Vissile 3

After a moment’s hesitation, in which Dr. Benjamin Orry pressed major portions of his anatomy against solid stone to assure himself he was not plunging through the horrible chasm to be crushed lifeless far below, he raised his head gingerly. Through the pounding headache, his groggy senses flashed the name Moxy. “Moxy!” he told himself. He dizzily opened his eyes. For a splintered fraction of a breath, he saw her again, standing right next to him now. Not eyeless. Just dark-eyed in the storm shadows. Lovely, dark kindly eyes, looking down at him full of concern. In her hand she clasped a baby’s silver-handled hairbrush. Only a moment. Then in a swirl of glittering white, she vanished. The glitters remained in Orry’s vision as he drew himself painfully up to standing. "Moxy!” he shouted now. Other than the howling of the wind, there was no sound. Orry worked his way to the edge of the crevice and forced his way into the terminus. Pushing out and up, he squirmed through the narrow passage and found himself climbing straight up onto an unshielded part of the mountain. He willed himself to think only of the bulge of rock. Plenty of toe and hand holds. Up, out and over. Now the glaring green light was all around, with sparkling sand dancing madly in the glow. Nausea swept over him. Don’t look down. Maybe don’t look at all. He let go with one hand. Felt along the lip of rock, then grabbed on. The handhold gave way and he started to slide. It was Moxy’s boot he had hold of. He let go hastily, and again groped the edge for support. Heart pounding, he pulled up with his arms, legs dangling free into the chasm of space, and then at last scrambled onto the base of the dagger-like formation of rock. The colored light was astonishing. Orry gasped for breath, as if green-lighted air were thicker than ordinary-colored atmosphere. He crawled over to where Moxy lay, staring down into a mouth yawning wide in the stone pedestal of the dagger rock. “Moxy, what on earth are you doing up here?” the doctor nudged him. “Hey, Doc,” the kid grinned lazily up, “fashinating phemon-ah-num…” he added, his tongue tripping sluggishly around the statement. “Moxy! This is very, very important. You have to listen to me,” Orry said, carefully, sternly. The kid looked up at him expectantly. And Doctor Benjamin Orry opened his mouth and hiccuped. Then he hiccuped again. Loudly, and repeatedly, he hiccuped. Moxy giggled. “Thash very im- imp- impresshive,” the kid said between giggles. Orry shook his head desperately, causing the pounding in his ears to redouble painfully. “It’s gas!” Orry explained. And then the doctor belched loudly. “Guessh sho!” Moxy curled up in a paroxysm of laughter. Orry grabbed the kid by both shoulders and held him upright. “IN- TOX- I- CATION!” the doctor enunciated carefully. Moxy sluggishly thought about this. “Wha’ makesh you shay tha’ ?” he asked after a while. “Your slurred speech. My difficult breathing. Headache. Hallucinations,” Orry enumerated carefully. “Wha’ ha-lushination?” the kid asked him. The doctor explained impatiently, “Ghost. I saw a ghost. A dark haired woman all in white. Saw her here. Then-poof- she just vanished…” he stated hastily. Moxy grinned widely, “Tha’? Oh, thash jusht my Mom,” he said, patting the doctor’s arm in a reassuring manner. Moxy’s dead mother? The beautiful dark-eyed woman, holding the baby’s hairbrush? Orry suppressed another involuntary shudder. “Poisonous fumes!” the doctor insisted. “Got to get out of here…” he grabbed the kid again. “Oh!” Moxy declared delightedly. “Tha’ eshplainsh ev’thin,” he clapped his hands together. “Why ah can’t do a shimple cowlick-kay-shun in ma’ head,” he shook it mournfully. “Shee? The larger part-ick-lut matter ish shtriking shparks,” he pointed into the yawning green glowing opening. Then lay down again and hung his head into it. “When the shmaller onesh eshplode at shufficient con-shun-tra-shun and the medium onesh glow. All on a methane background. But ah can’t sheem to calc-late how shoon to egg-shpeck a larger shplosion,” the kid shook his head sadly over this failure. “Explosion?” Orry demanded. “A large explosion? Here?” Moxy agreed, “Thash wha’ I shed. Should be shpeck-tackle-lure. But ah can’t figure jush egg-shack-lee when it will go. Ah cant get the shimple-esht eek-quation to work out in ma’ head…” Orry grabbed the kid’s arm and started to drag him back from the glowing opening, “come on, let’s go!” “How?” Moxy asked him, still giggling slightly, “you planning on climbing down in your corn-di-shun?” “And what condition might that be?” the doctor demanded, with as much dignity as the occasional hiccup would allow. “Sh-way-ing drunk!” the kid declared with a wide grin. “I’m not drunk. It’s the effect of the fumes. And you’re a fine one to talk. Any moment now you’ll pass out, if I’m any judge of things, which…” his scolding was interrupted by a whole series of fire-cracker-style detonations glittering orange and white at the mouth of the rock opening. Orry’s combat reflexes kicked right in like old friends. He dropped and folded protectively over his patient. “Ow!” Moxy protested, the muffled sound surfacing from underneath. “You hit?” Orry asked incongruously. “More like crush-sh-tt,” the kid complained, squirming out from under. “Besh take the sh-shlide,” Moxy decided, “come on. Follow me,” and he started to crawl into the darkest shadows of the dagger formation. “Slide?” Orry asked, not liking the sound of that at all. “Ish perf-ick-lee shafe, sho long ash you sh-lam on the brakesh-shoon enough,” the kid reassured him, making kindly, paternal noises. “Or else?” Orry demanded. “Or elsh u-ssh your para-sh-shute,” Moxy grinned. “Jush dig in wif yer elbowsh and heelsh, shoon ash you shee light at the end,” the kid said, pointing to a pool of