Paul Theroux - O-Zone

She was inside the agency and yet still had to raise her voice, because the things were climbing and revolving around the building. All that yakking was like slow gunfire, and the drafts from the rotor blades made gusts of grit flicker at the windows.

"You licensed?"

Moura was insulted by the question, and when she gasped in impatience the agent looked rebuked.

"How many hours have you logged?" And now he began keying in the information.

"Four-K, plus."

"You must own one."

"We've got a Welly — the Thruster Three."

"A jet-rotor," he said. "People like you make me feel like a have-not."

"That's your problem, I think." She handed him her ID.

"Thank you."

Now, looking at her ID, the man was so attentive she could hear him breathe, and Moura pitied him for his sudden politeness. Then she was deafened again by a descending chopper.

"You flying alone today, Mrs. Allbright?"

She blinked, meaning yes and hurry up.

"We've got a lovely Hornet for you," the agent said, trying hard. "VFR today — great conditions—"

"Please make it snappy," she said, cutting him short. The fact that she was looking for one particular man made her intolerant of all other men.

The rebuke took away his false politeness and made him a robot. He stopped smiling his strained smile, and asked questions in a monotonous voice, and keyed in Moura's answers.

"Destination?" he began.

When he was done, and she had the keys and her clearance, the agent escorted her to the loading concourse and said, "Been there recently? The reason I ask is, you don't have to go to Pasadena Airport. There's a rotorport in Forestdale itself."

"Good. Tell them to be watching for me."

At the controls, Moura rose and tipped the Hornet and headed east, but stayed low for the pleasure of seeing the changes on the ground. Some hills had been wholly cleared— all the bungalows bulldozed and buried. In other places, the profusion of huts and faded houses lay in the flat geometry between the freeways, and some of the freeways had been closed off, or pinched, or barricaded.

It was the sight of the barriers on the coastal zone and the heavily policed access points that had determined her on renting a rotor. She would never travel on the ground — not here. She wondered who did. It was well-known that the main freeways stayed open, but beneath them and between them large areas were inhabited by people who had claimed the streets and sealed them. What the Owners had done in the coastal zone, in Santa Monica and Malibu, the permit-people and the poor had done downtown and in places like Anaheim. The fortified subcity called Mexico was famous, but there were other, odder settlements, and she imagined them populated by Koreans and Hindus and recent aliens who, in time, would be gathered up and flown offshore and dropped out of planes.

Moura had always felt free in a rotor. Never, even on the most secure road, had she felt safe in a car. Beneath her in the dense yellow air of the trafficky city the cars went grinding along the freeways, passing from checkpoint to checkpoint. She could see that the narrow roads were closed to traffic. It made the poorer neighborhoods on her flight path look like a parody of New York and all its walls.

Dropping to a lower altitude, into the murk, she used the ground-screen and looked for people. There were not many on the streets, but those who were out wore masks. Los Angeles was the place where the fashion had begun. It was a necessity in this sinister air (visibility was usually less than two clicks), and mask-wearing was a useful, practical fashion. Of course, the California models were better than the New York masks — they all had human faces and were beautifully molded, and she supposed they had better radios and transmitters.

She had never seen this many people in New York wearing masks — perhaps because it was so easy to duck indoors. It was healthy here to be masked, and while some people wore simple breathing masks and filters — pretty faces — others carried tanks and tubes, their own air supply.

What if he is wearing a mask? she thought.

If he had a mask and a suit, she might never recognize him; and so it would end dumbly, anonymously, with her stumbling, and him a mask among all the other masks.

But I have never seen his face, she thought. So his face is a mask. And all faces are masks.

She followed the flight path to Forestdale and put down in the rotorport, which was near his last known address — the coordinates Hooper had given her. It was a low-level tower; not old, but cracked, probably in the last quake. Landslip was not far.

A mask at his address — a guard? a landlord? a cop? it was impossible to tell these gun-freaks apart — spoke to her on a screen. Moura told him her name, and then the name and number of the man she was looking for.

"That a Federal rotor?" He raised his head. Moura guessed he was on the roof.

"No," she said. "It's rented. Don't worry. I'm not with the IRS, or the Feds, or any security. This guy's an old friend of mine."

The only friend, she thought.

"Too bad he slipped out then," the mask said.

The mask covered the man's face: it hooded his head and protected his neck with a bulletproof collar. But his body gave him away. Even on the small screen she could see that he wore a badly rubbed suit, with rips at the knees, and he was very skinny. The short, cracked tower had the same masked look — not very well-disguised poverty. It was dusty brick and faded paint on a street of dead still-standing palm trees — just bare poles.

Moura knew he was suspicious of her because she was expensively dressed and had her own rotor. He had probably seen her land: there was very little traffic here in Forestdale. Her goggles were stylish, but she was not wearing a mask. He asked her about that.

"I'm not going to be here long enough to need one," she said.

That stung the man, she could tell — not the words but her tone of voice. Fear and uneasiness had forced her to sound tough.

"What does 'slip out' mean?"

"Sold his ID and flew. He's an Owner, you know — from back east. Supposed to be very smart. My wife liked him. He probably tipped one into her."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I didn't like him," the masked man said. "He was arrogant. I'm glad he's gone. I got sick of hearing about him."

It was all abuse but it excited her because it made him seem real. If it had been praise it would have made Boy seem like an illusion.

"I hope they catch him," the man was saying. "I think it's sickening, misusing your citizenship like that. Ever hear of anyone deregistering before?"

Instead of answering his question, Moura said, "Where is he?"

"Where most of them are."

His anger made him seem bored, and he kept going out of focus on the screen. She had to prod him with questions.

"Landslip," he finally said.

"What doing?"

"They don't do much there. They live under bridges. They sneak over the perimeter and steal food and fuel. Half of them just wander around the zone in their bare feet."

"Where's the nearest rotorport?"

"La Plata's probably your best bet. It's not a big place. They might even know him."

"La Plata the resort?"

Now the mask moved forward into focus, and beyond, growing larger and fuzzier on the screen.

"That's a good one. La Plata the resort. That's very funny. I like that." The mask was twitching — the face beneath it was in motion. "La Plata the resort!"

His parting shot had been something about the mudslides, how they had buried some roads and severed others and covered up half the landmarks on her chart and made new canyons.

To shut him up Moura said she'd use her computer copilot, but once she was airborne and out of Forestdale she flew the rotor manually — slowly, marveling at the mudslides and the townships drowned in dust. The seam below her in the hills became a wrinkle, and beyond where it had risen was Landslip in clearer air.