Mammoth

by John Varley

  "You know, one of the leading theories of how Houdini did that vanishing trick was that he simply had the elephant lie down in the box. Most people don't know they even do it, and practically nobody realizes how much shorter it makes them."

  Matt stood back as Susan coaxed Fuzzy to his feet, where he swayed for a moment, looking a little lost and confused and... well, maybe a little drunk.

  "In another year, this trick wouldn't have worked," Susan said, stroking his face. She started to coo at him, which he seemed to like. "Look at the tusks on this baby boy. Aren't you proud of them, sweetie? Why, in another year they'll be three feet long and starting to curve...."

  This was new to Matt. He had seen her handling the big elephants with kindness, touching them, talking to them, but had not detected a personal attachment. He realized he had a real rival in her affections. He tried to tell himself he wasn't jealous... and knew he damn well better not be, because he knew Susan wouldn't put up with it.

  So they were back to Howard.

  Everything depended on whether Howard would call the cops. If he did, they had to go to ground, and do it for a month, at least. Maybe longer. In which case they would head south, where Susan had rented a farm (Matt hoped she had been very careful with that) with a barn big enough to hide Fuzzy and the trailer.

  But Susan didn't think Howard would put out the alarm. In fact, she admitted she probably never would have got started with this if she thought he would. The farm was a backup, something neither had much faith in. Once the word was out that Fuzzy was... mammoth-napped... every barn in Oregon and Washington would be examined, by police or a Fuzzy-crazed public, then Idaho, then California, clear to Key West, Florida. She had prepared a hideaway in the barn, but she wasn't Houdini, and had no faith it would stand up to a determined search. No, if the police were called in, their chances were a thousand to one against. A million to one.

  On the other hand, if Howard didn't call the cops... Matt figured they had not much better than one in ten odds. Probably worse.

  But Matt didn't think that Howard would let the news out until he absolutely had to. Twenty-four hours, minimum. Maybe as long as three days. Howard had had a lot of bad publicity during the legal fights over ownership of Fuzzy, and he hated that. Howard hated to lose, hated to look like a fool, and would not want to be remembered as the man who let a mammoth be stolen out from under his nose.

  "We stay," Matt said.

  AT just about that moment, Fuxxy fell over.

  Only Jack saw it happen. That particular camera was not displaying at Darryl's station at the moment, though it would soon come up in the regular rotation, and a marching band parading through the room would not have been likely to wake up Ed. Jack watched the stinking, lousy, bug-ridden, useless hunk of junk topple in disbelieving horror. Burned-out fuse, busted gyroscope, loose screw... something.

  Jack didn't encourage idle talk with his crew. They were supposed to stay alert, speaking only when there was something to report. But any movement of the star of the show was a reportable event. Fuzzy's moved to the other side of his pen, he heard that a dozen times a night. Fuzzy's taking a nap. Fuzzy just dropped a big load, chief.

  A minute passed. "Looks like Fuzzy's taking his nap, chief," Darryl said. He waited, but Darryl said nothing more. Three minutes passed.

  "He's taking a snooze. What's the problem?" But he could see it himself. The damn thing was twitching its legs, jerking around. Not horribly, not an epileptic fucking fit or anything, but Fuzzy usually slept like a log, and when he got up it was in one smooth motion, surprisingly graceful. Jack knew that and so did Darryl.

  "Where's that night girl?" Darryl said. "Come to think of it, I ain't seen her go through that room once all night." The night girl spent most of her shift in Susan's office, where there were no cameras, just a window to observe Fuzzy.

  "Chief, I think I better go down there and see what's up."

  Okay, that's it. Jack stood.

  "I'll go. Stay where you are and I'll run take a look."

  Jack hurried out of the pit, flew up two flights of stairs, tried to walk calmly down the hallway but ended up almost running, slammed into the outside door, walked to his car, got in, headed for the exit at the posted limit of 15 mph, slowed down and waved his gate pass and smiled at Harry, who smiled and waved back... then frowned. Jack accelerated down the road and into the suddenly threatening night.