inky darkness. “You expect me to just dive into a gawdawful black hole and plunge down the mountain side at your say-so?” Orry demanded. “If-ff you like, ah’ll go firsh,” Moxy offered affably. The doctor had a quick vision of Moxy, passing out mid-slide, rocketing off the end of the chute and plunging to a shattering death at the depths of the abyss. “I’ll go first,” Orry stated firmly. Heart slamming, he inched feet first into the hole, then lowered his body in up to his chin. He glared down his front, searching for details, but could not see so much as his own belt buckle in the velvet blackness. He told himself to let go and take the plunge but nothing happened. “You okay?” Moxy’s voice asked. Before he could reply, another electrical series of explosions burst overhead, and his fists started loose of their grip without asking permission from his brain. Orry did not wait for the light at the end of the tunnel, but rammed his elbows into the slippery walls the entire length of the chute. He ground to a stop with storm skies again overhead. And when he achingly sat up, he perceived his heels hung over the edge of the cliff. "Close call," he told himself. "Perfectly safe indeed," he told himself. He crawled back to the opening, and stuck his head up into the passageway. Examined the weird electric green glow at the top, and thundered "Moxy! Come on!" at the top of his lungs. There was a scrambling noise at the opposite end, followed almost instantaneously by the silver- white blast that lit the entire extent of the chute like high noon. Orry threw a flying tackle at the projectile that he assumed was the kid. The following blackness of night dropped over him thickly. He lay still, listening to the thudding of his heart. Finally, the mild protest registered, "I think ish a goal. The ref blew hish whishle. You can get off now." "Oops. Sorry," he told the kid, rolling over and sitting up. "What a blasht! Pun intended," Moxy grinned, fingering his ribs speculatively. "Ishn't the shlide a riot?" his grey eyes sparkled. "Definitely," Orry said, massaging his pounding temples, "let's do it again sometime." Moxy slapped him cheerfully on the back, "thash the shpirit, Doc! I knew deep down inshide there wash an adventurer lurking." Corporal Strong woke to the sound of seemingly drunken singing. The kid and Doctor Orry staggering into the clinic, leaning against each other, Moxy in perfect pitch, offering "G' night Irene, Ah'll kissh you in my dreamsh." The kid seemed exhilarated, which was nothing unusual, but his pale golden countenance was flushed to vermillion, which was very strange. Orry seemed uniformly gray, exhausted, and swayed slightly. "Why wasn't I invited?" Strong demanded, eyeing them from a height of moral superiority, as the only sober member of the group. "To tha' shploshun?" Moxy giggled. "Explosion?" Strong asked. "You must have heard it," Orry added wearily. "Heard lightening strikes close by..." Strong said doubtfully. "Is he burned?" he asked, studying the kid's face more closely. "Nope," Moxy told him cheerfully. "You get two more guesshes. Try again... " he urged him. "Not ethanol-related?" Strong reiterrated his initial supposition. "Thash two. Come on. Third timesh the charm," Moxy grinned. Strong sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose, "maybe intoxication with some other organic compound?" he asked hesitantly. "Bingo," Moxy told him. "Thash very good Shtrong. I guesshed that he would guessh it," he told Orry confidently. "Not much to do about it, but sleep it off," the doctor asserted to his corpsman. Wishing Strong goodnight, he headed again for his quarters, this time dragging the kid after. As he settled into his cot for some long overdue and much-needed rest, Orry contemplated the kid's close association with ghosts. There was nothing in Orry's background, upbringing or training that allowed him to believe in spirits. He was quite willing to state authoritatively to anyone who might ask, that what the doctor saw in the stormy gloom was simply a chemically induced hallucination. Instead of Moxy's long- dead mother. But the kid's calm assertion that the lady had been there with them this night was more unsettling than the doctor wished to admit to himself. He remembered Moxy's sketch of the camp and mountainside, peopled with goblinesque beings. How realistic the drawing seemed, how emphatic, how compelling the kid's vision of reality was, when offered up so simply. Maybe all those ghosts were hanging around out there after all. Maybe it took ghost- gray eyes to see them. As a final thought before sleep, this did not bode well for calm dreams, the doctor reflected as he finally drifted off. In spite of a nasty hangover, Orry joined Father George in the Colonel's office the next morning. When presented with the problem at hand, the priest instantly appreciated the more serious implications of the King's matrimonial offer for Moxy. Having listened, the priest bowed his head for a while, and Orry wondered whether this was in thought, prayer, or possibly both. When Father George looked up again, there was a pleasant benignity to his expression that made the others instantly calmer. Marriage was definitely in the priest's provenance, Orry reflected with satisfaction. "The first thing we must do is discuss this offer with Moxy," Father George stated. Orry instantly cringed, "is that really necessary?" he protested, looking to the Colonel for support. "Undoubtedly," the priest replied. "The Colonel can hardly refuse a formal marriage proposal on Moxy's behalf without consulting his wishes." "Why not? They came to the Colonel, not the kid," Orry argued. "According to local practice," the priest agreed. "But such is not the case for us, is it? No matter how generally primitive the states are, I