The conversation then veered toward the contrasting views of death. Westerners feared it and tried to avoid it, Indians were resigned to it.
Sharad smiled. “Perhaps you have heard the ancient Indian story where a man sees Death approach him down a village street, so he runs, travels to the ends of the earth, and hides in a remote cave. Then he has a visitor—Death. ‘Why did you run when I approached you in the village?’ Death asked. ‘I was only going to tell you I would come for you here today.’“
Sharad’s smile became wistful. “It does no good to run.”
Mark wasn’t entirely pleased at the turn the conversation had taken, with death as the subject matter on one side and smuggling on the other. Frost’s return to his seat about then gave Mark the opportunity to weigh the comparative merits of the two topics.
Sharad returned to his magazine, Frost temporarily brought up smuggling and then shifted off into a tirade against bureaucracy, particularly customs bureaucracy which made returning travelers miserable at airports.
Somehow, Mark managed to survive. His increased nervousness as the plane came in for a landing virtually shut off the noise generated by the aisle passenger. Mark could feel the perspiration under his arms as they lined up for customs. Having deplaned together, he found himself once more between Sharad and Frost. The latter was unusually silent as the line shuffled forward.
Mark tried to look ahead to see how thoroughly customs inspection was being conducted, but there seemed neither rhyme nor reason in the performance. One woman was pulled out of line, and her baggage was thoroughly searched on the counter near the exit. Some passengers received the customary chalk checkmark after only the most cursory of inspections.
So engrossed was he in the process, it took several moments for Mark to become aware of the half-dozen uniformed men who had come into the room. One, an airport security guard, even had a drawn pistol. All of them converged in his direction. He could think of only one thing, to escape. The exit was only a few feet away. Could he make it? Sharad turned and gave him the same wistful smile he had worn back on the plane when they had spoken about death. Mark could read his thoughts. “It does no good to run.”
The uniformed men moved quickly—one on each side of Sharad, another pinning his arms behind him and handcuffing him. The security guard with the pistol replaced it in his holster. Frost’s astonished voice broke above the murmurs of the people in the queue. “What was that all about?” he asked the guard.
“Diamond smuggling. We finally nailed him. Word came through he’s carrying a fortune in stones on him.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Frost observed. “I hope they throw the book at him.”
JOYLAND
Tilg and I were both already rather euphoric when the Joyland guardian greeted us. I was favorably impressed from the moment I saw him, noting how his beaming countenance was not simply cosmetic or trained. He definitely had a permanent surgical smile. So pleasant! So nice to see him not having to strain to maintain it. And it was charming. His pure white sarong-toga was exactly right for his surroundings. Tilg’s costume and mine seemed glaringly out of place by comparison.
He touched fingers with us and introduced himself. “Welcome to Joyland 76. I’m Shira. We only use first names here, of course. Much more intimate. And, let me see,” he checked his illustrated wrist notes. “You must be Kiedar and this is Tilg. Right on time too. Splendid. So many people have little regard for time these days—just strolling in ten or fifteen seconds late and thinking nothing of it.” He shook his head, but of course the smile didn’t reflect his annoyance at inconsiderate people.
Dada’s electronic gurney had stopped a meter or so behind us, and Shira stepped over to it to examine the life record. “Hmm. Birth date less than ninety-seven years ago. I really didn’t believe my notes.”
I felt apologetic, but something had to be said and, as the older brother, I knew it was incumbent upon me to do the explaining. “Dada was old fashioned in a lot of ways. He never allowed any organ or stem cell transplants.”
Shira’s beautiful eyebrows rose. “No transplants!” he exclaimed, not trying to hide the astonishment in his voice. “How unusual. Well, I imagine ninety-seven isn’t all so surprising under those circumstances.”
Reaching into the folds of his clothing, he took out a small device, which I recognized as a scanner of some sort. “I must apologize,” he explained. “No offense is intended, but it’s a long-established Joyland principle we must never depend entirely upon the entrance record. Prior to admission, the incomer must be scanned for minimal vital signs. While I’ve never encountered it myself, some of the older Joyland guardians have stories you wouldn’t believe—about attempts to smuggle in terminated entities.
