David Palmer - Emergence

Further, Adam’s subconscious evidently resisting hysterical strength tap programming. Explanation obvious, of course: After nursing me through misuse sequelae, not eager for firsthand experience. But will never achieve full journeyman/Master status without; certain techniques possible only through at least momentary burst of focused preternatural power.

Remember clearly Teacher’s induction formula; plus Adam good hypnotic subject: Achieves deepest somnambulistic trance state easily, first under my direction, later through own autohypnotic concentration. Listens quietly while in trance state; apparently absorbs programming formula. But posthypnotic triggering ineffective; available strength never exceeds norm.

Well, all I can do for now is maintain present training format: Continue kata critique, guidance; daily sparring; penetrate guard at will, while he can’t lay finger on me. Perhaps subconscious will get message.

That’s one problem; another is packing van, trailer for trip. Adam obviously graduate ( sigma cum load ) of school of scientific packing; only possible explanation of how managed to cram so much stuff into so little space. This, after several days’ agonizing over what constitutes excess; boiling down to present two, three tons of irreplaceable possessions.

Actually, I exaggerate. A little. Maybe.

For example, managed to cram entire toolbox (five feet tall, four feet wide, two feet deep) and contents into heretofore unnoticed empty corner of van’s interior (don’t know how — certainly no room to spare before). Converted one living-room wall in trailer into electronics center: all-bands, two-way radio of own design; stereo system — plus thousand-plus cassette music collection, of course. And found room for much-modified Moog synthesizer keyboard and processor (plays through stereo speakers; amazing tone — can’t tell whether hearing electrons putting on airs or genuine concert grand from library). Also stowed incidentals: food, clothing, Terry’s stand, weapons, etc.

Plus final mysterious touch: 25-foot-long bundle of aluminum tubing wrapped in brightly colored cloth, secured to trailer roof rack. No idea what. Not only won’t Adam say, but being smug about it: Says is surprise; something which, when need arises, will be indispensable. Probably; spends awful lot of time being right. But if keeps this up, may not live to announce “I told you so” when time comes!

Oh, something else — promise not to tell… Serious business now — really promise! Requires hold-breath-and-spit, used-sweat-socks-on-your-tongue-if-you-tell oath. Okay. But into really dangerous territory — have learned “Adam’s” real name.

Not surprised, of course — for first male encountered since end of H. sapiens really to be named “Adam” would require unlikely stretching of probability. And knew came from old family; knew parents influential. But never, in wildest imaginings, suspected depths of boy’s dreadful secret. Didn’t dream aristocracy willing to perpetrate such patent cruelty — to no apparent end beyond snooty continuity.

While prowling house, snooping into rooms heretofore unexplored, on lookout for last-minute stuff (sort of thing one always forgets and later wishes hadn’t), stumbled into what proved to be Adam’s parents’ bedroom. Not hard to identify: Walls, bureaus covered with pictures of them as couple, from wedding portraits on; plus baby pictures dating all the way back to wet, thoroughly dissatisfied, red face glaring from birth canal (family went at baby-picture-taking in big way!). Poked about until found album. Opened, looked at title page…

And there it was:

Melville. Winchester. Higginbotham. Grosvenor. Penobscott-Jones.

The Fourth…

Can you imagine? Terrible thing to do to cute, defenseless baby! (And was cute baby, too, once pointy-headed newborn syndrome subsided, wrinkles smoothed out, expression moderated to one recognizable as ancestor of present calculated innocence.) No wonder chose new name earliest possible opportunity.

Well, identity safe as far as I’m concerned. Nor will “Adam” ever learn I possess truth from me: Some knowledge simply too dangerous…

On other hand, blackmail long a respected component of diplomatic toolkit.

And “never” is long time…

Greetings, Posterity, from Beautiful East St. Louis. Having wonderful time; wish you were here. And other clichés. (Actually, trip quite dull [i.e., uneventful — may it so continue… ].)

Adam, reckless propensities under control, proving marvelously smooth, precise driver when not showing off (or perhaps satisfying show-off urges by displaying different aspect of motoring skills): Operates van-cum-trailer rig as though born with shift knob in mouth instead of silver spoon. Glides along roads without drama; slips through holes between obstructions where I would have sworn wasn’t room. Possesses uncanny eye for solidity of terrain; plus flicks neatly in, out of four-wheel-drive, low-low range, without stopping, losing momentum: Haven’t used winch at all — despite added load, trailer.

Must admit, however, fact we spent bulk of time slicing across continent in nearly straight lines, tooling effortlessly along railroad tracks at 60 mph, bypassing highway clutter altogether, may have bearing on ease of travel. Adam’s invention works just as advertised: Line up rig on grade crossing, lower guide wheels, set speed control, select cassette, plug into stereo, lean back, relax, enjoy watching scenery unroll.

Terry delighted to be back on road. Does so love riding in cars. But for first few miles on tracks, wasn’t at all sure he approved of no-hands driving. Stood uneasily on stand, shifting weight, bobbing head suspiciously, flitting to settle feathers. Peered out windshield with first one eye, then other. Occasionally muttered “How ’bout that” in worried tones. Seasoned traveler; knows improper driving when sees it…

Hard to believe, after own experience at post-Armageddon cross-country travel: Adam and I arrived in East St. Louis — just under thousand miles — only three days after leaving Baltimore! Could have made it in one, but not hurrying; rising when feel like it, eating well (love that kitchen!), performing kata, sparring, scrounging, quitting early, giving Adam time to practice on Moog, etc. But even at this rate we’ll be at Mount Palomar in another week. Isn’t that great?

Good night, Posterity.

Good morning, Posterity. Reality back — with a vengeance: Don’t know how could have forgotten how much fun rivers can be. Evidence suggests Ole Man Mississippi took advantage of flood-control engineers’ absence to flex muscles this spring. Must have been some thaw: One bridge left — clogged solidly with cars, trucks. High-water mark suggests crest wasn’t all that high, but something sure took rest out. Perhaps river recruited help — string of fully loaded barges careening along in melt-swollen current would fill prescription, and plenty available. But…

Adam cut speculation short by pointing out that figuring way to remove obstructions from bridge more relevant issue on which to focus curiosity — please pay attention.

(Been unbearably pleased with himself since rail-riding rig proved successful — and “unbearably” surely operative word. Despite this, haven’t destroyed him yet; treating situation as opportunity to strengthen character, exercise in self-control. So far. )

Good night, Posterity.

Bridge cleanup not so tough! Though surely looked as if might be to begin with: First vehicles in way all had dead batteries. Then refused to start upon being jumpered. Adam suspected watered gasoline — condensation from temperature changes, length of time abandoned.