  DARRYL was no Einstein, but he wasn't stupid.

  He saw the chief walking down the corridors, following him with three cameras in sequence, saw him reach the place where he should have turned to reach Fuzzy's quarters... saw him hurry right on past it.

  Saw him go into the parking lot, get in his car, and drive away.

  Something funny here.

  There was a red button on his console that they called the panic button. It was only to be used in the event of fire, explosion, terrorist invasion, earthquake, or the second coming of Jesus. It had a clear plastic cover so you couldn't accidentally punch it. Darryl had wanted to punch that button from the first moment he saw it.

  Ed was second in command—what a joke, the man hadn't stirred for hours, could have had a heart attack and died for all Darryl knew. He decided to show some initiative. That's what officers were supposed to do, wasn't it?

  He ran all the way to Fuzzy's enclosure. He glanced through the window into Susan Morgan's office. No one there. He looked over the rail at the recumbent mammoth. It was twitching alarmingly now. He had never been this close to the star of the show. Hesitantly, he climbed over the rail and eased up on the beast, thinking about getting kicked by one of those big feet.

  He felt a sudden urge to throw up... then an even worse feeling as he saw no blood on the eyeball, saw that it was hanging out of the socket on wires, saw metal in the empty eye socket.

  What the fuck?

  He got back to his station in half the time it took him on the way out, flipped up the plastic cover on the panic button, and slammed it with his fist.

  The alarm was so loud Ed Crane woke up and fell out of his chair.

  IT started to rain as they walked Fuzzy down the ramp. Fuzzy stopped and looked around. The poor thing hasn't been outside in so long he's forgotten what rain is, Matt realized. He got his washing from hoses and his—very clean—wallow tub, and his drinking water from a tank. Susan got him moving into the second unit she had rented, which was strewn with hay and had a basket of Fuzzy's favorite fruits. Matt drove the truck and trailer out of the storage yard and parked it two blocks away under some tall trees that met over the street, the best they could do to foil aerial surveillance, which was their biggest fear. He hurried back and found Fuzzy had decided to sleep off his drug hangover.

  "Snoozing," Matt observed.

  "Yeah. Trouble is, so is the other one. I got a call from Jack Elk. Fuxxy went haywire. Jack ran off; nothing he could do about it. The alarm is out by now."

  Matt saw she was shivering. He was soaked to the skin but she welcomed his arms around her. She had done so much, so incredibly much, planning it all out, making the contacts, able to do most of it only on Mondays when she wasn't a prisoner of her job, in some ways a slave to her love for Fuzzy. Now she seemed at the end of her rope. She needed reassurance... and he was happy that he didn't even have to lie to her.

  "Makes no difference," he said, stroking her hair. "Howard gains a couple hours."

  "I don't know... I feel we should just get him back in the trailer and run."

  "Big mistake. If the cops are looking for us, we're screwed, we both know that. If we move now, we stand out like a sore thumb. He'll have us before the sun comes up. We stick to the plan, it's the best one we have."

  "But it gives him more time to—"

  "He'll expect us to keep moving. Every minute the circle he has to search gets wider, and he'll concentrate on the circumference of that circle. We stay here, the most intense part of the search spreads away from us, the search gets harder." She smiled up at him. "
Okay. You're the guy who can do the math, I guess."

  He hugged her again. The only trouble was, he knew, Howard was no slouch at math himself.

  27

  THE panic button rang in several places other than Fuzzyland. The nearest fire station and the local police were alerted and were soon on their way.

  It also rang in Warburton's bedroom, waking him from a sound sleep. He sat up and looked at the communications console beside his bed. When you worked as the chief troubleshooter for Howard Christian you were never far from the vast machine that protected Howard and Howard's interests. He saw at a glance that there was trouble at Fuzzyland.

  He punched a few buttons, heard a phone ring and go unanswered. He frowned, punched a few more keys. He knew that now, in the security pit in Oregon, every single screen on the huge video wall would be displaying his no-doubt groggy face, rumpled hair, and the collar of his orange pajamas.

