David Palmer - Emergence

So three exclamation points…!

“Important, huh?” Adam could hardly fail to note shaking hand holding paper.

Nodded wordlessly, thoughts churning.

He waited decent interval; then tried again, still gently: “I read it, but I don’t understand the significance. Is this McDivott your ‘Teacher’?”

“Oh…” Returned to surroundings with a start. “Sorry. Yes. This is from Teacher, I’m sure; telling the Harpers to meet him somewhere; probably just prior to the attack, though maybe right after. And he’s worried about something — I don’t know what, but apparently something that will be a problem even after Mankind is gone — even after he’s gone himself, poor dear; Teacher was like that: Always worried more about others than himself.”

“Any idea what ‘it’ he was talking about?”

“No. And ‘Palomar’ is pretty vague, too — unless he could mean Mount Palomar, near San Diego. But I can’t imagine any connection between Teacher, the AAs, and an observatory. This doesn’t furnish much information.”

“Enough to get your hopes up, but raising more questions than it answers…”

“Exactly. Just enough to send us off on what will very likely end up a wild-goose chase and waste a lot of time.”

“Not really; even if nothing turns up, there are plenty of AA addresses out there. You’ll just be revising the order in which you visit them. You’re looking at a potential gain, even if it’s a long-shot. You can’t lose, no matter what.” Smiled beatifically. “I don’t see the problem.”

Adam never so irritating as when correctly stating obvious, particularly when I’m the one overlooking it (correctness always delivered with such cheerful assurance). However, took deep breath, swallowed retort poised on tip of tongue; agreed was little choice: Any course other than proceeding to check out “Palomar” manifest nonsense.

Should, however, conclude sweep of Harpers’ office. No telling what else might surface.

Did so. Predictably, without profit.

And en route home afterward, Adam observed: “Seems an unlikely sort of coincidence. Are two of the Harpers married, and the other’s their son; or is it a husband/wife/brother thing, or what?”

Glanced across at him. Engrossed in driving; expression devoid of clues usually accompanying deadpan teasing. Possible he didn’t know? Had read Vol. II, glanced through Tarzan File, but perhaps missed that. Decided to accept question at face value.

“No, they’re married.”

“Who?”

“All of them.”

“Oh,” he replied disinterestedly; drove on. Several minutes later head snapped around, eyes narrowed in good-natured suspicion. Demanded, “ What?” Then relaxed. “Oh, I see. It really is a coincidence: All separately married; no relation?”

“No, not related at all. Nor married separately. Married. ” Couldn’t help smiling as watched Adam juggle possibilities. He noticed; grew truly suspicious.

Easy to tell when figured it out: Jaw went slack, eyes round. “All three of them…?” Adam exerted manful effort to be debonair; but expression — indeed, total aspect from head to toe — very embodiment of shocked disapproval.

(Naturally, have no idea whether men’s relationship extends beyond shared wife, but not about to let Adam off that easily.)

Smiled. Added helpfully: “Sure. Of course they’re not the only ones; lots of AAs are involved in group marriages. You mean you didn’t know?”

Didn’t. Tee-hee. Wolf in wolf’s clothing. Lecher, profligate, lady-killer, rake, debaucher, libertine, playboy. Swath-cutter amongst Baltimore’s fair sex. Any and all of above. Says he.

Well, maybe. But just discovered mile-wide chink in macho armor: Adam dyed-in-wool, card-carrying, soapbox-standing, old-fashioned sexual conservative! Face-to-face encounter with evidence of honest-to-goodness ménage à trois leaves him breathless with scandalized, bluenosed shock.

Hope exists for Adam after all. Gladder I found him by the day. Glad is coming with us…

Adam not kidding about hating prospect of three of us living in small van. Nor about mechanical, electronic ingenuity, ability. Has been busy past few weeks; all to good.

Example: Now attached to van’s rear by heavy-duty, load-equalizing hitch is lightweight, self-contained, 25-foot travel trailer. Clever notion: Enjoy luxuries without disadvantages intrinsic to vehicle unwieldy enough to carry them — in pinch, can drop trailer, proceed in van alone.

Adam sprung it as surprise: Went through Yellow Pages, visited dealers, located suitable unit; found, mounted hitch; hooked up, brought home. Then installed kitchen equipment matching that in parents’ land yacht. (My taste buds thank you, my appetite thanks you, I thank you…!) Quiet, multikilowatt, 120/240-volt, engine-driven Honda alternator replaces LP tanks on trailer’s A-frame tongue; powers everything.

Then he went through van with mad inventor’s eye, determined weaknesses, corrected. Rebuilt engine, replacing nearly every moving part; all with what described as “competition specs” (sounds impressive, but don’t ask me ). Same for running gear.

(Whatever… Bottom line, boy; don’t care how watch built — what time is it? Speak English! [Verbal inquiry worded more politely, of course. Some.])

“Okay, okay,” he agreed. Tone impatient, but eyes alight; clearly pleased with self. “What I’ve done will make the engine and drivetrain more reliable under load, and shifts the power range downward, which gives it more torque — makes it more powerful at low RPMs, and gives it much more traction so it can pull the trailer more easily and climb steeper grades.

“And it’s more efficient now; goes farther on the same fuel. Since we have to rely on finding cars to siphon from, which may or may not have enough to bother with, or a gas station whose tank caps we can force, that’s insurance.

“Sounds as if it was a lot of work.”

“It was.” He nodded. “But solving mechanical problems is fun; I’ve been doing it for years as a hobby — along with the electronic stuff.”

“How did a well-bred, artistic type like you pick up such a physical sort of interest?”

“You mean ‘rich and spoiled type’ and ‘filthy sort of interest.’ ” Adam grinned; displayed fine hands now covered with cuts, scrapes, bruises; embedded with dirt, grease. “It grew out of what you might call the ‘flip side’ of growing up terribly rich, with parents too wrapped up in their careers to spend time with me.

“I stayed busy. Even I could practice piano only so long; and I’m as quick a study as you, so academics took even less time. I whiled away a good bit of the rest following around my favorites among the house staff and learning their jobs. That’s how I discovered that I love cooking — and where the EMT training came from, of course.

“But that still left a lot of time. Now, I’d gotten a taste for approbation from performing on the piano, and I’d noticed that people were impressed by fast cars and people who built and drove them. It looked like an entertaining hobby and a good way to show off. Naturally, anything material I wanted, all I had to do was ask; cost was never discussed. That’s where the Lamborghini, the Ferrari, the Porsche, and the motorcycles came from — and, of course, the Trans Am I splattered.

“They hired Gus Wilson to take care of them. He was a proud old mechanic who used to run what he called a model garage. I became his shadow and he did his best to teach me everything he knew — it tickled him to discover that a rich, spoiled brat was genuinely interested in learning his craft, and didn’t mind getting his schoolgirl-soft hands dirty doing it. Gus taught me my rule-of-thumb engineering, mechanical, and electrical skills.