The Year's Best SF 08 # 1990

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  “May I not finish my beer?” Elsa said. “It’s paid for.”

  Her veneer of coolness impressed her audience against their will. She received a reluctant nod, drained her glass, resumed her backpack with an ease that was entirely feigned, for hunger pangs were assailing her and the smell from the kitchen grew more alluring by the second. Nonetheless, she was determined not to let these weakling men outface her.

  “Since you are so unwelcoming to strangers within your gates,” she said loudly and clearly, echoing the version of the Bible they were most likely to be familiar with, “I shall gladly shake the dust of your town from off my shoes. Which way to find my fellow countrymen?”

  Conscious of making a grand exit, she matched the mayor, and one of the other card-players who followed him like a bodyguard, stride for stride toward the door.

  * * *

  When they abandoned her to darkness, though, at the edge of the puddle of light created by the town, she was genuinely frightened. Once her eyes adjusted, she could discern a trail before her, just about; moreover, on the skyline there was a faint glow, located in the right direction, that would serve her for a beacon. In addition, she had a flashlight, but that had to be kept for emergencies, since batteries were hard to come by here. In Africa she had used one with a built-in hand-pumped generator, and wished she could have replaced it when it wore out, but in this disposable world no one seemed to make them anymore.

  But where was she being sent? What sort of settlement of Americans could there be in this region—some colony of overdue hippies, perhaps, who had cut their ties with machine civilisation to live out their dream of a primitive idyll? She had run across more than one such, surviving at the cost of chronic sickness and undernourishment, and heard of many others that had failed.

  Thinking of sickness: was there an epidemic of fever at Los Tramos? Was that why the policeman had tried to warn her? Was that why the community no longer had a priest?

  On a different track: why had Juan risked his father’s wrath—and from his looks and manner she was sure Diego was a violent man—to speak out against the mayor’s proposal? It was as though he feared for her. Why should he? He had never seen her before; he could scarcely be predisposed to like women of her stamp, given that, if Elsa had read correctly between the lines of what was said, his own mother had deserted her family …

  And the prospect of walking three kilometres in the dark on an empty belly, to beg for lodging among what might well prove a bunch of dope-sodden idiots, was dismaying.

  In her pack, reserved for crisis situations, she kept a stock of iron rations. The night, though cool, was dry—naturally, at this season—and she had a sleeping bag. It would make better sense to find a campsite until dawn. Maybe tomorrow the citizens of Los Tramos would be less hostile. In particular, maybe she could appeal to a woman. More than once a widow, or a wife ill-treated by her husband, had helped her out of sisterhood even when neither spoke the other’s language.

  Or did they perhaps imagine that strangers had brought them fever and misfortune? If so—

  What was that?

  She gasped and spun around. Clearly behind her she heard the rush of feet through grass. Someone was taking the most direct route to where she stood, rather than following the path that meandered like the local rivers. For a second her imagination was full of visions of rape, of the idlers round the fountain who were condemned never to have girlfriends until a marriage was arranged for them, condemned indeed to think of women as subhuman, to be used, exploited, despised.

  But no intending rapist would call aloud, “Señora! I mean, señorita! Wait! Please wait!”

  It was, it must be, Juan. She stood her ground.

  Within moments he caught up to her, panting, clutching a paper-wrapped bundle. She could barely descry his face in the dimness, but what she saw sufficed.

  “Here!” He proffered the package. It was greasy, but smelt appetising. “An empanada—all I could lay hands on. It is food, at least.”

  She took it with a murmur of thanks. And said, “Juan, why are you doing this? Won’t your father be furious?”

  “Oh, he will beat me, no doubt.” His thin young voice trembled. “But I couldn’t let you go away hungry!”

  “Why not?” She sensed there was something he wanted—that he needed—to say, and waited for the answer. It was long a-coming, and when it did emerge, it was half-strangled by a sob, but it moved Elsa to the inmost fibre of her being.