  "Hey!" he shouted. "Somebody pick up the fucking phone!"

  Somebody did. The face of a frightened young man appeared on his screen.

  "Who are you?" the kid asked.

  "My name is Warburton, and I am Howard Christian's personal assistant. What is going on?"

  "Sir!" the kid shouted, and actually stood up and saluted.

  "Sit down, your face is out of the picture."

  "Sir! The... the, uh... somebody stole the mammoth. Sir!"

  "Stole Fuzzy?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Okay, hold on." He punched a few more buttons and heard the phone ring in Howard's

  bedroom. Howard answered on the fourth ring. There was no picture.

  "Somebody stole Fuzzy," he said. He listened a moment, heard pretty much what he had expected to hear. He brought the kid back onto his screen.

  "Get your supervisor, right now." "Sir... he's... uh, he's gone."

  "I mean, sir, he got in his car and drove away. Sir."

  Of course. She had help. Warburton rubbed his head. This was going to be no fun at all. He'd

  catch her, no question, but it wasn't going to be easy.

  "What's your name, son?"

  "Darryl, sir."

  "Listen very carefully, Darryl. Are the police and fire units there yet?"

  "No, sir."

  "Okay. When they get there, you are going to tell them you hit the button accidentally."

  "But, sir, you can't hit the—"

  "Listen very carefully, Darryl. I know you're going to look a little foolish. Don't worry about it.

  Your job is secure. In fact, you are in for a promotion, starting tomorrow, if you simply tell this harmless little lie. We have the situation under control down here. Darryl, are you still listening?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Tell this little lie, and you are going to be a very, very happy man. You are going to find some money in your bank account. A good deal of money. Okay, Darryl?"

  "I understand, sir."

  "Good. Now go meet the firemen." Warburton immediately started making more phone calls.

  DARRYL hung up the phone and looked at Ed Crane, who had been listening in. "What about me?" Ed said. "You, Ed, are going to back my play, and I know Mr. Warburton will take care of you. It's none

  of our business, right?"

  "Right."

  Darryl grasped the clear plastic cover that had covered the panic button and twisted it off. He dropped the cover into his pocket and headed out to eat crow in front of the firemen, a big smile on his face. THE phone woke Andrea first. Howard could sleep through an earthquake. She shivered. She hated staying over at Howard's apartment in his damn tower, she knew it would fall over in a quake. But he loved it way the hell up here, and she hadn't talked him out of it. Yet. She shoved him once, twice. That particular phone wouldn't ring with that particular tone unless it was very, very important. He snorted, and sat up quickly.

  "Warburton wants you." She sat back and watched as he punched the speakerphone button.

  "Yeah?"

  "Somebody stole Fuzzy."

  Later, Andrea thought that most men, ambushed by a statement like that, musty-headed with sleep, would have said, What do you mean, somebody stole Fuzzy? What Howard said, after only a half-second pause, was...

  "That bitch!"

  Howard kept talking. In fact, he continued to pace the room for the next fifteen minutes, seeing nothing, totally focused on the phone pressed to his ear, pausing only to curse steadily as he dialed another number. Andrea didn't need to hear the other sides of the various conversations. She was fairly good at deduction herself.

  She went to the big closet and scanned the clothes inside. They would be returning to Oregon, possibly driving down back roads and/or tramping around in the woods. She slipped out of her nightgown and put on a pair of jeans she had paid four hundred dollars for in Switzerland, even though she knew something very similar could be had for twenty dollars at Target. What was money for if you couldn't enjoy shopping? She found a blouse that looked good on her and would be warm. She put on running shoes. Then she followed Howard around, putting her hand on his shoulder to stop him, prompting him to lift first one foot and then the other so she could slip a pair of jeans over the boxer shorts he always wore to bed. She got a shirt on him in similar fashion. She set out a pair of shoes but didn't try to put them on him yet. Then she rang for the night bodyguard and houseboy, and pointed them to the suitcases that were always kept packed. She told them to carry them to the elevator, and call the helicopter pilot to warm up the chopper.