imagine the young people still have the ultimate say in a wedding. Even in Texas," the European smiled at the two American soldiers. "We're not in Texas," Orry glared at Father George. "What worries you?" the priest asked. "That Moxy might accept the offer, perhaps?" "No, no. Of course not. But..." the doctor paused in some confusion. "Well, maybe. Look. He's unpredictable. Volatile. He might do something rash." "Is there any medical reason not to mention it to Moxy?" The Colonel asked. Orry desperately racked his professional brain. "No," he admitted reluctantly. "I'll send for him," the Colonel declared his decision. Moxy's grin was a little self-conscious. Being summoned and escorted to the C.O.'s office to find the three older men focusing somberly on him as he hobbled in was unprecedented. The Colonel set a chair for him. Then cleared his throat. And Orry and Father George looked at Moxy instead of the Colonel. Moxy squirmed, glancing from one of them to the next and back, his restless hands fingering the worn top of the battered crutch, propped against his chair. "Moxy, " the Colonel began. "The King has approached me about you. A formal proposal for contract of marriage between you and his niece." The kid took a deep breath. His mouth dropped open and stayed there. His eyes stared wide at the Colonel's. He fumbled the crutch and it dropped to the floor with a clatter. Moxy's lips moved soundlessly. Then a squeak came from the vicinity of his throat. "Oh my gosh," he said. "Yes, well," the Colonel looked at Father George. "Moxy," the priest began, "are you at all interested in marrying the Princess?" "She's just a kid. Hardly more than a baby..." Moxy protested. Orry was just thinking the same thing about Moxy. "May we take that as a 'no'?" Orry instantly pounced. "I gotta think," the kid replied, rubbing his hands across his forehead, causing his glossy black mop to stand straight up. "This isn't something to just shrug off," he added. The doctor was chagrined at how much faster than he Moxy had grasped the political implications of the problem. "Who's gonna do the talking?" Moxy looked appraisively at the three older men. "I will," the Colonel replied. "Okay," the kid agreed. "So first, there's some things I need to tell you. I owe the King, major-big-time. For saving my life. Debt of gratitude, that sort of thing. If he's eager for this match to happen, as opposed to just tolerating it, humoring his niece, that would be important for you to know in talking to him." Father George intervened in kindly tones, "Moxy. The King is a powerful, wealthy man. I doubt he values his hospitality toward you as a life and death level obligation." Moxy replied emphatically, "No. You don't understand.You haven't heard everything. It was just after I got the jeep working again. I ran right smack dab into the middle of some nasty actors. Real drug and dagger desperado types." He mentioned the name of the sect-cum-criminal-cartel he had encountered. Orry recognized them. A vicious group with a very nasty reputation. He stared at the Colonel's reaction. The old man's furious, he assessed. It must be obvious to all that the Colonel's men had failed in the basic pursuit of intelligence. In debriefing the kid, talking to their sources, they had never heard the most important part of the kid's story. The Colonel glowered at Moxy. "You should have told me this before." "Nobody asked me," the kid shrugged, returning calm stare for burning glare. The Colonel's anger erupted into his voice. "Then you should have volunteered the information. We are here at the express invitation of the national government. Any aggression against a compatriot is an act against us all. There should have been either a formal protest, or an immediate reprisal against the perpetrators. Without a strong response to such aggression, all of our positions here are undermined." Moxy replied calmly, "they didn't know my citizenship. And I refused to tell them. I spoke nothing but local lingo. They couldn't figure from my accent where I was from. Puzzled them considerably. I burned my passport and visas at the first smell of trouble." The Colonel scolded, "That was a very dangerous thing to do. Didn't they tell you when they issued your passport that it was the property of the government?" Moxy responded, "oh, yeah. I heard that speech all right. Together with some real lovely stuff about every traveler being an ambassador for our country, and mind your manners, and such like. Believe me, Colonel. Those guys were just not interested in diplomacy. And they seemed to be suffering from the delusion that all foreigners have wealthy folks back home just waiting around to ransome them. Now trust me when I say that there's nobody, but nobody with any cash back stateside, kin or friend who gives a flying hurrah about my overall health status. It came down to just the nasties and me. And they wanted the jeep and the computer stuff. Minus the human software accompaniment, i.e. yours truly Moxy Youngblood. They were pretty rough about their initial efforts to I.D. me. And then they were ready to toss me off a cliff to see whether I would bounce or not. Then the King and his commandos came to the rescue. Seems my professor had gotten specific permission from the King to be traveling in the neighborhood. And the King didn't like the notion of someone messing with a safe conduct, once he'd seen fit to issue it. There was quite a scuffle between the King's followers and the bad guys. Considerable carnage, you might say." The Colonel's glare would have burned holes through asbestos. Orry watched the exchange with interest. Having himself lost more than one verbal duel with the kid, his money was on Moxy. The Colonel didn't stand a chance, the poor soul. While part of the doctor's attention