“On the other hand, I’ve had several appear who were well above the threshold for admittance. We must adhere to the rules at all cost. Ah. Perfect. Alpha’s just barely perceptible. S-waves sinoidal. Heart fibrillation under chip control. No problem here. We can move it right into…let me see, grotto WFL. Lovely place. Do come along. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
I wasn’t particularly eager to visit. There was work waiting for me. I’m a poet, and that’s a full-time occupation, especially since I’ve achieved some fame with the two-word poem form. But Tilg is a scientist, and the inbred curiosity of his type made him return Shira’s smile and agree immediately to a tour. I could sense Shira was pleased…though his facial expression obviously couldn’t have been the source of my impression.
We walked through the broad corridors while the gurney tagged faithfully along behind us. Shira took the occasion to fill us in on Joyland 76’s accomplishments, in which he took no small pride. “We have seventy-two grottos and are constantly expanding. A reflection of our success, I might add. Why, we have one inhabitant who is 202! Now 202 is clearly a record, in my mind. Joyland 17 claims a 206 year-old but, quite frankly, I think they’re fudging the data. I’d like to see the brain wave record. It has probably been flat for ten years, at least.” He shook his head at the perfidy of these distant colleagues.
Grotto WFL was indeed a magnificent site, and Tilg was brimming over with questions and comments. “I never realized the inhabitants were kept immersed.” We both stared at the row upon row of tanks in which inhabitants were submerged, one slender tube connecting to their middles and leading through the tank bottoms to some sort of junction boxes on the floor.
I could have sworn I saw Shira’s smile broaden, and I immediately realized he must have heard the same remark a thousand times. There was little interest in the Joylands outside of their walls, however, so he shouldn’t have been particularly surprised at this frequent reaction. The tone of his voice was every bit as pleasant as his facial expression. “Submersion simplifies things immensely. Nutrients come through the umbilicybers and wastes are moved out in the same fashion. If you listen closely you’ll hear a muffled sound.”
I didn’t really hear it, but I did feel a slight rumbling sensation under my feet. “That’s the pumping station,” he said, anticipating the question Tilg was on the verge of asking. “The wastes go out to the hydroponic warehouses. The real beauty of the system is best revealed when termination occurs, the tank temperature and pressure rise automatically, and the chemical composition of the bath changes to completely liquefy the contents in preparation for the next inhabitant. So, you see, absolutely nothing is wasted.”
It all seemed so pleasant I even toyed with the idea of telling him of Dada’s absurd notion about he much preferred euthanasia. It was just a momentary impulse on my part, since I knew the “e” word would have shocked Shira. The idea was indeed barbaric, but then Dada had a lot of strange views. Which doesn’t mean he wasn’t ever so nice to both Tilg and me. And even though Tilg was his clone, he never showed him any favoritism.
All in all, we couldn’t have had a better Dada, and I was enormously pleased to see him moved into these beautiful surroundings. As I was contemplating them, the gurney moved ahead of us
down the line and stopped next to an empty tank, which had one side open. The pallet tilted and Dada rolled into the tank, the side closed, the umbilicyber connected immediately and the soft swishing of water flowing in followed.
“Do you have any special wishes?” Shira asked, following the automated procedures with a smile. “We do have some strange requests sometimes. Naturally we can’t meet all of them, but we pride ourselves on doing our best. As you may know, the inhabitants are kept in a euphoric state. Usually the last element to deteriorate is music perception, so we keep a constant music level—fed to the aural portions of the brain through the liquid ambience.”
Tilg immediately interrupted with what I considered to be annoying scientific questions, but our host seemed almost ecstatic at Tilg’s show of interest. Fortunately, before I became thoroughly bored, the discussion took a turn away from technology and piqued my interest. “A standard repertoire of Canmi’s Nightfall is what we’ve been using for some sixty years now. Mostly the first few bars. That’s really all that’s necessary, since none of the inhabitants have any memory beyond three to five seconds.”