  There was nothing in the suitcases or in the closet suitable for the conditions they might be encountering. She would make some calls herself, once they were in the jet, get somebody to have parkas and Gore-Tex coats and warm wool socks and good hiking boots in their sizes waiting for them when they landed at PDX. It was a little more than two hours to Portland; that ought to be enough time.

  She tried not to smile. She had to admit she was glad for the excuse to get back out of this terrorist magnet, this needle on the world's largest seismograph, this damn Resurrection Tower. And she liked an adventure. I'm amazed at you, Susan, she thought. She liked the woman, and she had just made the biggest mistake of her life, other than carrying a torch for that hopeless nerd Matt Wright. But look who's talking, she told herself. She watched affectionately as Howard, supernerd himself, paced the room.

  And he worshipped her. She was used to that. Millions worshipped her, and it didn't mean much to her anymore. At first, sure, but now she was devoted to her art, and to her causes. She would do anything for those two things, and for Howard.

  Howard felt the same about her, and about Fuzzy.

  Poor Susan.

  And yet, in a part of her mind, she had to admit she was... what? Pulling for her? No, certainly not that, if Susan got away with this it would devastate Howard.

  But she felt admiration for this incredible stunt. Damn it, the girl had guts.

  MICHAEL Bartlett sat in his rented truck in the parking lot of a Goodwill store in the town of Sandy, Oregon, a town that had grown hugely in the last few years because it was just down the road from Fuzzyland. His driver's license was good, there were no warrants on him. He had led a very clean life for the last two years... not that it had done him any good. Before, he had not been good at waiting. He always wanted to be moving, always wanted some action. Now, he was an expert at waiting. Three years in jail did that to you. You learned to wait patiently, or you went crazy.

  He had waited a long time for this moment. Many times he had despaired that it would ever come—the man was just too powerful, too unreachable. He had imagined a dozen ways to kill him, and he thought a few of them might actually work—the man's security was good but he was often careless. But he didn't want to kill Howard Christian, not really, he didn't think of himself as a killer, only as an avenger, a righter of wrongs, a liberator of the oppressed.

  No, what he had been waiting for was the opportunity to kick Howard Christian in the balls, very, very, very hard. Michael Bartlett, in
what by now seemed almost like a previous life, had once gone by the nom de guerre of Python.

  Oddly enough, he was never charged with the destruction he had helped to bring about at the warehouse in Santa Monica. Every shred of evidence had been hurled into the past. The site was excavated but not even a piece of foundation was found. Sometime in the intervening ten to fifteen thousand years the whole structure must have been washed away in a flood or a series of them, buried, and eventually covered by the metropolis. Christian didn't want to prosecute, anyway, he didn't need the possible bad publicity, the demonstrations by animal rights and antiabortion nuts.

  He came from an upper-middle-class family but his parents were dead, he had spent his small inheritance, and he didn't have much money of his own. He had a college degree but hadn't worked in his field for some years, devoting himself to the cause of animal liberation. He came out of the joint determined to stay away from any criminal activity whatsoever, for all time, end of story, though he intended to keep in contact with old friends from the Movement. But no more action, no more conspiracy. He was well and truly rehabilitated.

  Then he found out he couldn't get a job. No, that wasn't quite right. He got hired several times, once went as long as two weeks before being inexplicably fired. No explanation, sorry, man, it just turns out we don't need you after all. Here's your paycheck and there's the door.

  At the last place he was fired the boss relented a little. "It was Howard Christian," he admitted. "Somebody working for him. Some... pressure was brought to bear. Sorry, Michael, I can't afford to piss that man off. Good luck."

  Good fucking luck. He thought about bringing a lawsuit, contact the Equal Opportunity Commission or whatever it was, but knew instinctively there was very little chance, and he had no money. Money talks, and apparently Howard Christian was willing to spend significant money to make Michael Bartlett's life hell.