was waiting, watching to see if the kid's toxic reptilian alter ego would appear, the rest of his mind was reviewing his patient's condition when he first arrived at the clinic. Moxy had said he injured his knee falling on a sharp rock. But since then, Orry had seen the kid in action, climbing a virtually smooth wall. The kid had suction cups for fingers. Orry couldn't believe that story of a simple tumble anymore. The kid had been in sorry shape that first day. Now in retrospect, the doctor reviewed the physical exam in the context of a released prisoner who had been maltreated by his captors. As a military doctor, Orry was supposed to be able to judge the extent and nature of traumatic injury for correlation with the story told of how, when and why. He was as dissatisfied with his medical judgment as the Colonel appeared to be with his intelligence work. It occurred to Orry to wonder why Moxy had not told them about the rough stuff previously. Pressure from the King to keep quiet? Embarrasment over being a victim? No. Moxy was over the shoulders up to the nostrils submerged in the research effort. The doctor knew as soon as the thought occurred that Moxy didn't want to jeopardize the research. He didn't want the work to appear dangerous, for fear someone in authority would call it quits, pull the plugs and permits and send the scientists home. The Colonel demanded, "So why tell me this now?" "Gosh. I couldn't let you stick your neck out, walk into a meet with them without knowing the facts, could I? You could get hurt that way," Moxy insisted. Orry took a mental step backward to study the kid's notions of allegiance, honesty and priorities. The Colonel growled, "Okay. Any other revelations?" Moxy admitted, "yeah. A couple." He fixed the Colonel with a cold stare. Then commented, "I don't want you thinking I've been meddling where I shouldn't've. I mean, I never so much as stood on the same plot of land as that little girl. Nor so much as raised an eyebrow at her. Nor looked straight at her, neither. Nor exchanged so much as a how do you do - pleased to meet you. Much less any funny business. Just in case you'd entertained any such notions at the back of your head," he declared emphatically. The Colonel had been boiling over. Now he cooled rapidly. "No. Of course. Certainly not," he replied with military briskness in his voice. Moxy paused, staring at the commanding officer. Orry thought there was a definite measure of calculation in the kid. Sensing the older man's discomfort at the more personal nature of this topic, almost as if accusing the Colonel of suspecting him of sexual mischief. Then forcing him to retract accusations that had never been voiced, and possibly not even imagined. Moxy definitely had gained the upper hand in the discussion. "Good," the kid nodded his head. "Now just one thing more you might need to know. Pedigree. I'm a real mongrel. Lots of races, tribes, nations. And my mom's family. The Hispanic part. Jewish - all the way back to Genesis. And proud of it. Don't guess they thought about a background check on an all American mutt like me before they put that offer on the table. I'm guessing it'd make a difference, if they knew." Studiously neutral, the Colonel looked at the kid. There was nothing to say about Moxy's heritage. Except that it would be a mighty difficult topic to broach if it came down to that. Father George told the kid, "I've got a question for you. Did you ever promise undying love to anybody? Ever?" the priest asked, smiling. The kid actually blushed at the question, "gosh. Don't think so." Orry was amused by the changing currents of authority in the room. As suddenly as the kid had been in charge, he had lost it again. Calmly, Father George continued, "well then, what was the name of your very first childhood sweetheart?" Moxy looked thoughtful. "The very first? Hmm. That would have to be Amalia Bejarre, I guess. I mean, Paps had bare- skin rubber ducky pictures of us in the bubble bath together as toddlers, you know? Her Pap and mine being best buttons in the service together, way back when." The priest nodded acknowledgement of this item. They all eyed Father George curiously at this. He sat, looking amused a moment before explaining. "If Moxy's dead father had indicated a wish to match Moxy with his best friend's daughter, it could be considered a prior engagement. Face saving in case of a current rejection. If that's what Moxy wants." The Colonel asked the kid, "Well, what do you want me to tell them?" "I don't know," the kid replied. Orry groaned. Moxy explained, "I mean, I never got proposed-to before. I gotta think about it some. How long I got?" he asked. The Colonel told him, "Why, I suppose as long as you need." The kid reached for his crutch and stood. "Thanks. I'm sorry this is all such a nuisance," he told them and left. The Colonel stopped smiling as soon as the kid was gone. Then he shook his head, "thrown off a cliff. Gawd almighty. Damn it to hell," he swore softly, bitterly. It was the first time in a fairly long acquaintance that Orry had ever heard him curse. And right in front of Father George, too. Maybe Orry had misread the Colonel's reaction. Not in a stew over missed intelligence. Maybe just trying to watch out for the kid. Orry was certain without asking that none of the triumvirate had been indiscreet and spoken out of ship. But still, the word got around that the kid was contemplating wedded bliss. Everyone had an opinion to offer, advice to give. But as vack loomed large, the scurry to get organized, packed, provisioned and on the road overwhelmed other considerations. Even Benjamin Orry had lost sight of the kid's predicament, buried under other concerns. So when Corporal Strong came to him in an uncharacteristic turmoil, the doctor's mind was into