Michael Crichton - State Of Fear

"I don't see you giving it up."

"No," Ted said, "but I conserve where I can. I recycle. I support a carbon-neutral lifestyle. The point is, if all these other people industrialize, it will add a terrible, terrible burden of global pollution to the planet. That should not happen."

"I got mine, but you can't have yours?"

"It's a question of facing realities," Bradley said.

"Your realities. Not theirs."

At that point, Sanjong beckoned to Kenner. "Excuse me," Kenner said, and got up.

"Walk away if you want," Bradley said, "but you know I speak truth!" He gestured to the flight attendant and held up his glass. "Just one more, sweetie. One more for the road."

Sanjong said, "The helicopter's not there yet."

"What's the matter?"

"It was coming over from another island. They've closed the air space because they're worried the rebels have surface-to-air missiles."

Kenner frowned. "How long until we land?"

"Ten minutes."

"Keep your fingers crossed."

Abandoned, Ted Bradley slid to the other side of the plane, to sit with Peter Evans. "Isn't it gorgeous?" he said. "Look at that water. Crystalline and pure. Look at the depth of that blue. Look at those beautiful villages, in the heart of nature."

Evans was staring out the window but saw only poverty. The villages were clusters of corrugated tin shacks, the roads red mud ruts. The people looked poorly dressed and moved slowly. There was a depressing, disconsolate feeling about them. He imagined sickness, disease, infant death amp; "Gorgeous," Bradley said. "Pristine! I can't wait to get down there. This is as good as a vacation! Did anyone here know the Solomons were so beautiful?"

From the front, Jennifer said, "Inhabited by headhunters, for most of history."

"Yes, well, that's all in the past," Bradley said. "If it ever existed at all. I mean, all that talk about cannibalism. Everybody knows it is not true. I read a book by some professor.* There never were any cannibals, anywhere in the world. It's all a big myth. Another example of the way the white man demonizes people of color. When Columbus came to the West Indies, he thought they told him there were cannibals there, but it wasn't true. I forget the details. There are no cannibals anywhere. Just a myth. Why are you staring at me that way?"

Evans turned. Bradley was talking to Sanjong, who was indeed staring.

"Well?" Bradley said. "You're giving me a look. Okay, buddy boy. Does that mean you disagree with me?"

"You're truly a fool," Sanjong said, in an astonished voice. "Have you ever been to Sumatra?"

"Can't say that I have."

"New Guinea?"

"No. Always wanted to go, buy some tribal art. Great stuff."

"Borneo?"

"No, but I always wanted to go there, too. That Sultan What's his name, he did a great job remodeling the Dorchester in London"

"Well," Sanjong said, "if you go to Borneo you will see the Dyak longhouses where they still display the skulls of the people they killed."

"Oh, that's just tourist-attraction stuff."

"In New Guinea, they had a disease called kuru, transmitted by eating the brains of their enemies."

"That's not true."

"Gajdusek won a Nobel Prize for it. They were eating brains, all right."

"But that was a long time ago."

"Sixties. Seventies."

"You guys just like to tell scare stories," Bradley said, "at the expense of the indigenous people of the world. Come on, face the facts, human beings are not cannibals."* Sanjong blinked. He looked at Kenner. Kenner shrugged.

"Absolutely beautiful down there," Bradley said, looking out the window. "And it looks like we're going to land."

Kotak Field was sticky with humid heat. They walked to the small open shack that was marked KASTOM in roughly painted letters. To one side of the building was a wooden fence and a gate marked with a red hand-print and a sign that said, NOGOT ROT.

"Ah, nougat rot," Bradley said. "Must be a local tooth problem."

"Actually," Sanjong said, "the red hand means kapu. Forbidden.' The sign says No Got Right,' which is Pidgin for You don't have permission to pass.'"

"Huh. I see."

Evans found the heat almost unbearable. He was tired after the long plane ride, and anxious about what lay ahead of them. Alongside him, Jennifer walked casually, seemingly fresh and energetic. "You're not tired?" Evans said to her.

"I slept on the plane."

He looked back at Sarah. She, too, seemed to have plenty of energy, striding forward.

"Well, I'm pretty tired."

"You can sleep in the car," Jennifer said. She didn't seem very interested in his condition. He found it a little irritating.

And it was certainly debilitatingly hot and humid. By the time they reached the customs house, Evans's shirt was soaked. His hair was wet. Sweat was dripping off his nose and chin onto the papers he was supposed to fill out. The pen from the ink ran in the puddles of his sweat. He glanced up at the customs officer, a dark, muscular man with curly hair and wearing pressed white trousers and a white shirt. His skin was dry; he looked almost cool. He met Evans's eyes, and smiled. "Oh, waitman, dis no taim bilong san. You tumas hotpela."

Evans nodded. "Yes, true," he said. He had no idea what the man had said.

Sanjong translated. "It's not even the hot time of summer. But you're too much hot. You tumas hot. Ya?"

"He got that right. Where'd you learn Pidgin?"

"New Guinea. I worked there a year."

"Doing what?"

But Sanjong was hurrying on with Kenner, who was waving to a young man who had driven up in a Land Rover. The man jumped out. He was dark, wearing tan shorts and a T-shirt. His shoulders were covered in tattoos. His grin was infectious. "Hey, Jon Kanner! Hamamas klok!" He pounded his chest with his fist and hugged Kenner.

"He has a happy heart," Sanjong said. "They know each other."

The newcomer was introduced all around as Henry, with no other name. "Hanri!" he said, grinning broadly, pumping their hands. Then he turned to Kenner.

"I understand there is trouble with the helicopter," Kenner said.

"What? No trabel. Me got klostu long." He laughed. "It's just over there, my friend," he said, in perfectly accented British English.

"Good," Kenner said, "we were worried."

"Yas, but serious Jon. We better hariyap. Mi yet harim planti yangpelas, krosim, pasim birua, got plenti masket, noken stap gut, ya?"

Evans had the impression Henry was speaking Pidgin so the rest of them would not understand.

Kenner nodded. "I heard that, too," he said. "Lots of rebels here. They're mostly young boys? And angry? And well armed. Figures."

"I worry for the helicopter, my friend."

"Why? Do you know something about the pilot?"

"Yes, I do."

"Why? Who is the pilot?"

Henry giggled, and slapped Kenner on the back. "I am!"

"Well, then, we should go."

They all started down the road, away from the airfield. The jungle rose up on both sides of the road. The air buzzed with the sound of cicadas. Evans looked back with longing at the beautiful white Gulf-stream jet, poised on the runway against a blue sky. The pilots in their white shirts and black trousers were checking the wheels. He wondered if he would ever see the airplane again.

Kenner was saying, "And we heard, Henry, some people were killed?"

Henry made a face. "No just killed, Jon. Olpela. Ya?"

"So we heard."

"Ya. Distru."

So it was true. "The rebels did it?"

Henry nodded. "Oh! this new chif, him name Sambuca, like a drink. Don't ask why this name. Him crazy man, Jon. Longlong man tru. Everything back to olpela for dis guy. Old ways are better. Allatime allatime."