  “Because I think you must be very like my mother.”

  For a moment there was absolute stillness. Following Elsa’s departure from the cantina the jukebox had resumed as loudly as before, but at this distance even that could not be heard. Impelled by emotion, she took the boy’s hand. She said, “Tell me about her. What did she do that was so terrible?”

  In a near-whisper: “I never really knew her. I was two when she went away. But from what I’ve been told, from what my grandmother says, only she hates her so much.…”

  “Yes?”

  “She couldn’t stand living with my father. She didn’t want to be like all the other women in Los Tramos, wearing herself out with children every year. She liked to dance and sing, she wanted to know more about the world. So one day she got on the bus and never came back.”

  He swallowed hard. “I think she must have wanted to be like you.”

  Your mother, and how many million others…?

  But before the thought was complete, he was already whispering, “I wish I’d known her. I wish I knew a girl in Los Tramos who could be like her. I’d go away with such a girl. I wouldn’t keep her here to waste her life. But I’m afraid of leaving by myself. My father has made me afraid, and I hate him.”

  As though terrified by his own confession, he was poised to run back and face his father’s rage, but Elsa held on.

  “I understand,” she murmured. “I hope you will find such a woman one day. They do exist. But one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Why did you not want me to go to the other yanquis?”

  “I was wrong to fear for you,” he answered simply. “I wasn’t thinking. You’re different from the women I know. Like them, like their livestock, you’re strong.”

  “But who are these people? Why are the townsfolk afraid of them? Are they—?” She was about to voice her suspicion that they might be hippie idealists. He cut her short.

  “They’re scientists. At least that’s what they call themselves.… Señorita, I must dash! There is just a chance my father hasn’t missed me yet, but when he does.… First, though…”

  “First—what?”

  He mumbled something inaudible. Divining what he had in mind, she put her arms around him. For a long moment he whimpered against her shoulder, scarcely attempting to return the embrace, and then he was gone at a headlong run, leaving her with fewer questions asked than unasked.

  When the sound of his passage through the grass faded, she sat down on her pack and ate the empanada, her mind full of pity for Juan and all the folk of Los Tramos. How many dreams must have died for them that shone like summer dawn when the great estate was broken up and gave their families land to call their own!

  Itch.

  She brushed at her bare arms. Then at her chest. And, with alarm, jumped to her feet. She had forgotten, though she had been warned often enough, about the ticks that swarmed in this kind of grass. She even had a bottle of insect repellant in her pack, but had neglected to apply it. Judging by the lumps that were bulging on her skin, she had become the target for a score of the pests already. And they were said to carry diseases that afflicted people as well as cattle.

  Well, the yanquis over yonder were scientists. Why scientists should be so distrusted by the local folk, she could not guess. Maybe it was simply because they included women behaving in a manner not approved of hereabouts. At all events they would doubtless have medication for tick bites. She bent to resume her backpack.

  At the same moment heard some
thing totally unexpected, although totally familiar. She was so startled, she dropped the pack again.

  It was the sound of aircraft engines starting up. Not jets, piston engines. Two of them.

  “Flat-fours,” Elsa said to the wind. “I’ll be damned. Lycomings, most likely. So Los Tramos isn’t the back of beyond, after all.”

  She waited for what she guessed was about to happen. It did. Radiance bloomed behind a shallow rise—there were no hills for hundreds of kilometres, but there was just enough of a slope to hide the landing strip—and moments later a twin-engined executive plane took to the sky and headed north.

  “If I really can’t stand this place,” she said, again addressing the breeze, “maybe I can hitch a ride to hell out. But I think I’m about to pay a call on some rather interesting people.”

  Shrugging her backpack to a comfortable position, she trudged onward. And, half an hour later, found herself in a completely different world, her arrival heralded by loud alarms, brilliant lights, the barking of dogs, and the mooing and baaing and grunting and clucking of an entire farmyard of livestock.