crates, packing materials, and shipping temperatures. "Mighty Moses on the mount, what now?" he demanded of the corpsman. Strong replied "I'm sorry to interrupt, Doc, but you really need to do something about the kid. I think the King has talked him into staying." "Moxy?" Orry asked with a somewhat absent look. Strong replied wryly, "Little guy, gray eyes, black hair, status post surgical repair - right knee...sir." Orry asked, still rather blankly, "what's his problem?" Strong repeated "he's planning to stay behind." The doctor proclaimed "nonsense. It's all right here in black and white. Page 33, addendum C. Bold type heading,civilian patients comma ambulatory. (that is, if you take someone supposedly hobbling on crutches but usually clambering straight up mountain walls, it averages out to approximately 'ambulatory'.) Subheading, citizenship, U.S.A. Category, documentation incomplete comma parenthesis, pending. (We have a slight problem with burned passports and visas, but the Colonel is expediting matters in ways we can only imagine with polite shudders). Item one, Youngblood, comma Moxy. Transportation, colon, jeep, comma, own. Driver, colon, Strong comma Jace T. comma, corporal. (That would be you.) Fuel, motor pool, comma, subject to reimbursement, parenthesis, see page 57, projected consumption. Thirty copies draft. Finals to follow. Since I was a kid, it has always been travel orders, 30 copies carried faithfully from point A to point B, there to be used for kindling. I never had need for more than two copies my whole career, and that time was a bizarre circumstance. But thirty it is, salute, salute and kiss my boot. I've still a thought to letting the Mevac airheads have him. Jolting that knee down the mountain side road is not a cheerful picture. But weigh that against keeping an eye on our favorite nemesis. We could package the knee with an air splint. You're shaking your head. Over the jarring jeep or the whirly twirly?" Strong stated firmly, "I'm telling you, Doc. You're losing him to the royalty. Unless you retrench pronto. I overheard his mountainous majesty and it sounded like poetry. The kid is going to stay." Orry demanded, "Well, why don't you talk him out of it?" Strong replied, "I tried. The more I argued, the more determined to stay he got. Come on, Doc. You've got that born appearance of persuasive authority. You try talking to him." Orry grumbled, "Yeah, right." He went after the kid and found him perched on his favorite cliff, overlooking the camp, sketch pad in hand. At Orry's approach, Moxy grinned cheerfully. The doctor began, "I'm finalizing the travel arrangements. I've got Strong planned for driving your jeep. How's that sound?" The kid replied "great." Orry declared "Now that I think about it, I'm looking forward to a trip stateside. Maybe I'm a bit homesick. It's been a while." Moxy nodded sunshine. Orry asked "how are your plans coming along?" The kid shrugged noncommittally. Orry probed, "I hear the King has been selling you on staying." Moxy agreed, "mm -hmm." Orry asked "you thinking about actually marrying the Princess?" "Uh huh," Moxy nodded. The doctor asked "many of your friends tried to talk you out of it?" The kid laughed, "Gee, yeah. A whole camp full of bachelors. Who'd've thought there'd be so many of them with opinions on getting hitched?" Orry suggested "I guess most Americans are prejudiced in favor of falling in love first, before you get married." "I don't see why," the kid admitted. "I like people in general. Like them a lot. And girls, well, gee. I'm in love with most of them on sight. What's the big deal?" Orry eyed the kid, trying to remember passion from a teenage perspective. After a moment, he gave up. He thought it possible that somewhere in his own distant adolescence, he had been capable of loving 'most girls' on sight. But it was long enough ago that he couldn't recall it. The doctor asked "do you really want to give up all those other girls for this one?" Moxy shrugged, "I'd be willing to give it a shot." The expression evoked mental gunfire. Orry cringed. He asked "Why her?" Moxy grinned, "she's pretty, she's nice, she's rich, and she shows great taste in musicians." The doctor asked archly "you think your debt of gratitude thing for the King has anything to do with this?" The kid pondered a while. "I do owe him," he said. Orry responded "for saving your life. But keeping order, protecting people is pretty much his responsibility, his job in life you might say. Just like fixing your leg, taking care of your sepsis and seeing you through an hellatious bout of pneumonia is my job, and Corporal Strong's." Might as well lean on that debt of gratitude thing while they were on it. Tug of gratitude war with Moxy in the middle. Orry ended with as much skepticism in his voice as he could muster, "and you don't really know if those thugs would have killed you. Maybe they were just trying to scare you into talk." Moxy looked out over the edge. "They tied me with some rope. My wrists and then my ankles. Lots of rope." He described it as if staring at a snapshot of himself. Moxy, terrified of restraint, bound hand and foot. "They tied off one end of the rope, and kicked me over the edge. Over and down, dangling there. They said they would cut the rope, and let me drop. It was a long way down. I knew nobody would ever climb down after me, even if they found me. So nobody would ever untie me. I would be like that, with all that rope on me forever. All the rest of time. Lying there with my hands and my feet tied." One hell of a phobia, that one. Never mind being shattered, crushed to death. Just terrified at being tied. Orry guessed "when they rescued you, the King untied you?" "They got me back onto the cliff. And then he cut the ropes off with a knife," the kid nodded, the