Paul Theroux - O-Zone

"And sometimes," he said, "people have underbite, or a wacky jaw, or teeth missing, and then it's horrible to see them eat — the wobbling way they masticate their food. By 'masticate' I mean 'chew.'"

"We speak English," Rooks said.

But Valda said, "Your teeth are so white, Fish."

Of course he was different, but it was a novelty to him that it was noticed and remarked upon. People in New York took him for granted — all the "supermoron" business that they thought he never heard. Valda was properly paying him a compliment.

"They're sealed," he said, chomping and showing her his bite. For a moment it looked like a smile, but when he stopped you knew it could never have been. He said, "Epoxy. I get them recoated every couple of years."

"That's pretty interesting," Valda said.

But it seemed wrong to him to be producing envy or awe in this alien, and he pitied her for her simplicity and the way she was carrying a heavy pack of provisions.

"But I've got bruxism," he said.

Valda was silent. Rooks turned and stared at him.

"I know you speak English," Fisher said.

"— the fuck's that?" Rooks was saying.

"I grind my teeth," Fisher said. "Especially when I'm asleep."

This was the second day of their march to the camp they called home, carrying the crates and packs of the sealed provisions they had stolen from the jet-rotor. Going to the Frying Pan, they said; wait till you see the Frying Pan. But Fisher had seen it. It was where they had burned the two net-men to save Murdick that misty New Year's, when it had all begun.

There was no path, they stayed away from paths, but they kept in a file. They were climbing again, rising to the low hills at the distant edge of the depression.

"I hope you know where you're going."

"This is our quarter, Fish."

It was true: they seemed to know it — they had names for every city and town. At the top of one hill Mr. Blue pointed and said that over there was Sutton Bluff, and down there Alton and Shannon and Saint Clair, and farther along was Dexter.

For the moments he was saying these names O-Zone did not seem a wilderness or a Prohibited Area, but rather just another state in the Fifty-two, with prettily named counties and picturesque towns. But Fisher looked across the treetops and saw nothing to justify those names. And a town was not a town if all that was left of it was a contaminated stain.

"I suppose it's all right for you here, but I'd rather live in a room in New York with a secure seal on it."

Valda laughed just behind him again, and she laughed harder when he tried to explain the work he had been doing on particles — describing the Squark, the Wabble Effect, the Antigens, his own Theory of Subsequence.

"I've coded a whole suite of variables for that theory, and by the time I'm twenty and my brain turns to mush it'll be a new law of physics."

Valda was still laughing.

He said, "That's not supposed to be funny. I've been looking at the sideways movement of particles. And Antigons are destructive particles that emit—"

He was unexpectedly encouraged by the fact that she was laughing harder than ever. He liked the sound of it; he wanted more.

He said, "When I was small I used to say 'pisghetti.'"

Valda fell silent.

"I named my computer Pap. Everyone wondered why!"

She began to stare at him.

"And 'jellyshiff,'" he said. "For 'jellyfish.'"

Valda had begun to frown at him uneasily.

"And 'dobba' for 'poops.' It's a corruption of 'job.' You know, like sitting on the hopper and doing a job." Now he was frowning back at her. "I see. You don't have hoppers, do you?"

She did not reply.

"I was a horrible baby," he said. "Actually, I was a Type A, but they thought I was a spazz."

He waited for Rooks to turn, and then he explained.

"A wonk. A dimbo. A wimble."

Valda made a new noise — it was a soft sudden croak, like a baby's burp.

"And then when I was about three I started problems," he said, and quickly added, "Solving them."

Was she listening?

"I managed Pap with two fingers. Bash-bash — boop-boop-boop. When I was five I was hacking. They sent me to school, but what was the point?"

He expected Valda to be impressed. She did not say anything.

"We were living in another garrison then. They didn't call them garrisons, though. Just condos and co-ops. This one was Wedgemere. Very English."

"Wedgemere!" She was laughing again. "Very English!"

"It gobbled," Fisher said. He did not smile, yet he was pleased. "Full of fossils — really old people and foreigners. I mean, I know they had IDs, but they probably bought them. Half the people who worked there were illegals, though— I'm sure of it. That was one of the reasons we moved. We started getting thefts. Then they had a strike force. It was ridiculous. That's one thing I like about you guys — you might be illegal but at least no one's old."

Echols was listening. He said, "This is no place for them."

"And no children — that's great. I can't stand kids." Then he asked, "But how come there aren't any here?"

They did not answer. What did the silence mean? Perhaps that the old folks had died — and the children too, if they had managed to be born somehow. And there was that fifteen-year-old that Hooper apparently snatched, the porker. Aliens were abducted, or else they died here, and it was as if they had never lived. They were plowed under and returned to the earth and forgotten, like the clothes and weapons that were shared among the others.

Fisher said, "How could you live here so long and not invent anything useful? All this walking. All this shitty food. You don't have protective clothing. It's just foraging — hand-to-mouth. What's the point of it, or does it have a point?"

"It keeps us moving," Mr. Blue said. "And it helps us evaporate when we have to."

What was that supposed to mean?

"And no cash."

"What do we need that for?"

"You need weapons. That takes cash."

"So it's your fault we need money. And you don't have any."

"Hey, listen, you stole me!" Fisher said. "You took me away from my uncle!"

They said nothing more. It was noon on this new hill, and they prepared to make camp.

"Other people's lives fill me with depression," Fisher said. "Especially yours."

Another night.

He had thought he did not belong: he did not sleep well, he was still afraid of the dark, he hated their food and their fires. And then he remembered how well he had managed at Fire-hills with Hooper only — what? — ten days ago? They had established a command post, a terminal, a data base, and a communication center. They had enough food for two months. They had been completely secure, with a soft-wire network of alarms. They hadn't cowered behind a rock listening for the hoarse gasps of Diggers! And none of these wonky stances with skinny Mr. B whispering I can feel them. . I can sense them. What porkers!

I was commander of Mission Westwind, Fisher thought. This is my food, my radio, my weapon. These people have not stolen me — I have rescued them.

They were still trekking to the place they called the Frying Pan. Fisher wore his helmet and carried the beam.

"That is one hell of a lethal beam," Echols said.

Marching along, people said whatever came into their heads, and often someone would take up a point made two days before. Echols mentioned the beam as if they had been talking about it; but in fact this was the first time he had raised the subject.

Fisher did not reply. He told himself that he was very suspicious of this man's math. He had done some of the work, but not all of it.

"You got it working beautifully, Fish,"

"It might still have phases of bust and spinout," Fisher said, brushing aside the praise. He would not let himself be complimented by these people. What did they know about fiber optics? But he was proud of the weapon — he knew it was a deadly beam, and it was better than they deserved. It had saved their lives.