  It was even recorded on television.

  * * *

  What an extraordinary place to have chanced on!

  Elsa was tired, even overtired, but sleep would not come. Her mind was spinning like a turbine with the most amazing series of images. What, from a distance and in the dark, might have been mistaken for one of the old haciendas—its great house, its barns, its cattle sheds—had proved to be a literal outpost of civilisation. This room she had been assigned was small, but it and everything it contained down to the thick towelling robe she had been given after showering (with the hottest water she had enjoyed in weeks) might as well have been in the States. The lights were bright; when she intruded on them, the residents had been watching a videotape of a recent movie; instantly it had become hard to believe that this house stood in the midst of empty pampa and was girdled by a high barbed fence beset with security cameras and the infrared detectors that had warned of her presence.

  She had even seen someone telephoning, though she hadn’t overheard what was being said. But as she approached, she had realised the lie of the ground would prevent the use of line-of-sight relays from less than a twenty-metre tower, and certainly she hadn’t seen one of those. That implied a straight-to-satellite connection.

  Most astonishing of all—and yet perhaps not so, given what Juan had told her—the first thing her hosts had done was take her to a clean white sterile-looking room, dress her tick bites, and give her a prophylactic injection, muttering stern admonitions about how dangerous the local fevers were. Doctor-brisk, the man wielding the syringe—who had introduced himself as Lawrence Hutt—told her, “The locals are resistant, of course, but as you probably noticed, even they succumb occasionally, while someone unsalted, like you, can suffer pretty damn badly. If you hadn’t found your way here, you could have woken up tomorrow with a hundred-and-two-degree fever. In fact, you’ll probably have a mild attack anyway—this vaccine isn’t perfect. You can expect to perspire a lot, ache a bit, maybe your throat will be sore.” Throwing the syringe away: “I’ll give you some vitamin C tablets. That’ll help. Are you hungry?”

  “No, the boy from the cantina gave me an empanada.”

  “Hmm! Then I just hope you haven’t wished yourself food poisoning as well! The standards of hygiene around here aren’t what we’re used to.”

  “I’ve been in the country three months,” Elsa answered dryly. “I’ve survived pretty well.”

  “That’s as maybe.” He ran his fingers through his hair—or rather, what there was of it; straw-fair, it was cut to within a centimetre of the scalp. “But a trip like yours today can take you clear out of the zone you’re adjusted to.… Well, we can worry about that in the morning. Now I’ll get my wife to show you to your room. I imagine you’d like to clean up; there’s a shower next door. And if you’re sure you don’t want anything to eat, I’d advise you to turn in right away. The injection will probably make you drowsy even if you aren’t ready for bed.”

  “For a real bed,” Elsa said feelingly, “I’ve been ready for weeks.”

  “Thought you might. Mina?”

  Mina was a small, round-faced, bespectacled woman about the same age as her husband, late thirties. She clucked over the state of Elsa’s clothes and took possession of them, promising to have them washed and replace the buttons on the shirt.

  As she was on the verge of departure, Elsa called out. “Just a moment! What is this extraordinary place? Who are you people?”

  “This is the Snider Foundation,” Mina answered. “Not, I imagine, that that will mean much to you.”

  Elsa shook her head, standing naked ready for her shower.

  “My husband and I are biologists. We’re trying to do something about the endemic diseases here, including the ones Lawrence just dosed you for. The rest of us—well, some are attempting to improve the local strain of cattle, or adapt better ones to become tick-resistant, and others are trying to develop improved grasses and other fodder.… You can look the place over when you feel up to it. We don’t have anything to hide.”