blood returning to his face, relieving the deadly fearful pallor. There was just no competing with that story. Orry shifted gears. "Let me ask you a hypothetical question. If you were going to vack out with Strong and me. Would you rather ride out by chopper, or stick with your jeep?" Dangle that carrot. Moxy's eyes glittered wide, "I like helicopters." Orry continued, "you do? You know, my friend Ted Dare, the computer-jock-cop-gone-billionaire, has a whole fleet of experimental rescue helicopters. They're still working out the computer stuff on them. I bet he'd hire you to work on that. Probably a dissertation project at the clinic somewhere for you. He's making a whole career out of remote clinics in difficult- access areas, hooking them up to a central clinic by computer. I've been thinking of signing on with him myself." Moxy agreed cheerfully, "sounds like great stuff." The sentence sounded polite, but lacked enthusiasm. Orry studied Moxy's face. He could see the kid's determination already set in his stubborn, freedom-craving brain. The kid really had decided to stay with the King. Thrill- seeking, maybe. Marrying into a war zone. A foreigner joining a tribe of xenophobes. Nothing much more dangerous on the surface of the planet. The King himself had offered to shoot Moxy not that many weeks ago. The doctor's mind searched for some persuasion, some pressure, any force that would jar the kid loose from his decision. He adopted an outward semblance of calm unconcern while his mind scrambled for an argument. " Well," Orry got up and stretched. There was a pause. He cleared his throat. "I've been busy with all this vack-out confusion. It's likely to get only worse. I'm really not ready to sign out on your case. But I might not get a chance later on. I'd feel better about all this," he vaguely waved his hand, "if I could get an exit physical exam on you." He tugged his stethoscope out of his pocket. "Do you mind?" Moxy shrugged, "sure, go ahead." Suddenly, reality was hitting Benjamin Orry in an emotional way. His discomfort was acute. As he poked and prodded the kid, palpated and percussed, he reminded himself, This was always a pro bono case. He's a civilian. Really not your responsibility long-term. It's time to let go of the kid. Give him a gentle shove. Send him back out into the world. To make his way the best he can. As a persuasive argument, it fell short. The corners of Orry's mind dwelt upon the world as he knew it. A world of pestilence and human cruelty, injustice, prejudice and immorality. Far from comforting the doctor, the physical exam intensified his misery. There again, possibly for the last time, was Moxy's trusting compliance with Orry's fussing, the kid's ever- present glorious grin, his glowing eyes reflecting the massive intellect behind them, the warm, youthful perfection of his skin, interrupted suddenly, violently by the angry traumatic scar. Irresistably, the image invaded the doctor's mind, of the kid, bound and terrified, flung from the hands of his tormentors, to crash against the sharp rocks. The surgeon's sensitive fingers cringed away from the memory of dismemberment, filth, and disease. He hastily concluded the exam. Then, sternly said, "remember, you're still staying off that knee," with forefinger wagging in the kid's grinning face. "Sure, Doc," Moxy agreed cheerfully. Orry gazed off into the magnificent scenery, trying to control the working of his facial musculature. Suddenly, with just a bit of calculation organizing in his frontal lobe, he gave up the culture-imposed effort. Looking full-faced and earnestly at Moxy he said "look, I, er... if I don't get the chance to say... I mean. Take care of yourself. Okay?" He took up the kid's hand in his huge grasp, shook it hard, then hastily turned and fled back down the mountainside. He entered the sparse remains of the Colonel's office. Strong was there before him. And Father George. The Colonel was saying "I could just arrest the kid. That would solve the problem." Strong wondered "for what?" The Colonel replied "treason, espionage, traveling without a visa." Strong protested, "nice criminal record for Moxy that would be." "Not at all," the Colonel responded calmly, "I can easily lose the record as soon as we get him safely out of here." Father George commented "rather inflammatory. You might start the King's cohort shooting at you. Those of us who are peacefully inclined would just as soon avoid that." Strong suggested "how about a sudden relapse of viral plague? The Doc here could slip him a sedative and we could whisk him away with a medical excuse. They couldn't possibly object to that. How did your attempt at friendly persuasion go, anyway, sir?" Orry responded "I pulled out all the stops. Employed my secret weapon." "Which is what, exactly?" Strong laughed. "Just this," Orry said. He let his face droop a moment. His eyes started to water, and then his lower lip and chin quivered with overwhelming pathos. " That's awful!" exclaimed Strong. "Thank you. I also can wiggle my ears and raise a single eyebrow," the doctor displayed the various mobile facial traits described. "Amazing, sir. To think I've been working next to such talent, and never knew!" Strong commented. "The chin-quivering bit works on most sympathetic forces throughout the galaxy. Female relatives, girlfriends, small fuzzy animals, and other such..." Orry confided. "The ultimate question is whether it worked on the kid," Strong stated practically. "Time will tell," Orry shrugged. "Otherwise?" Strong wondered. "Otherwise, we'll have to get the Colonel here to arrest Moxy, because I'm surely not leaving him behind," the doctor stated emphatically. The night before the morning scheduled for vack- out dropped onto Benjamin Orry like a dump-truck load of wet concrete. He was