Paul Theroux - O-Zone

Nothing was displayed on the counter except catalogs, which he pushed aside.

"I want to see a particle beam. It's got a camera with thermal imaging and a weapon built in that can work independently or in conjunction, reviewing data. There's probably a pure laser model."

The clerk was grinning, but it was not amusement — he was only resting his mouth as he listened to Fisher, who was still talking.

"It's got a heat-sensitive director for self-centering on the target — if it's a soft target. And if it's—"

"Weapons like that are regulated," the clerk said, interrupting him. "They're not for civilian use, anyway. They're Federal army, special forces."

"I know someone who's got a nice one," Fisher said in a needling way. He had gone into the store in order to tell the man this — to boast. "He's not army."

The clerk was a young mustached man with the slightly sulky mouth and skeptical eyes of a weapons dealer.

Fisher said, "Whatever they blast, they just atomize."

The man looked unconvinced, but Fisher did not mind. Boasting was his way of talking to himself.

"It's probably the best antipersonnel weapon you can get," Fisher said. "It's not perfect. I'd like to see it modified for high-density targets."

"Beat it, kid. I'm busy."

Fisher laughed at the man's ignorance. The laughter came honking out of his helmet, and he left saying, "You're a complete tool."

He spent the remainder of the day testing his nerve on the streets in Lower East, clumping in his boots and keeping his helmet on. He saw a large number of blacks — no masks, no suits, only bubble caps and hippy-dip jackets like jigs in stories. He could not understand why they were allowed to roam the city. Were they legal? He wondered why they weren't arrested, or stopped and searched. They were probably Pass Workers, he thought, over for the day to do things like shift trash and sweep.

Two came toward him, and Fisher began radioing the emergency number.

"Hey, Bubba!"

"Rocketman!"

They were staring at his helmet, his boots, his contagion suit, as he steered clear of them.

They were gone!

"This is Mobile Task Force. Please identify yourself—"

He tuned out, feeling brave, and yet still mystified by the blacks simply swaggering and shouting along the parkway. But he told himself that he would be able to identity them if he were called on later, summoned by security, and with that in mind he noted the time, fifteen-thirty-seven.

He did not eat lunch — no money; nor take a bus, nor a tram — no pass; nor enter any other buildings. He stayed on foot, keeping by the river, thrilled by his nearness to Brooklyn — right across the water — which had a reputation for danger and squalor. It was filled with illegals. He heard sirens and thunder flashes from that greasy shore and he knew they were not false alarms.

In the late afternoon, he was walking back to Coldharbor worrying about illegals they had started calling "worms," for their ability to burrow beneath the city, and he saw a chopper shining a strong light on the river just below the rail. A support boat also shone a light, and he could see from its markings that the boat was part of the task force nicknamed "Moat Patrol." He was encouraged by the large number of armed police, and crossed over to the rail to see a Skell being fished out of the river.

It did not matter that a chopper was hovering, and a support boat waiting, and four men of a foot patrol had their weapons leveled at the creature — Fisher was frightened. He was frightened by the appearance of the Skell and he was frightened by what the Skell represented, the millions more. Whether this one had fallen in accidentally or was trying to enter the city illegally, Fisher could not tell. But it was certainly an alien, and here at the edge of New York, the slangy name was apt. He had a lumpy face, and a miserable, wicked expression, and his skin was gray-blue, bristly and bloodless like a cut fish or a fragment of old plastic. He was shaking with cold, and his shoes had been removed to prevent his escape — his ugly feet were blue and white, and he had terrible toenails. He was whimpering to a policeman, trying to explain something.

The Skell was dripping on the cold stones of the terrace, bedraggled like a sea monster — Fisher had the impression of air escaping from the Skell's body. When the creature was strapped and restrained, Fisher went a bit closer. The policemen guarding him seemed to be joking among themselves. Another policeman, punching buttons on a handset, looked up as Fisher approached.

"Good going," Fisher said, feeling he should congratulate the patrol on a successful capture. "Was he carrying a weapon?"

"Just a lot of old rope."

But the policeman stared at Fisher as the blacks had done. What was so odd about being addressed by a Type A in a fiber suit and boots with the latest gear on his head? Fisher guessed that it was his bravery in being here at all, alone in New York — the cop probably guessed that he was only fifteen and was surprised by his courage.

Fisher's voice came quacking out of his mask: "He might have been making a net. Some illegals in outlying places use nets as weapons."

"Is that a fact?" the policeman said, and went on punching buttons in his hand receiver.

"Oh, sure," Fisher said, and then he glanced at the Skell and became frightened again — it was the blue face, the filthy skin, the white feet, the wet shaggy clothes. He lost his voice in fear, and tried to talk it into existence. It came creaking and whistling. "I've seen some — as near as I am to you. I was on a search mission. It was supposed to be a shoot, just taking a sound-bite, but they ended up burning two of them. Now, those guys were carrying nets."

The policeman did not reply. He had looked up as Fisher was talking, and he seemed to be mumbling to himself: Search mission? Sound-bite? Burned two of them? Nets?

Fisher made a face, shifting his mask, and said, "The only thing is, they're the wrong kind of ropes. Density, see. Too stiff, too heavy."

But the policeman was still staring at Fisher's expensive mask and headphones.

"You sure you should be here, kid?"

"I thought I might be able to help. I've got some data—"

"Wait a minute," the policeman said, and adjusted his receiver. "I'm getting a sighting."

But still his fascinated gaze strayed back to Fisher.

"I've been in much worse places than this. I'm talking about contamination, I'm talking about city-stains—"

Squawk, quack: the policeman was staring at Fisher's faceplate. Contamination? City-stains?

"— You probably wouldn't even believe me," Fisher was saying.

That made the policeman smile. He said that having worked this particular stretch of the river wall for almost ten years, he would believe anything.

Fisher wanted to tell him the rest — about the dead squirrel, the broken roads, the forests, the sun flooding the empty towers at Firehills, the sound of insects and birds. He wanted to say, I've been to O-Zone, because he was sure the policeman had never heard anyone say that.

But in his talking he had ignored the policeman's word "sighting" — another creature had been seen — and now he remembered it, and the fear took hold of him again.

The fear had something to do with being very hungry, and it was aggravated by the light sliding like yellow crockery on the river's surface; by the echoing alarms and the jangling of cars; and the idea that this was all routine and happened every day.

So he simply turned and walked away from the policeman and the scene at the river wall (the Skell was being hauled into the chopper). On the way to Coldharbor his nerve failed him — it was the panic that he might have to spend the night out alone on these streets. And hurrying home, he got lost, though he was only three blocks from the towers. He used his phones — the emergency number — and had to ask directions. After that courageous day, this humiliation!