Paul Theroux - O-Zone

"Why don't you tell her?" Echols said.

"A knob is something you don't have," Fisher said. And when Valda looked up he honked at her. "Know what I mean?" And he nudged Echols and honked again. "A dingle-dangle. A winkle. A sausage. A worm. Know what I mean?"

"Yes," she said, "but are you sure it doesn't work?"

"You're getting a buzz," Echols said, for a heep-heep, like an alarm, was sounding from the helmet.

"I know," Fisher said. "Don't touch it. Give me the dome, but don't drop it, dong-face!"

"Is that buzz the radio?"

"Can't you tell the difference between the radio and the scan signal? It's two totally separate functions and sounds!"

Valda said, "You can tell us all about it."

"Sure," Fisher said. "But would you understand it, is the question. You don't have enough math. Hey, do you have any math? You certainly don't have enough high-tech. Have you done sequences?"

Valda said, "I didn't even know what a knob was."

"Ha!" Fisher was honking again. "I've been a remote student since I was eight!" And he put on the mask. "Listen, this dong is humming!" And he jammed the faceplate down. "I'm getting signals! Want a news update? Want some weather?"

"How about a commuter-traffic report?" Echols said.

* * *

When the others returned with their bags of food, Fisher gave them all a demonstration of the helmet, fastening on satellite signals and relaying radio news.

He said, "It's got lots of functions, but it doesn't have much range."

"We want the weapon," Martlet said. "We don't need a radio."

"Weapons!" Fisher said. "I know all about your weapons. You go around scaring people. You fling mutants at them!"

"Diggers do that," Gumbie said.

Fisher experienced a retrospective fear, for that meant back at Firehills that Diggers had been lurking near the wire, those Bagoons, and had chucked a dead squirrel at them, so that they would think Cancer! and Mutants! and go home.

Echols startled Fisher out of his reverie by saying, "The helmet's probably got a scan that will help trace the fault in the particle beam." And he smiled at Fisher. "It's got to be a break in the transducer."

Fisher said, "Know what? You're pretty smart for an alien."

It was later that day that Fisher realized there were conflicts within the group. It made him uneasy to hear them arguing, and Mr. Blue did nothing to stop them. The leader simply sat on the ground, hardly listening, while three people pulled one way and four people pulled the other. Then night fell, and they were speaking in the dark, the woman called Kylie leading one side, and Martlet leading the other. Kylie, Gumbie, and Tinia were for heading west, to the next range of hills; and Martlet, Echols, Valda, and Rooks wanted to cross the nearer ridge and make for the valley, to see whether the camp they had abandoned was still intact. This camp was news to Fisher: he had not seen signs of any camp on the tape they had shot, either at New Year's or more recently. If he had seen a camp none of this would have happened. He would have said, "Nuke it," and that would have been that.

Why didn't Mr. Blue intervene? The skinny man was silent, which disturbed Fisher, because the boy did not have enough data to take sides — and he wanted more data — and furthermore, the fact that there were sides to take made him feel insecure.

It was this way for part of the night. And then at dawn, around the fire, they started again-this way, that way. They probably didn't even consider data, they probably were just hungry and hostile — some kind of psychotic depression before they started biting each other!

He put on the helmet and locked the faceplate in order to isolate himself from the yakking. But what was that noise?

"I'm getting a buzz," he said.

No one heard. He pushed up the faceplate.

"Someone's using a radio around here," he said.

It was then that Mr. Blue spoke. It was one word, which he hissed: "Diggers."

"I lost them," Fisher kept saying — talking to himself inside his helmet. He had been left alone in the temporary camp, but even if someone had remained the boy would not have been audible, because his mask was on and his faceplate was down. The others had gone out for more food. Fisher fretted over the beam but did not fix it. He was still saying "I lost them" inside his helmet when the group returned with stashes of food.

And then twilight: the first darkness drifted down like dust and thickened on the ground and deepened until it was over their heads. With it came a rising vibration that was both sound and movement on the cliffs above their camp.

Mr. B said, "There's someone stirring around us. It could be Owners looking for Fish, or it could be Diggers. Let's move higher up the ridge."

"I'm getting that buzz again," Fisher said, and wondered whether it was Hooper. But how could Hooper mount even the simplest search-and-rescue mission without his help? Fisher's gloating was checked by a feeling of abandonment.

The helmet was an acorn shape on his head, and the mask's distortion squeezed his face small in the faceplate. His suit was already frayed, and the padding torn and tufted. His bulgy boots were scuffed.

"They're using a bleep," he said. "There are two packs of them bleeping each other."

His voice had not left his helmet.

"It's a routine signal, but they're not far off. I could estimate it."

He saw the others muttering. He could not hear them. He did not know they were not listening to him. In fact, he felt they were following his words closely.

"There it goes again. Seems to be a five-second interval."

Mr. Blue was saying, "The Diggers won't buy him if they can steal him."

"They never came into our quarter before," Martlet said,

"If they're Diggers," Echols said in a doubting way.

"They're Diggers," Martlet insisted. "Owners would wait for daylight — and they don't have to sneak with their equipment. They could throw gas over us. They could zap us like they did Murray and Blayne. No, what Mr. B hears is night people. Let's give them what they want."

Martlet had not looked at Fisher as he had spoken, but now he looked directly at the boy.

Gumbie said, "He'll run off."

"Not if we tie him up," Martlet said.

"He'll undo the knots."

"Possibly three packs, two overlapping," Fisher said.

He was giving information. No one heard him. His head, miniaturized by the faceplate, was like a furious walnut.

"Splice his ankles. Hang him by his feet."

"They'll find him and leave us alone."

"Hook him on a branch," Rooks said, and the lisp of his tongue bunching against his front teeth made it sound slushy and sadistic, and gave him a fishmouth.

Still concentrating hard, Fisher said, "I'll try to give you an update in a couple of minutes."

"They can have him," someone said.

Mr. Blue trampled the small fire that Valda had started, and said, "Shut up," very softly in the darkness he had just produced.

The silence and stillness that followed made Fisher conspicuous.

"I can confirm three packs," he said, and stood up and pushed his faceplate into a visor position. "I'm still getting bleeps."

"He's getting bleeps," Martlet said.

It was the first time Fisher's voice had been heard, and they were all listening now. Eight faces had turned upon the boy and by the light of a yellow blade of moon they looked pale and expressionless. The moon was still low in the night sky, tangled in the branches of the hillside trees.

Fisher plucked off his helmet. He was threatened less by the white faces than by the darkness behind them.

"Whaup?" he asked, in a nagging nasal way.

The darkness returned his yap to him.

He began to speak again, but the silence overwhelmed him with the sense of savages and savagery, and he was reminded again of how different he was. He sensed — really, it was like a strong smell from them — that they wanted to leave him behind. Their faces said: Ditch him. The darkness had suffocating depths.