weary beyond worrying about anybody or anything. So tired, he felt jumpy, adrenaline-filled. He felt restless beyond rational thought, beyond organization. He wanted to just turn to people at random and tell them look, just grab as many people as you can cram into a truck and start down the road and order be damned. Fortunately, he was too tired to do that. He dragged into his quarters. There remained little but the two cots, left behind for future patients. Forlorn in a corner stood his traveling apothecary, his duffel and shave kit, and his ditty bag with the paperwork for the trip. He dropped onto his cot. Then he realized that Moxy was standing in the shadows. The kid stood leaning on the crutch, doubtfully, as if maybe he was no longer entitled to use the cot that had been his before. There was that problem staring Orry in the face again. "Take a load of that knee, would you?" Orry grumbled. Obediently, Moxy sat on the outermost inch of the mattress. Then he said "I'd like to come in the jeep." "What?" Orry exclaimed. "If that's okay," Moxy added politely. Orry tried to stifle any appearance of surprise. "Sure, sure," he agreed. "I'll add you to the list." In fact, he already had all the official paperwork ready for Moxy, neatly divided into two stacks. The first dealt with Moxy as a willing participant in departure. The second with Moxy dragged along under protest, under the Colonel's arrest. Orry planned on carrying both stacks with him in case of emergencies. "Just out of curiosity, what was the deciding factor?" he growled irritably. "I figured I'd better come along in case something broke down. And you needed me to fix it," the kid replied. "That's it?" Orry's exasperation got the better of him. "That's all?" he demanded. "So you can fix stuff for us?" Moxy replied tentatively, "uh huh. If that's okay," he added again. "Yes. Yes. Of course it's okay. Look, Moxy. Maybe I'm out of line, here. But I've just got to tell you. Here you are, seriously considering marrying a girl you've never met, just because she asked you. And then you change your mind, and throw in with me, to travel half way back around the globe, in case we need a wire soldered or a spark plug changed!" The doctor sputtered to a pause for lack of breath. "I seem a little flighty, do I?" the kid asked. "You might say that," Orry exclaimed sarcastically. The kid replied, "Doc, there's always plenty of dung dropped upon the roadside. No matter how you dodge and dance around and plan your next footsteps, some of it's bound to splash onto you." "Moxy! And you a scientist, too. I never expected you to be a fatalist," Orry stated. After a moment of thought, the kid replied "let me tell you something. I already made the most important decision in my life. The way I figure it, the rest of them can be handled with the toss of a coin, or a shrug of the shoulders," Moxy suited action to words. Arousing from his stupor, considerably interested, the doctor asked, "and what was it?" Moxy leafed through his sketch book, and brought out his father's drawing, still folded. He handed it to Orry. For the first time, the doctor saw the note written there on the reverse side. It read, "Moxy, I'm glad your schoolwork is going so well. Don't bother coming home for your birthday. I'm quite busy with several projects. And I bet your friends there will want to help you celebrate. Have fun, Love, Pap." The kid said, "that came for me at the University. You see, since I was 12, Pap and I would go out for a drink on my birthday. A noggin glass of Irish for a toast. We never would keep alcohol around the house, 'cause Pap had trouble not drinking it all in one sitting. When that came for me," he nodded at the drawing and note, "I thought and thought. Long and hard. Should I go home for my birthday, even though Pap said not to? And I finally decided I would go home, anyway. I made the right decision," he nodded emphatically. "But I got this problem with calendars. I never can make them work right. Time just doesn't flow smoothly for me. I was working on something interesting in the lab at the University. And when I looked at the calendar, boom, it struck me. I'd missed my birthday. Maybe I was looking at the wrong month. I don't know. They called me the next day. Pap had gone out for our noggin glass of Irish. Alone. And driving back, he had a car accident. Drove off a high place. The coroner said he'd only had the one drink. They thought he might have fallen asleep at the wheel. But I know better. It was a full moon that night. And he saw some view that caught his eye. He was thinking about getting it onto canvas just right. Staring at the scenery, instead of watching where he was driving. And I know if I'd been there like I'd meant to be, I'd have been driving instead of Pap. Cause he hated driving, and I don't mind. And if I'd gone there, if I'd been there, he'd surely have lived to paint that canvas." Instantly jumping to the kid's defense, the doctor exclaimed, "it's not your fault, Moxy!" The kid looked at him, ruefully. "Sorry, Doc. I didn't mean to glum you, dread you out totally like that. I'm not talking about blame, somebody's fault here. My point is only that I thought real long and hard. Made the right decision. And things went wrong anyway. You see? You can make a bad decision. And nothing much happens. Or a good decision. That turns out simply dreadful. So why agonize? Why not just toss a coin, shrug your shoulders, go for it?" he asked, smiling softly. Orry was silent. "Just so you didn't think I was being flip or something," Moxy explained, "when I said I would come in the jeep with you." The doctor nodded. A while later, Orry was still wide awake. He lay staring at the glow along the tent top. Full moon. In the shadows, the kid's voice came to him, quite nearby, "still