David Walton: The Genius Plague

“So, seriously,” Maisie said. “Fungus? That’s your thing? You’re going to spend your whole life studying mushrooms?”

“If I can keep getting my grants funded.”

“What, you have a PhD already? How old are you?”

“Twenty-four,” Paul lied. In truth, he was only twenty-one, but he didn’t want to deal with the inevitable questions about how young he’d been when he graduated, or what he’d scored on his SATs. Once he did, that was all anybody wanted to talk about, and he’d learned that although women were impressed with such things, it wasn’t the kind of impressed that led to any kind of relationship. More like being a circus monkey in a cage. “Besides,” he said, “it’s not all about mushrooms.”

“No?”

“Mushrooms are only a small part of fungal anatomy. A mushroom is just how a fungus has sex.”

Maisie’s slim eyebrows arched high. “Oh, really,” she said.

“It’s true. A single fungus in a forest like this can go on for miles, underground, wrapping itself around tree roots. The mushrooms are just its reproductive parts. Fungi are some of the largest living things on Earth. Each tendril is nearly microscopic, but put together they can weigh far more than any California redwood or blue whale.”

“So you’re saying yours is bigger than all the other biologists’?”

Paul grinned. “Absolutely. See, a mushroom thrusts its way up out of the ground or out of the side of a tree,” he said, demonstrating with his hands. “When it grows big enough, it sends millions of spores flying through the air or floating through water. When one of the spores finds an acceptable environment, it germinates, which lets it combine with another germinating spore to produce a new fungus.”

“So fungi have sex from miles away.”

“Sure, you could say that. Sometimes even across continents.”

“That doesn’t sound very intimate.”

“Well, you do have to give mammals some credit. They’ve made some improvements over three hundred million years, especially where sex is concerned.”

The riverboat finally appeared, a two-story affair with weathered blue paint and a flimsy white roof erected on the top deck to keep off the sun. The pilot cut the engine, and the boat drifted ponderously through the water until it bounced against the dock, the collision cushioned by tires strapped along its hull. The pilot jumped lightly down and tossed a rope around a piling. He was dark skinned and weather beaten, his face so lined by sun and wind that it was impossible for Paul to tell his age. The tourists pressed forward, and the dock creaked and sagged. Green water sluiced between the boards.

Paul hoisted his pack onto his shoulders and joined the line. He felt a pleasant pressure at his side and discovered Maisie’s hand on his arm, ostensibly for balance on the shifting dock. He wondered if she was planning to stay the night in Manaus. The pilot urged them in broken, accented English to board carefully, and they shuffled onto the boat.

The larger tourist riverboats were designed for multiday cruises. They had rows of hammocks, a kitchen that provided meals, and a wet bar open around the clock. On the more traveled routes, you could hear their music pounding away before you even saw them, the top deck a continuous nightclub of carousing foreigners. Paul couldn’t understand why anyone would come to the Amazon and then make such a racket that no animals would come within miles.

This boat was much more subdued, designed for day trips, and fitted with little more than deck chairs and railings. A cooler near the pilot’s seat held water bottles and cans of Skol beer. A meal was supposed to be served halfway through the trip, but Paul couldn’t see where it was hidden. He hoped there would be something, as he had run a bit low on food packets by his last day.

There was only one other woman in the group, and Maisie joined her, looking over pictures the other had taken with what looked like an expensive camera. Paul found a chair on the top deck and settled in, facing south, where he could see more of the river. He was looking forward to a hot shower and a good meal in Manaus, maybe even a massage.

Below, an argument broke out between the pilot and one of the men over the price the pilot was asking for the beer. The passenger thought it should be included in the cost of the trip, for which he had apparently paid much more than Paul had. In this part of the world, everything had a price, but everything was negotiable, too. It helped if you knew the language. Eventually, they settled on a lower figure, and the passenger irritably handed over his money.

With an exhausted sigh, Maisie threw herself into the chair next to Paul. “I am so looking forward to getting back to civilization,” she said.

“Are you staying in Manaus?” he asked.

She nodded. “One more night.”

“Where at?”

“The Tropical.”

Paul whistled. “Nice. That one’s not in my budget.”

She flashed him a grin. “Maybe I could give you a tour.”

A large splash rippled the water, but Paul couldn’t tell what had made it. Some large creature briefly cresting the surface and then returning to the deep. Fish here could grow huge, some as big as a man. Even a pink river dolphin was possible, though those were endangered enough now to be a rare sight.

They chatted about her home in northern California, about the sights they had seen in the rainforest, about how Americans were perceived by the native Brazilians. She was fascinated by his stories of growing up in Brasília, his father a diplomat/spy for the US embassy. It had been a fairly ordinary childhood, as far as he was concerned, but he embellished the tales to make them sound more romantic. He loved to make her laugh. Looking out over the miles of empty water, they could almost have been the last people on Earth. Almost.

A few hours into their journey, the relative quiet of their own small boat motor was pierced by the rattling roar of a powerful engine. Paul rolled his eyes, expecting a large pleasure cruise, though they weren’t a common sight this far upriver. Instead, it was a Brazilian Navy patrol craft, its high prow cutting through the water much faster than the sluggish riverboat, throwing a spray of water behind it on both sides.

Paul expected it to cruise on past, but instead it converged on them in a wide arc, slowing and coming alongside. After a few shouts back and forth between the pilot and a uniformed man on the deck of the patrol boat, they threw ropes and tied the two boats together.

“What’s going on?” Maisie asked. They had to shield their eyes from the bright sun to see what was happening.

“I don’t know. Drug inspection, maybe?”

The two crafts killed their engines, leaving an eerie, throbbing silence in their absence. The river lapped against the hulls, causing them to rock gently. A hawk high above them screamed. In the patrol boat, men in fatigue pants and olive drab shirts moved about, tying ropes and talking to each other.

“Something’s wrong,” Paul said softly. Suddenly it seemed like he should whisper.

“What do you mean?”

The soldiers in the patrol boat seemed oddly coordinated, their activity synchronized without any apparent communication. It looked more like choreography than ordinary movement. At a glance from an officer, they stopped as one and came to attention.

The officer stepped down from the patrol craft onto the riverboat. He wore aviator sunglasses, which he took off, folded, and slid into his shirt pocket. The pilot said something to him that Paul couldn’t hear.

“We should hide,” Paul said.

Maisie looked around, her face worried. There was nowhere to go. “What is this? Are you in trouble?”

“I think we’re all in trouble.”