So he immediately phoned for an appointment with the doctor in Marigot, the French part of the island. He decided to use his friend's Chevrolet to drive there.
But that too would not start, and it too had the white substance in the carburetor. And so did another friend's Peugot.
Peter John reasoned that if it were in the carburetors, it might have come through the gas. So he opened the gas tank of Betty, and there was a small explosion of white waxy material that splashed all over him. The material had been compressed somehow in the gas tank, and Peter John wondered who would do such a nasty trick to such nice cars.
He telephoned the bus company that ran through the island. But no one answered, strangely enough, and he decided to hitchhike. He had heard from tourists that in America, hitchhiking took a long time because many cars would pass up people, especially black people. But Peter John knew the people of St. Maar-
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ten's were nicer than that. He never had trouble hitchhiking, and he never passed up people, either.
But this morning no cars were on the road, as he walked.
He walked past the large, sprawling acres of the Puressence Laboratory, and there he saw, high on the hill, a few very tiny cars chugging around, spilling off a purple exhaust. He had never seen an exhaust like that, but even down on the road beneath the laboratory's high hill, he could smell its bitter odor. It made breathing hard, even at this great distance.
He saw cars on the road, but none of them were moving. A few had popped their gas caps, and the white substance that he thought someone had dumped into his car in a prank was spilling out of the other cars. One gas station was a mound of white wax with the pumps and the concrete they had been set into lying back on their sides.
Peter John was now flecked with little white spots where the white substance had touched him, and the spots stung—not greatly but like an annoying mosquito.
His doctor was a Dutchman who had married a Frenchwoman and decided to settle on the French side of the divided island. He had treated Peter John's entire family.
John had lost three of his eight children. He attributed that to God's will. But he still had five of the eight. He attributed that to his doctor's skill. Peter John was generally a very happy man. He was also considered "that fool Peter John" by many, including his doctor.
"Excuse me, doctor," he said after his long walk, "but a strange substance attacked my car and is now attacking me." He pointed to the painful white spots on his rich black skin.
"What did it do to your car?" the doctor asked.
"One day there was gasoline in my car, and the next there was this waxy burning substance."
"In the gas tank?" asked the doctor.
"It burns the skin," Peter John said. 83
"Yes, but did it do permanent damage to the engine?"
"I don't know."
"I will tell you why I ask. I have long admired that Ford station wagon of yours. Yes, I must confess. She has attracted me for years. What do you want for her?"
"I came to have my skin healed."
"All right. Take two aspirin and phone me if it doesn't get better."
"Why two aspirin?" asked Peter John.
"Why not two aspirin?"
"What good will they do me?"
"What harm will they do you?"
"They will not cure my skin trouble."
"If you know that, why did you come here?" said the doctor. He thought for a while, looking at Peter John's skin, and suddenly horror seized his face. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.
"No," he gasped.
"What is wrong? What have you discovered about me?"
"Maybe if your car was attacked by this, others might be also."
"Some were," Peter John said. "I saw them."
"I hope we're not too late," the doctor said. He ran out of the office, with Peter John following him. He ran down a garbage-strewn alley. He hopped over a fence. His knees were cut as he fell but he kept on running.
Finally, crying for air, the doctor reached a small building and threw open the doors. A sleek gray Peu-got sat on the immaculate white concrete, its tires gleaming black, its chrome polished perfect.
The doctor rushed to the front seat and put a key into the ignition. He saw that Peter John had followed him.
"It's in God's hands now," said the doctor. "We can only hope and pray it has not spread this far."
He closed his eyes, prayed, and turned the ignition. 84
There was a cough and a sputter and the Peugot kicked over and the doctor laughed, tears of gratitude coming to his eyes.
"I am happy for you," said Peter John.
"Would you like a ride?"
"I would like my skin cured."
"Let's try washing it," said the doctor. "I have some absolutely pure water that I keep for my car. You may use it on your skin, but not too much."
John saw the doctor pointing to the back of the garage. He saw the water in plastic jars. He saw that it came from springs in France. The label read: "This water exclusive for use with Peugot and not to be wasted on eyewashes, etc., etc."
Peter John poured the water over his arms. A soothing relief came to the burning little white spots. They even darkened a bit.
"It works," said Peter John. "May I keep this pure water?"
"For your skin?"
"Yes."
"That's awfully expensive stuff to use just for one's body," said the doctor. "But all right. Come ride with me. I will take you home. I want to see your station wagon for myself. Maybe I will not want to buy it anymore if it is badly damaged."
The doctor took the long route home to show Peter John how well a decent car ran. The route cut through the port of Peterburg, with the giant oil tanks. Everything on the island of St. Maarten's ran by oil, even the electric generators.
But as they approached the giant oil tanks, a strange thing happened. With a gigantic crunching gurgle, the tank tops began to rise, and Peter John and the doctor could see that the tops were rising on a foam of the white waxy substance. Tons of it, pushing up the top, looking like frosting on a giant birthday cake.
Slowly the lights of Peterburg dimmed. Windows opened as air conditioning stopped. People ran out into
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the streets, looking for someone to blame about the electricity going off.
"Hurry," said Peter John. He was frightened, for it was evening, and darkness was coming soon to the little island, and there would be only candlelight, as there had been a century before when Peter John's ancestors came to the island as slaves, purchased by the doctor's ancestors.
And then the doctor's car stopped.
The doctor put aside the pain in his heart and opened the hood of his dead car. He examined the gas tank. The gas cap almost popped off. Whatever this white stuff was, it attacked the gasoline and changed it. That was why Peter John's car had stopped. And his too.
Before his eyes, the doctor saw what was happening. The grease and lubrication of his car were moving. The doctor blinked. It was writhing as if it were alive, and then all the grease and oil turned white and waxy and still. A chemical process was happening before his eyes—possibly a bacteriological process. Whatever this bacterium was, it seemed to travel through the air and attacked all petroleum very quickly. And then it was still.
Around them, Peter John and the doctor saw other cars rolling to a stop. Radios and television stopped. Suddenly the island was still. A cricket chirped in the rich green growth that had been drinking the bright Caribbean sun all day. Somewhere off on a dark hillside, a cow mooed.