awake?" The older man peered through the night and caught a glimpse of Moxy's grey eyes, alight, even in the darkness like that. The kid sighed, "I shouldn't have told you. I'm sorry." Orry retorted "don't apologize. I put you on the spot. You have a right to explain yourself." "Yeah? Maybe. So maybe I should tell you something else. There never was a more cheerful soul on the face of the earth than Pap. People think that artists are moody. But not Pap. No sir. He dearly loved a party, a joke, a good laugh, a fine meal. If I went out on an invite, or to a dance, or movie, he always wanted to hear all the details. He would enjoy all the fun all over again, just hearing about it from me. I think, if he couldn't be there, it was almost as good for him if I was there. You know? So I figure, I'll just have the jolliest time that ever I can, for both of us. All the pretty views, and the pretty girls. Whatever tastes good. And whatever makes me laugh out loud. Just squeeze as much enjoyment out of it all as ever I can manage, for me, and again for Pap." Orry snorted in spite of himself, "that explains it. Why you're perpetually, supernaturally cheerful. I'd been wondering," he admitted. "Yep. That's it, Doc. Simple filial devotion. I'm just obligated, as a dutiful son, to laugh out loud as often as ever I can. On Pap's behalf," Moxy chuckled, the soft, pleasant, musical sound of it dispersing toward Orry through the night. Now Moxy's voice came from the far corner, from his cot. "Now when I'm tired, you know, just deep, bone weary. And there's a pillow with a nice, cool surface to it. And I settle my cheek upon it. Ah, doesn't that feel good?" Settling back, uncrossing his arms, Orry listened to the soothing sound of Moxy's musical whisper. "And when you're so heavy with sleep, and you find, ah ha, well bless my soul, there's a matress under me, how very fortunate. Mmm, doesn't that just feel so good? And you sink into it, be it never so old nor lumpy, til you feel you could sink right through to the other side. Now that's luxury for you. And then, maybe there's just a tad of a breeze blowing from somewhere out in the night there. With just a hint of dew, and maybe the fragrance of growing things on it, not too cold, mind you, just cool enough to want to pull a cover up, so you can settle your chin in the midst of its old, worn welcoming folds. Why, it's perfection. True perfection..." the kid's voice trailed off, and the doctor's gentle snore wished him sweet dreams. And then the next morning brought vack out. There was that sort of carnival atmosphere that accompanies any break in the work routine, but certainly one as monumental as this. There was the excitement of a move, the preoccupation with the basic elements of life. Was there enough of food and water, when would they next eat, and where sleep, what would be the circumstances of their travel and stops along the way? Were they all safe and together? Had anything vital been left behind? There was the melancholy of leaving a place that had been home. Already that place had the air of desertion, the first feeling of neglect, of emptiness, the sound of echoes left alone when considerable life exits a site simultaneously. Who would the next caretakers be, would they value the place, use it as it had been intended? There was an element of depression, a sense that perhaps nothing of the prior tenants' assignment had been accomplished. It seemed unlikely that the place was safer, healthier or more peaceful than when they had first arrived. Perhaps it was even worse. There had been alliances, friendships formed. But were they after all mere conveniences, fleeting in nature, soon forgotten? There was little about the locals that suggested regret at the foreign allies departure. Indeed, it was possible that triumph at the return of sole possession was predominant in the neighborhood. Of all this, Doctor Benjamin Orry was only dimly, peripheraly aware. He was too busy keeping the operation together, solving the minor disasters that struck them here and there, organizing and ordering, assisting and advising, protecting his charges in their departure. At last the long convoy was set in motion, and it was time for Orry himself to leave. Corporal Strong brought up the jeep with the doctor's geer stowed on board. "Where's the kid?" Orry asked him. "I figured he was with you," Strong replied. They both turned at the sound of the Colonel's vehicle entering the roadway. Bartholgy was behind the wheel, waving at them. The CO stepped out, quizzing his second with a look. "Where's Moxy?" the doctor asked. "He isn't with you?" the Colonel responded. "Maybe he's gone back for a last handshake with Father George," Strong suggested. Doctor and corpsman turned back to search the camp. The Colonel left Bartholgy in charge of the vehicles and strode hastily after them. Father George was nowhere to be found. And neither was the kid. They made their way back to the roadside. The Colonel looked at his watch, and Orry knew what was coming next. Moxy was not their responsibility. The troops in the convoy heading out were. "Five minutes and we drive," the Colonel said. Orry opened his mouth, but the CO cut him off with the curt command, "no matter what." Orry nodded. The time interval whisked past them and was gone. "Let's go," the Colonel said, turning on his heel. And immediately there was the noise of engines in the roadway behind them. They turned expectantly. An all-terrain vehicle stopped a dozen yards away, and a crowd of weapon-laden guerillas materialized around it. Orry kept his hands exactly where they were before, and stared at the impressive force massed against them. Strong stirred nervously. The Colonel's hand settled over his gun...

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