Paul Theroux - O-Zone

"There are no hunters here," the man said. "They call it O-Zone. I think they dumped this kid. I think you found him in a bush. I think you're lying."

"I'm not."

"You're lying about the weapons, too. One of your men up there has a helmet and some kind of laser gun-new stuff. My kids saw it. Don't bullshit me!"

"Broken," Mr. Blue said. "Try them if you like. You can have them with the kid if you pay. But I swear they're cracked."

"This kid's cracked — he's a dip." Again the light was on Fisher, dazzling his eyes. "Look at those teeth, look at those big lips. Why are his hands red? He's got pimples and sores. Don't lie to me — someone dumped him. They'll never be back. Look, he's crying!"

Tears were brimming in Fisher's eyes. He had started to crouch in despair. His breathing was sudden with sobs, and he looked stricken. He had no hope at all now.

"I like that — look!" the man said. He was peering closer at Fisher, he seemed amused by the child's weeping.

Mr. Blue said, "Leave him alone."

"I'll take him," the man said. "I want him!"

Mr. Blue had knelt near Fisher, and so had the man. Fisher snatched at Mr. Blue's hand and held it tightly, pressing it to his face. Long labored groans came out of Fisher's mouth. Fisher glanced up and he was shocked by the look of pity on Mr. Blue's face. Or was it pity? It was an expression of sympathy and disgust, and perhaps anger, too.

Fisher was unable to make one word. His fear had reduced his speech to animal sounds. He was drizzling and honking snot. The sounds frightened him and his fear made those same sounds worse.

Mr. Blue stood in front of Fisher as the big man reached out with his dark hand.

"Hoo! Let me have him!"

"Leave it," Mr. Blue said. "I changed my mind."

"I think you're a dip.'*

"I think so too," Mr. Blue said. "I guess we're going."

"Stick around. We can have some fun with this creeper!"

"Ill have to discuss it with my people," Mr. Blue said, hoisting Fisher, jerking his arm.

And they left — Mr. Blue hurrying the stumbling boy along the concourse. In his panic, Fisher had become wordless. He grunted, he shambled, he tripped on the stairs.

On the second landing, Mr, Blue fussed and hesitated, changing again, reproaching himself. He said, "Why didn't I leave you there!"

But he stopped when he saw Fisher stammering, trying to speak, and his eyes became kindlier watching the boy's struggle.

"It's. . it's not a laser gun," Fisher said at last. "It's a particle beam. I can fix it for you. I can fix the signal in the helmet. I can get the radio working. I can get anything you want. Please don't leave me here!"

Mr. Blue had become very calm, and Fisher saw in his calmness the kindest face. He did not see a savage anymore: he saw a rescuer.

Mr. Blue said, "I occasionally have the feeling you might be human."

Outside, he did not reply to any of the questions from the group — and they were heckling him. He did not slow his pace. He pulled on his pack and, still walking, he said, "Let's get out of here while it's still light. Diggers are dangerous in the dark, and I don't like Varnado."

"Why didn't you sell him?" Martlet said. He had been nagging the whole time. "Why didn't you swap him?"

"They didn't want him," Mr. Blue said, and kept his face forward.

The lie gladdened Fisher and made him march harder. People had always told lies against him, but when had anyone ever lied on his behalf? And it was an alien!

Mr. Blue was a young balding man whom most of them called Mr. B. Though he was strong and had the upright and stiff-backed posture of a man in Federal Security — and that in itself amazed Fisher, because Mr. B was an alien— and always carried his own pack, and was always at the front of the file, and a wonderful walker, he was mostly made of bones. He was so skinny his knees showed as big bulges; he had sharp elbows and shoulders; and Fisher could see the clear angles of his skull beneath his thin flesh — even the way his jawbone was hinged just under his ear.

At times his thinness gave him a kindly aspect, and at other times it made him seem suspicious and dangerous. His thin face and long fingers always made him appear cautious, as if he was willing to take his time, and didn't mind being slow. Fisher looked at him and expected him to say "No" or else nothing at all. He often said nothing. He had a habit of suddenly falling silent — breaking off in the middle of a sentence, tilting his head slightly, and listening. When he listened like that everyone else went quiet. His silences gave him authority.

It happened that very afternoon, as they marched away from Vartiado on the track they had followed in. Fisher was talking — he was so relieved to be alive and with these people that his fears were suspended, and he was gabbling.

"I'll tell you why the satellites have missed those Diggers so far" — though no one had asked the question—"and why they still figure O-Zone is empty. If the Diggers aren't using any energy except a little oil and a little solar, and they're staying belowground or undercover in watchtowers, there's no way they can be detected. You could get a satellite fix on them if you knew how to program it. I could program a satellite to find something five millimeters long. I've got enough information now to get a wire on those Diggers, and burn them out, too, if you want to—"

"Shut up, fish-face," Martlet said,

"Mr. B's listening," Gumbie said.

Fisher was flustered. He did not know the words for any apology, and had never placated anyone before, and so he became very nervous. He could not remember what he had been saying, or even that he had been monologuing.

They all held their breath for a full minute.

Then Mr. Blue signaled that it was all right — just a plopping noise made by a branch.

"He hears things that we don't," Echols said. "That's why he's in charge and you're not."

"I heard it," Fisher said brightly.

They glanced at him: all those cold faces.

"It was random," Fisher said. "Percussive. Organic. No threat quotient. Yeah, it could have been a branch."

"Dip," someone said, but Fisher was still talking.

"If we had the right box I could print those sounds and analyze them. We could store sounds, make a memory bank for every gleep, program a listener alarm. We could have bands with pitches represented, so that every sound was categorized, and then—"

He sensed a rising antagonism toward him, a growing intensity of rejection. It was like a certain quality in the air— like a smell vibrating against him. And it seemed to awaken a receptive sense in him that he had never used.

"Then we could go on talking," Fisher said.

"We don't have a box, we don't have a frame," Mr. Blue said. "We've got nets and jackknives, that's all."

"I can fix the particle beam or the helmet if—"

But Mr. Blue was still talking. That was another habit of the man, the way he would go on in the same even voice, overriding any interruption-which was why his anger seemed so terrible. His shouting was rare, so it was like madness,

"We were raided last January," he said quietly.

"New Year's day," said Rooks.

They kept track of the months and days? January? New Year's? Fisher was on the verge of saying, It wasn't me — it was Hooper!

"We lost two good men," Mr. Blue went on. "We had to leave our camp — we've been on the move ever since. That's why, when we hear a noise, we listen."

"The particle beam has a heat sensor. That's better than a human eye. And the radio scanner in the helmet can pick up anyone shadowing us, on any frequency. I mean, you don't have to stop walking and stick your ears out just because a branch falls down somewhere, or a bird poops in its nest!"