I have to admit, I was rather horrified at what Shira was saying, though I think I managed to hide my feelings. Music is so out-of-date these days. “Why not poetry,” I thought to myself. But I refrained from bringing up the topic with our host. My favorite, and the one I won the Satsu prize for, “Cash Light,” would be ideal, perhaps alternating with “Heather Chase.” Far better than a few bars of Canmi repeated endlessly. Perhaps I should write a pre-transfer request for myself. I’m sure poetry would be more in sync with my aural brain portions.
Tilg’s special request broke into my reverie. “Dada used to hum a tune he remembered from his gramp. It was something passed down in the family.”
Shira became immediately alert. His eagerness to please was delightful. “Our archives are very complete. They even stretch back to the twentieth century. Do you remember the name, by any chance?”
“Yellow Submarine”
Shira had touched voice activation on his wrist notes as he asked the question, and almost immediately he said, “Ah yes. Here it is. Definitely! We’ll substitute it for Canmi’s Nightfall. Maybe the last few bars instead, for variety’s sake.”
I became rather irked at the results of the discussion, thinking how much more appropriate my “Wall Mart” would have been, in spite of the critics insisting it was simply a replay of a twenty-first century trade name for a financial institution. I had crushed such criticism by pointing out how the company’s name was hyphenated and so could hardly have been the inspiration for my poem.
All-in-all though, it was a pleasant day. As we left, after once more touching fingers with Shira, I knew Joyland had inspired me. Already I was formulating a two-word poem which would blast the mental faculties out of those critics. “Onyx Dyad.” I knew there would be howls of protest at my use of a semi-vowel in both words, but it has always been my avant-garde approach to poetry which has brought me to the pinnacle of success I have now achieved.
LAST CHANCE GAS
Hetty Smith stood back to get a broader view of the newly refurbished store and gas station. It looked great, especially the freshly painted sign which now read simply “LAST CHANCE GAS.” She knew Frank wouldn’t have approved. He’d chosen the original, “Frank & Hetty’s Service Station” and had resisted any change to the cumbersome name. But, since he had passed on two year’s before, Hetty had made a lot of changes.
Sometimes it was lonesome without Frank. It had been a good marriage, covering almost thirty-five years, with few rough spots. They had run a successful business, successful by Bridgeburg standards anyway, and had raised two children who were now doing very well on their own—Elizabeth as a TV-writer now living in New York and starting a family of her own, and Frank Jr. with a thriving print shop in Minneapolis.
But it was still nice to be the sole decision-maker. There was no one she had to consult with about sprucing up the building and changing the name. It had all cost a bit more than she had planned on, though. And, Bridgeburg not being exactly a thriving metropolis, she would have to depend on travelers coming through town to recoup the expenses.
But the through traffic was the reason for the renovation. A nice looking stop, with the promise of clean restrooms and the last opportunity to buy gas at North Dakota prices should soon pay back the costs. Frank might not have liked the new name, but he would have approved of the increase in business.
Hetty caught sight of her reflection in the glass door as she went back into the store. “Those microwave burritos are too good,” she commented to her nephew who was busy stocking the refrigerator with soft drinks. “From the looks of my spread, I’d better stop sampling them.”
Billy Smith looked up from his work. “Maybe you should be the one to run out and pump gas, instead of me.”
Hetty laughed. “You’re right. The exercise would do me good. Trouble is, it would probably just give me a bigger appetite.”
As she spoke, she saw Sid and Walt Perkins crossing the road toward the station and carrying on an animated conversation. Sid and Walt were cousins, and frequent hangers-on at the station. Hetty didn’t mind particularly. Sid was a bit loud, but Walt was quiet, shrewd and had a sense of humor Hetty fully appreciated. Both of them helped to pass the time of day during the frequent lulls in business. Town gossip was a never-ending source of entertainment, and the cousins were vast repositories of both Bridgeburg’s history and its current happenings.
