Piers Anthony - Rings of Ice

“Do you know how to sew?” Gus inquired.

“Excellently.”

“Well, let me tell you where we’re going,” Gus said enthusiastically. “You know, there’s a sewing machine here! This rain won’t stop. We have food—”

“That’s fine, but I’m only going to Gainesville.”

“I’d better explain,” Gus said, guiding her back. “This rain—”

Zena transferred to the seat Gus had vacated, so that she could talk to Thatch privately. The chair was capacious and comfortable; one could readily fall asleep in it. But what a contrast to the fury of nature outside, so thoroughly visible here! “Hello,” she said.

Thatch’s eyes flicked over to her, then back to the road. He didn’t answer. The rain made driving dangerous, even at the moderate speed he was going, but he could talk if he wanted to. She wondered if the heat of physical struggle had made him forget his shyness before, while her direct approach in the absence of Gus choked him up.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” she said.

“Forget it.” She could see his knuckles whiten on the wheel. Gus might readily forgive; but not this man.

“If I hurt you, I’ll try to clean it up,” she said. “I am sorry, Thatch. I thought you had a real gun, and I overreacted.” How much easier it was to apologize to an unhandsome man, as though he were less dangerous!

“It’s not that,” he said tightly.

“You aren’t much for socializing, are you?” It was amazing how his obvious discomfort made her feel at ease; not long ago Gus had teased her similarly.

He smiled momentarily, still not looking at her. In that moment his weak-chinned, scarred face gained strength. “Gus takes care of that sort of thing.”

She was tempted to inquire exactly what the relation between the two men was, but refrained. Some men preferred men, particularly those brought up in fatherless households. If this were his case, it really was not her business. In fact, that would verify that she had been mistaken about Gus’s familiarity; it could be his camouflage for a basic disinterest in the opposite sex.

Well, blonde Gloria would soon be the proof of that pudding! In any event, it behooved Zena to comprehend the real motives of Gus and Thatch. She might well be eating and working with them for several days in close quarters. “Do you do all the driving?”

“Gus doesn’t have a license.”

She was surprised; she had anticipated a demurral. “Was it revoked?”

“No, he never learned to drive.” Thatch was speaking more freely, now that they were talking about another person. He was shy and basically harmless; even when goaded to action by a threat to his friend, he had used that toy pistol!

“Well, I have a license,” she said. How much better to drive, even through this weather, than to sew buttons!

“You’re not part of the party.”

If Gus had said that, it would have had another meaning. “So you go along with everything Gus says?”

Thatch nodded affirmatively.

“If you trust me to fix your food,” she said, “you should trust me to drive.”

“It’s not that, Miss Emers. Gus has firm notions of propriety. Women don’t drive.”

“Call me Zena,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t.

Sure enough, he didn’t answer. His arms tightened again, and he stared straight ahead.

“You can’t do all the driving!” she exclaimed. “In this weather it must be an awful strain.”

“The job must be done.”

There wasn’t much to say to that, so she just watched ahead. There had been other traffic at the start of the rain, for the interstate was a busy highway. Now the moving traffic had thinned. It had been raining for an hour; many cars had stalled. Thatch went around them, maneuvering with skill.

Most of the traffic must have gotten under cover as the deluge had intensified. A number of vehicles were evidently waiting it out; they were pulled to the sides, dark lumps beyond the spray.

Zena shook her head. In time the water would rise up about them, and it would be too late for the hapless occupants. She wanted to cry the alarm—but even if she were not bound by paramilitary restrictions, it would be a hopeless task. There were hundreds, probably thousands of cars waiting; she could not warn them all. And if she could the people would not believe her. Why play Cassandra, the prophetess of doom?

Gloria and Gus returned. The blonde did know how to sew, and rapidly, too: she was wearing one of the outsize dresses Zena had passed over, and now it fit her spectacularly.

“So you don’t believe the rain will stop,” Gloria commented as they sat down in the dinette. She peered forward worriedly. “I do hope you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not mistaken,” Gus said. “Zena here’s a meteorologist. She was up in orbit watching the whole thing. She’ll tell you.”

“I have said nothing about it.” Zena protested.

“You don’t have to. You know I’m right—that’s why you’re coming along, even though you don’t like men.”

“I didn’t say that, either,” Zena said. If she had had something in her hand she would have thrown it at him, hard.

Gloria’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “Could I talk to you a moment, dear, privately?” she asked Zena.

And what did she have in her bleach-headed mind, Zena wondered. This group was not shaping up to her liking! But she nodded, reining her temper. “If you wish.”

They went to the bedroom/lounge and pulled the door across. “ Are you a meteorologist?” Gloria asked, her voice low so that it could not be overheard.

Zena had expected a question on a different topic, but this was just as bad.

“He’s serious,” the other woman said. “He believes the entire state is going to flood—and you aren’t denying it. I’m not one to place credence in a wild notion like that, but—”

Zena shrugged.

“I saw that band in the sky,” Gloria said. “It alarmed me. But I have a special reason to be concerned, so I hope you will tell me the truth.”

Zena would have been angry at this affront to her integrity, but realized that in this circumstance it was a fair question. “Either the rain will stop—or it won’t. I can’t help you.”

“Be patient, dear. This is difficult, and I may have to get off soon anyway. Gus wants me to—”

“To help restore civilization after the flood has wiped out the rest of humanity,” Zena finished. “He thinks we’re part of his post-deluge empire.”

Gloria looked at her, one brow arched. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it. So if the rain is that bad—and at this stage I’m almost ready to accept that!—it will be awkward.”

“I have already tried to make that plain to them. They think I’m merely being difficult.”

Gloria began to color. “More than awkward. You see, I am not quite what I appear to be. Ordinarily it doesn’t matter, but if it really floods—”

“Suddenly I don’t follow you.”

“I am not a woman. Not physically.”

Zena cocked her head. “Would you spell that out in monosyllables, please—dear?”

“I have a male body.”

Now Zena stared. “You say you are a man?”

“A transvestite, if you will, though that isn’t quite accurate. Male body in female clothing.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“The matter is subject to verification, if you insist.”

Zena realized with a growing shock that she meant it “No—I’ll take your word!”

Gloria looked relieved. “Thank you. So you see. I would not be much help in what Mr. Gunter has in mind. I wish it were otherwise.”

Zena rather suspected that it was otherwise, but she wasn’t going to gamble. “Why—”