Paul Theroux - O-Zone

He remembered too late, but the word had not offended her. It was simply that she had not understood it.

"Just slang," he said. "The polite word is 'illegals.'"

They walked a little more, keeping New Jersey in sight— Bligh said she found it reassuring to see it and to know that her quarter was in that direction. Hooper was impressed by her stamina: after a full day, the flight to O-Zone and this ramble around New York, she was still on her feet and eager to know more. It was after midnight!

Hooper radioed for a taxi, but passing through midtown on their way to Coldharbor, Bligh recognized the Greenhouse— it had been the first place Hooper had taken her — and she asked if they could stop for some chocolate.

"There's one," Bligh said, inside the place.

It was a naked woman in a mask. She wore thick chains around her waist and thinner ones around each ankle. She was with a man in a flying suit and a helmet and high boots. They made an odd couple — the nude woman, the overdressed man.

Bligh was fascinated by them and saw two more — an older woman, rather heavy, looking terribly untidy Hooper thought — even disheveled — although she was stark naked; and a naked man in a helmet and boots. As the man passed them, Hooper noticed that he was wearing a green penis sheath.

"A year ago you wouldn't have seen any naked people in here," Hooper said. "It's recently become the fashion— something to do with wearing masks, I think. You can get away with anything in a mask."

It gave the place a carnival atmosphere — a feeling of anonymous hilarity; and it was not only the masks and the nakedness but the other fashions that had the look of costumes, the backless dresses, the women who wore nothing but aprons, the security men who wore protective gear and looked like troopers and Martians and Rocketmen of long standing.

Hooper was surprised that Bligh liked the Greenhouse. For Hopper, it was just another frenzied shopping mall in competition with his mail-order business, but for Bligh it was a carnival crowd and tropical warmth, the scent of flowers, the overhanging trees, and stores crammed full of merchandise. She even enjoyed the ritual at checkpoints — the scanners, the sight of armed guards and Federals. She squealed on the moving sidewalks and on escalators, and she seemed fascinated by the electronic equipment — videoscreens and monitors and flashing lights on the towers beyond the glass roof.

He bought her some chocolate, and when she lingered near a store selling masks, he urged her to choose one. She chose a pretty face, and Hooper bought it for her. He told her how much lovelier her own face was, but he was grateful to her for wanting it. He said, "What else?"

"Are those real?" she asked, and walked to the side, among some trees, crushing a leaf in one hand, then a flower in the other. She sniffed her fingers and laughed. "They are!"

But a guard had seen her.

Hooper moved close behind him. "Owner," he said, and showed both their IDs.

"Keep away from the plantings," the guard said through the grille on his mask. His amplified voice was menacing, but Hooper's ID cut him short.

After that they took another taxi back to Coldharbor. It was a sealed taxi with an air system, so Hooper took off his breathing mask. Seeing him, Bligh did the same, and sighed and sat back. Her face was gleaming with pleasure.

"It's like a dream," she said. She looked very secure, very safe, and happy.

Hooper almost kissed her. He touched her once again, and put his face near hers. But he held back. She was smiling, as if daring him and watching him weaken. He considered the flesh of her lips.

His bleeper went. He could have ignored it or killed it, but he welcomed it now. It was Murdick, on his private line.

"Lost anything recently?" Murdick said.

When Hooper began to reply, Murdick went on, "Anything stolen, anything ripped off or broken? Because—"

"Willis, I'm heading home."

"Because we caught Skelly at the Lansdown with his hands full," Murdick said. "We've got exclusive possession. We're not turning him over. We thought you might want to ask him a few questions."

"I don't have any questions."

Murdick said, "We're going to squeeze him."

"Squeeze him without me."

"What's that?" Bligh asked as Hooper switched off.

He shook his head, and thought: I almost kissed her! He was relieved he hadn't — yet he had come so close. He had vowed to be very careful, not only to avoid frightening her but also to avoid infecting himself. He had not rid himself of the notion that as an alien Bligh might be a carrier of disease. It was his intention to have her undergo blood tests, and not to touch her until then.

But it had been a miserable interruption. It must have been the alert that Jennix had mentioned. Murdick and his trooper friends had caught a thief red-handed — a Skell or someone without an ID: a person without a legal existence. There was always a quarrel when a thief was caught — did he belong to the local security unit, or to the city police, or to the Federals? Usually it depended on what he had stolen. But this was obviously a private matter. Godseye had captured a thief. Anyone who had recently been robbed could join in the interrogation. They would kill him eventually, but it was a slow death.

It was too dark in the taxi for Bligh to see the troubled look on Hooper's face — and anyway, she was more intent on looking out of the window.

"I like this," she said, and took an energetic breath through her teeth.

"There's more," Hooper said. His voice had become very solemn. "There's much more."

He was thinking of black places and city-stains and ruined towns and some of his own depots that had been burned to the ground. But then he got a clear image of Fizzy. It was a pathetic picture and, in sympathy, he had made it old-fashioned in his mind. Fizzy, poor boy, was a lamb on a rocky hillside far away, bleating and trying to keep upright on wobbly legs; and he was surrounded by high winds and wolves.

In the morning, Hardy found another message from Hooper gleaming at him from his monitor and he knew he could not put it off any longer. He phoned his brother and felt at once that Hooper was in a businesslike and just-returned state of mind.

"Please don't ask me to go up in the rotor again," Hooper said. It had been for secrecy, Hardy said. They had gone up at midnight about a week before, and hovered, talking of Fizzy. It was then — certain that they were not overheard— that they had worked out the code.

"In that case, be brief," Hardy said.

"Still no luck with the package. Not even a sighting."

"These things take time," Hardy said. "When you've got some hard news, plug me in."

Trying to be circumspect, he sounded calm — even indifferent to the abduction. He was concerned, he knew that Fizzy was valuable — might even be crucial to the project in O-Zone — but he could not risk anyone getting wind of the disappearance. If Fizzy were reported missing, Federal Rescue would make inquiries, and Hardy would be forced to disclose the reason for the mission. Then the whole plan for the thermal mountain would be known, and the other oil companies would start a free-for-all in O-Zone.

The project had to be kept secret, because O-Zone was still a Prohibited Area. No one else knew that it was now safe, that it might be profitable, and that it could be leased and reactivated. Hardy intended to apply for the permits as soon as Fizzy provided the survey data — Fizzy was perfect for that. He had already done a profile and a field study. With a thermal mountain, a new weather pattern — with plenty of water — it would be a tremendous piece of real estate. What had been a disaster area was now the last great chance in America.