  “Why are the local people so afraid of you?” Elsa challenged, thinking it could scarcely be on account of Mina’s “unwomanliness,” even though she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

  A sigh in answer. “Heartbreaking, isn’t it? Though I think it’s more suspicion than fear, or maybe resentment. We do what we can. We try to mix with them. When there’s a fiesta or even a dance, we join in. Some of us worship at their church—or do when there’s someone to hold services. Father Jose died last month, and they’re still waiting for a replacement. But we never feel welcome, and mostly they won’t even let us treat their sick kids. Sometimes we get dreadfully frustrated—Still, you don’t want to hear about all our troubles tonight. Like a hot drink? How about a cup of chocolate?”

  And with its rich sweetness still echoing on her tongue Elsa lay in darkness, wishing she could switch off her awareness by an act of will.

  All the more because Lawrence’s prophecy was being fulfilled to the letter. Her skin was damp with perspiration; there were transient aches in her joints, starting with the wrists and ankles and slowly spreading; and she was feeling distinctly light-headed.

  Just when she thought she must don her robe and go in search of a sedative, sleep came with the abruptness of a tropical sunset.

  She had vivid and terrifying dreams, but when she woke, she could recall no details.

  * * *

  In the morning she was too weak to get up. A graceful woman with grey hair came and introduced herself as Greta Snider, helped her to the toilet, and brought her a light breakfast. She promised that her husband, founder and director of this research station, would call in later. He did so, and was not the only one; as though welcoming the distraction of a newcomer, all the staff visited her room during the morning. Greeting one after another half-seen stranger—the curtains were drawn and she lay in semidarkness—she wished she could question them about their work. Mina’s summary had made it sound fascinating. But her attention kept wandering away from what she wanted to say. According to Lawrence when he checked her pulse, flashed a light in her eyes, and took her temperature, that was not surprising; she had a high fever in spite of the injection. He gave her a pain-killer for her aching joints, and that made her even drowsier. It ceased to seem worth keeping track of time.

  At least her dreams were less disturbing, even if once or twice they centred on night flights in aircraft too small and too flimsy for comfort.

  * * *

  “Good morning, Elsa!” boomed a voice that had become familiar without her realising. “I gather you’re well enough to get up today.”

  For a moment she couldn’t place this elderly but vigorous man who was addressing her. Ruddy face, tinted glasses, white hair surrounding a small bald patch—Oh, of course. He was the boss, el Jefe of the Snider Foundation. Licking her lips, she said, “Morning,
Bernard. Yes, my temperature’s normal and I’ve stopped aching. I’m just a bit limp, that’s all.”

  “Well, you can’t expect to spend a week on your back and not feel—”

  “A week!” Elsa burst out.

  Snider looked faintly puzzled. “Hadn’t you realised—? Ah, what a stupid question. But Lawrence should have told me you were that badly affected. Still, he assures me you’re okay again physically.… Today, though, I don’t think you’d better go beyond the patio. I’ll get Mina to bring your clothes. You can join the rest of us for lunch.”

  Elsa looked forward to that. With her restoration to normality had returned all the questions she had been meaning to ask since her arrival.

  As it turned out, she had little need to pose them. The staff consisted of seven yanquis, the Hutts, the Sniders, and three young volunteers, Armin, George, and Patti, plus five Hispanics, and they were all eager to explain what they were doing. Keenest of all was the de facto spokesman of the latter group, one Felipe Diaz, whose mainly Indian ancestry showed clearly in his features but not at all in his educated Spanish and fluent English.

  Their enthusiasm was contagious. Though she knew virtually nothing about modern biology, she shortly came to feel it must be akin to magic, for they were talking about—quite literally—building microorganisms to hunt down and destroy disease germs in the living body; redesigning grass so that it would poison the ticks that infested the pampa; not to mention doubling or tripling the yield of everything from livestock to mushrooms. They were very interested in fungi; some, they hinted, might yield antibiotics more powerful than any previously discovered.

  If their glowing physical health was any guide, they were on an indubitably right track. Elsa couldn’t help mentally comparing them with the people she had seen at Los Tramos. Even the mayor would look sickly beside them. Bernard himself, though she guessed him to be over sixty, could have passed for five years his junior.