Today, it was obvious they had something important to tell her. Walt, interrupted frequently by Sid, passed on the startling and disturbing news.
“Jesse White just bought the Stevenson lot.”
“He paid an arm and a leg for it.”
“Seems he’d been trying to buy it from old man Stevenson, only he wouldn’t sell. But after he passed on, Jesse got one of the big real estate companies in Bismarck to contact Willy Stevenson.”
“He offered him a thousand dollars, but Willy talked him up to twelve-hundred.” Sid was obviously impressed by the amount, adding, “That’s twice what it’s worth.”
“He’s planning to put in a gas station there, one of those self-service ones. And he says since it will be the nearest one to the Minnesota State line, he’s going to call it the “Last Chance.”
It took a while for Hetty to fully digest the news. A good part of Frank and Hetty’s business success had been the price differential between North Dakota and Minnesota gasoline. When they had first started, the difference had been great enough for Elkton residents from the Minnesota side to regularly make the forty-mile round trip to fill up at “Frank and Hetty’s.” Even Canadians occasionally crossed the border for a fill-up. But, gradually, as North Dakota taxes and wholesale prices increased more rapidly than in Minnesota, the cross-line buyers virtually disappeared. Minnesota cars filling up now were ordinarily just driving through.
Though there was still a price differential in North Dakota’s favor, continuing sales currently depended on locals and the tourists heading east. Jesse White was now going to cut into the traffic and even make a mockery of her new “Last Chance Gas” sign. And she was convinced he was doing so entirely for spite. Jesse was an unpopular figure in Bridgeburg, and he had never forgiven her for running against him for town council and defeating him badly in the process. Being beaten by a woman added salt to the wound.
The animosity between the two increased as Jesse made it a point to attend all council meetings to sound off on his particular solutions to Bridgeburg’s real and imagined problems. His suggestions were seldom well thought out, reflecting his personality, which functioned on impulse. Hetty was certain he owed his financial well-being to his father who had founded Bridgeburg’s only hardware store, and to Jesse’s brother who managed to run it successfully though hard times. Without those two, she thought, Jesse would have neither the time nor the money to waste on his wild schemes and spur of the moment decisions.
; Walt and Sid agreed this new plan was a really a plot to sabotage Hetty’s business, since there was little possibility of it becoming a money-making enterprise. “He’s going to have to spend a small fortune on the place, what with all those EPA regulations,” Walt observed.
“Maybe you could leap frog and build a station the other side of him.” The suggestion came from Sid.
Hetty shook her head. “The Stevenson lot is the only one on the east side of town where a gas station can be built. Town zoning won’t allow anything beyond there. And the county has stopped allowing commercial building on agricultural land.”
“Maybe you can change the name of your business,” Sid suggested, trying to insert humor into what was becoming a depressing conversation. “Call it the ‘Next to the Last Chance.’“
Hetty managed to laugh, though she was too concerned to be really amused.
Walt was more sensitive to her feelings, but couldn’t resist trying to lighten the moment by suggesting, “Maybe you could raise your prices and call it, ‘First Chance for Minnesota Gas.’ Jesse would hate to be upstaged by anyone, especially by you.”
Hetty’s laugh at the notion was a sincere one. By then, more residents were coming in with the news of Jesse’s purchase. Celia Jesperson was one of them. Since Celia was the town’s only real estate agent, she was more than merely sympathetic to Hetty’s plight. Patronizing local businesses whenever possible was one of Bridgeburg’s unwritten rules. The town dentist received the town’s trade, the one attorney was always called upon when legal matters came up, and even those who disliked Jesse would never have considered going elsewhere for hardware if they could buy what they needed at his store. Jesse’s use of an out-of-town agency to manage the real estate purchase was a serious breach of custom.
Expect the Unexpected Page 17
