSLINGER with a pair of pistols, Noodles pointed two fingers, thumbs extended, at the sky. One of the newscopters was swooping down toward the Thunder Wheel.
What’s happening? said Wagstaffe, videoing. Are they going to take us out?
What do you mean, take us out, said Magurk, glancing around for a weapon.
Rescue us.
Oh. Are they?
Griggs said, Noodles?
Noodles nodded, nodded.
Wait, are you just nodding, or is that a yes?
He nodded some more. The newscopter hovered, gusts from its propellers flattened the men’s khaki jackets. Griggs’ crusty hairdo twitched as if electrified.
A rope ladder flipped out of the chopper’s cabin, unfurled, and hung.
We can’t get out, said Wagstaffe, because of these fuggin harnesses.
Noodles stopped nodding. He frowned.
Isn’t this what Helpers are for? said Magurk, snatched Griggs’ walkie-talkie, shouted into it, Hey, who’s there, who’s this?
It’s Walters. And Reed. Is that the Special Professor? Good lookin out.
Right, right, good lookin out, said Magurk. Silentium too, and all that.
Sorry, we still haven’t found Favours. We’re hoping someone scooped him up —
No, no, this isn’t about that. Though, hey, keep trying. Listen, we’re stuck on top of the T-Wheel. We need someone to let us out.
We?
The HG’s.
Oh. All of you?
The rope ladder dangled. Griggs strained for it, couldn’t reach.
Walters, said Magurk. Do you have a boat?
Yeah. Reed’s skiff. That’s how we’re looking for Favours —
Listen, forget Favours. Get over here. Bring a saw.
But what about —
This is an order, growled Magurk. Favours will be fine. You need to let us out.
Good lettin out, said Walters with a sad laugh.
Hurry up. People are starting to notice us.
THE TRAIN ROUNDED the island’s southwest corner and dry land appeared: high on a hilltop a cluster of huge houses sat untouched by the floodwaters, beneath it the neighbourhood was lost under a leaden swamp laced with emerald veins. The smell was sour, it flooded Kellogg’s nostrils and made his eyes weep.
I’m not actually crying, he assured Elsie-Anne.
The PA announced Knock Street Station.
Ignore the announcements, gasped Bean, between pulls on his inhaler. We’re not stopping anywhere, it’s just straight through to Whitehall, and the ferry —
And then we’ll go home, cracked someone behind Kellogg, and grim laughter flitted batlike through the car.
Well of course, said Bean. That’s the plan: then we’ll ferry you home.
The train whisked through Knock Street Station. Below a trio observed this from the roof of a house. Their faces were invisible inside pulled-up hoods, they seemed relaxed despite the water rising all around. They seemed, Kellogg thought, to be waiting for the train, watching it expectantly — almost hungrily — as it headed into the Zone.
Next stop, Upper Olde Towne, said the PA. Upper Olde Towne Station, next stop.
Nope! screamed Bean.
On they went, clacking and swaying. We’ll be there soon, Kellogg told Elsie-Anne.
Very soon, Dad, she said, and closed her eyes.
From the tracks came a thunderclap. The train lurched, skidded, all the riders were pitched forward and cried out in one voice. Kellogg turtled over Elsie-Anne to shelter her from the pile-on, bodies heaped upon his back, a foot connected with his face, his mouth filled with a tinny taste. And then they lurched to a violent, screeching stop.
Everything was still. Resting at a crooked slant, the train hissed. A few yards ahead and above was the half-built dome of UOT Station. Gingerly, people disentangled themselves from one another.
Is everyone okay? screamed Bean, and fell into a fit of coughing.
There was a streak of blood on the floor beside Kellogg’s head, was it his own, he couldn’t tell. Annie, he said, you okay?
We’re okay, Dad, she said. But —