With hundreds of returnees on the Pipistrelle, there was a shortage of cabin space. Most shivered on deck in the open air. Moldenke and Salmonella considered themselves lucky to find a space to sit down against the fo’c’sle, where they had something to lean back against.
Moldenke closed his eyes for a few minutes of rest, but sat up when his bowel began to anger. There were free people sleeping everywhere. Could he find a place to relieve himself without stepping on them, or worse, cutting loose inside his uniform on the way to the ship’s rail? Given that choice, he elected to stay where he was and let go right there if it came to that. He thought back on what he had eaten that day.
“I’m having an attack,” he told Salmonella. “That scrapple this morning. It was a mistake. I can’t stop it.” He lifted a hip and emptied his bowels into the leg of his uniform.
In a moment, the Captain, standing on the fo’c’sle deck, looked over the rail and said to a mate, “Lower a lantern. I want to see what’s making that stink.”
When the lantern was lowered, Moldenke felt the heat of it on his head. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s a condition. These attacks come at the worst times.”
“You could have gone to the rail like everyone else.”
“I didn’t have time to get there.”
Salmonella affected a whine. “He’s my daddy and he’s very sick. Please. Leave him alone.”
The Captain turned to the mate. “The returnees are always sick and stinking. I’m going to my cabin and I’m closing the door.” He waved to the crowd on the deck. “Good night, all. We’ll be in Bunkerville by morning.”
In his conclusive study of the jellyhead gel sack, Scientist Zanzetti revealed his findings. These sacks have had a long history of study, always yielding contradictory evidence. The ontogenic contributions of the sack to the jellyhead brain vary greatly. Many theories have been proposed to account for its modifications. Whatever its phylogenetic significance, the gel sack is an important structure formed by invaginations of the head capsule.
When pressed, Zanzetti admits puzzlement. “We can’t understand it. The sacks communicate with distant sentient beings or entities, but why? Do they mean us harm?”
An aide of Zanzetti’s added, “We think they may be trying to use the jellyheads to weaken or destroy our culture, but haven’t perfected the training regimen. That’s why jellies do crazy things now. But in the future we see them getting better and better at civil behavior. Their influence then will be so subtle, so insidious, we’ll never notice. If this keeps up, we’ll become them. We’ll be jellyheads.”
A City Moon reporter on the scene asked the famous scientist if he meant that given enough time we could become indistinguishable from jellies.
“If my thinking is right, you can bet on it,” Zanzetti said.
“Is there no way to stop it? Is it too late?” the reporter asked.
“Don’t worry. Individuals won’t feel any change. It will happen slowly, over generations. Every thirty years or so the populace forgets the past. No one’s ever the wiser. It’s a brilliant strategy. Hats off to whoever designed those sacks.”
Salmonella pinched her nostrils closed. “You can’t sleep all night with that in your pants, or me either with the smell. Go over to the rail and dump it.”
“All right.”
Moldenke pulled his pant leg tight to contain the relatively small mass until he could get to the rail, stepping over sleeping passengers all the way.
One of them spat at him. “Watch where you’re stepping, you stupid son of a bitch.”
Once at the rail he extended his leg over the side and shook out most of the mass. There would be some streaks left behind in his unders and down the leg, but the better part of it was gone. Now he could sleep. He was tired enough that the slight odor that still clung to him wouldn’t interfere. He hoped there were still some of his clothes in the closet on Esplanade. He had a disturbing image of going into the house and finding the jellyhead tradesmen wearing them.
Having made his way back to the spot under the fo’c’sle, he fell asleep beside Salmonella, who kissed him lightly on the cheek, then poked him to stop his snoring.
As dawn broke, passengers awakened to a cloudy-butwelcome sunrise and Moldenke wasn’t alone in anxious anticipation. As the Pipistrelle made her docking maneuvers at Bunkerville Harbor, rumors flew among the passengers as they queued for disembarkation.
“I hear the city is in chaos.”
“No law, no money, no property, nothing. Just like Altobello. It’s crazy.”
“Did they close the hospitals and throw out the doctors? I’m feeling sick. I got radio poisoning.”
“A lot of us do. Will they take care of us?”
“You think we’ll get pass cards or money?”
Moldenke said, “If they make us wear uniforms, I hope they’re nicer ones than these.”
There were Bunkervillians out in the streets, gathered into groups, gesturing and talking. Some looked around as if waiting for an indication of what was to come now that the city was liberated, as if waiting for a motorcade with flags, loudspeakers, announcements, and insignias. “Everyone be calm. The city is in good hands.” But nothing official appeared. No one knew what to do. Had the liberation been no more than rumor?
Despite the anxiety and confusion on the streets, the Esplanade car from the Harbor to City Park was only an hour or two late. Moldenke and Salmonella ran to catch it. Through the windows they could see that there were only two or three seats unoccupied.
The jellyhead driver turned the crank on his fare meter. “That’s a half mil for each.”
Moldenke showed his Enfield Peters pass card. The driver cast a quick glance in his direction, then wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “That’s no good here, Peters. I don’t care who you are. We’re still using money until word comes down not to.”
“This card is all I have,” Moldenke said. “We’ve been in Altobello.”
Salmonella said, “I don’t have any money.”
The driver shrugged and put the car in gear. “This could all change tomorrow, friend. But till they tell us different, we’ll be taking cash. So pay or get off, the both of you.”
The passengers began to yell. “Get off! We can’t wait all day. You stupid morons.”
The car stopped.
“All right,” Moldenke said. He took Salmonella by the elbow and led her off.
After walking a few blocks, they passed Bunkerville Charnel, where a jellyhead demonstration was in progress. Forty to fifty of them, faces inked black, stood in front of the building beating on gongs and kettles with dunce caps on their heads. Around their necks were buckets full of stones. The eldest, most enfeebled among them had a deep incision in his neck caused by the heavy weight. They all knelt down on crushed glass, lit candles, looked up at the night sky and repeated the phrase over and over: “Give us liberty or give us death…Give us liberty or give us death.”
Scientist Zanzetti floats in the surf off Point Blast, going in and out with the tides. His assistants have spotted him from a distance and thought he was a log rolling in with the cool morning swells. He has rigged himself a tether line more than fifteen miles long, which allows him to float out considerable distances and explore the luminous fauna living near the edge of continental shelf. When he wants to come back to land quickly he need only push a button on his full-body flotation gear and he is reeled in automatically.
The walk from Bunkerville Charnel to the house on Esplanade was thirty or forty blocks. “We’ll be there in a few hours,” Moldenke told Salmonella.