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AuthorÕs Note
I think IÕm beginning to define myself as an author (aside from the
Òsick pervertÓ element). There are some science-fiction authors who take
an obviously implausible theme and go with it anyway. Clifford D. SimakÕs
novel City comes to mind. The entire human race moves to Jupiter, and
lives unassisted on the planetÕs surface. Totally implausible: if Jupiter
has a rocky surface down under all that atmosphere, the gravity would be
so intense as to kill you. But it is, nonetheless, except for the dopey first
chapter, a beautiful novel.
Ray BradburyÕs Martian Chronicles is heading the same way. Will
people really ever walk around unassisted on Mars, drive automobiles, and
live in earth-style homes? Probably not. But it is one of the classics of
science-fiction.
I fall into the same category, albeit down at the un-classic,
unpublished level of the genre (sometimes referred to as Òmental
masturbationÓ.) Will the earth of five billion years hence be populated by
English-speaking Vampires and Werewolves? No. But hopefully Girl
Patrol is an entertaining story anyway. Will people be driving pickups
labelled Toyota in a universe completely covered by urban and suburban
sprawl? Well, humans have got some building to do before the whole
cosmos resembles Los Angeles. But perhaps youÕve read my Fading
Universe story anyway, and enjoyed it. Then thereÕs Amazonia, where a
boy wakes up to find that all the women in the world have evolved into
alligators. Again, not likely, although if youÕve been dumped by a woman
recently you might think the evolution has already begun.
I take a premise too far-flung to ever come true, even under the
most liberal assessment of scientific possibility, and work with it
anyway. I like authors who are willing to push their imaginations, and
their readers. So here is the next chapter of Girl Patrol, unlikely though it
obviously is.
30
Andrew Roller Presents
GIRL PATROL
Chapter Twenty-Six
The ground was flat under our feet, but it was no longer burnt. The
fire had veered off to the west. There was a pall of smoke on the horizon.
Someone was going to be quite warm tonight.
ÒIÕm hot!Ó Becky whined.
ÒWeÕre all hot, shuttup,Ó Kim replied. She wiped the back of her hand
across her forehead. The heat was really getting us down. Although it
was nice to no longer be walking across ground that resembled charcoal, I
still felt rather like an ant caught in a broiler pan, the oven heat slowly
rising. We pushed back the wheat-like grass, an effort in itself, wishing
for shade. Now and then we stopped and drank from the river. We used our
hands, splashing the water in our faces, taking a quick dip, drying quickly
in the hot sun. I pulled my shirt off. The girls laughed at my blubber. But
I was losing weight, replacing fat with muscle, thanks to all our
involuntary exercise.
ÒAnother month of this and you wonÕt laugh so hard,Ó I told the girls.
I flexed my biceps. ÒYouÕll be walking with Conan.Ó
ÒOnly if you walk on your hands,Ó Kim said. Becky came up to me and
slapped my belly.
ÒOW!Ó I said.
ÒConan of the weak belly,Ó Becky teased. She hit me again, but this
time I was ready for her and caught her hand as it rebounded.
ÒOh - let go!Ó Becky said. Her voice, usually happy, turned suddenly
cranky. I let go of her wrist and it dropped limply to her side.
ÒYou can undress too if you want,Ó I said. It was something of a
tease, for they were, given the cut of their lingerie, already showing their
most intimate parts.
ÒWe donÕt need to,Ó Becky said proudly. She stuck out her little
chest, showing me her naked paps. ÒWe can go swimming, or flying, or do
whatever, cause these magical costumes are good for everything!Ó
ÒWe can even be in a strip show,Ó Kim said. There was a wry note in
her 10-year-old voice and I said,
ÒYou donÕt have to wear it if you donÕt want to.Ó Kim turned up her
nose.
ÒNo, thatÕs fine,Ó she said. ÒIÕll keep it on.Ó
ÒYouÕd be naked if you didnÕt,Ó Becky said, innocent of the fact that
she and Kim both were, practically speaking, already nude.
We walked another mile or so. I saw a treeline in the distance. I
pointed it out. The girls gave a big hollar of glee and tore off through the
grass toward it. But they soon tired. After a bit I caught up to them, and
then we stopped again, and drank from the river. The sun sank toward the
horizon. It was a relief to see it going. We would be warm tonight, I
guessed. We were further south and the climate change seemed to bode
well for the evening, if not for the day. The girls felt their strength
rising again and decided to race again for the trees. I wondered aloud if
there might be any dangers ahead, werewolves perhaps, and if we
shouldnÕt stay together, but with the ending of the bitterly hot day near
they felt like birds released from a trap.
A half hour later I was walking alone among the trees. I was idly
wondering where the girls were but as we had seen no one since crossing
the river (except Jan, of course), I felt at ease and began to sing. There
was an old song from a cartoon called Kid Power that IÕd watched, when I
still qualified as a kid, and I sang it now. But since the society didnÕt
consider me a kid anymore I modified it, and my version went like this:
ÒItÕs up to Pedo power,
ÒPedo power,
ÒAll the power in the world!Ó
I had sung this several times when suddenly a voice snapped out,
ÒWha-? What are you, some kind of pervert?Ó For a moment I
thought the voice was in my head. After all, I was five billion years in the
future, and except for the medium weÕd met, nobody here talked. I was
about to start singing again when I realized there was a man beside me. I
flinched and looked at him. He was eyeing me through slit-eyes but they
opened wider as he realized he had come upon me by surprise, only his
voice giving him away.
ÒNew here, eh?Ó he asked me.
ÒUh, yeah,Ó I said.
ÒHave to be quick in these parts. Vampires,Ó he said. He extended
his hand. I took it, as stupidly as if I were in a car dealership in
Columbus. ÒAh, nice to meet you,Ó the man said. His hand lingered on mine
a moment. Then he let go of my hand. I realized IÕd passed some test, but
I didnÕt know what it was. ÒMy nameÕs Frank,Ó the man said, after his hand
was already back at his side.
ÒIÕm Brian,Ó I said. ÒBrian Galbladder.Ó
ÒFrank Yates,Ó the man elaborated. He was in rags and I was
shirtless, my pants torn and battered. We were something of a pair, I
thought, ready for a 1930Õs movie about the Depression.
ÒHot day, isnÕt it?Ó I said. Frank turned, as if to estimate, through
the lengthening shadows of the trees, the time until sunset.
ÒEnding soon,Ó Frank said. ÒWhat parts you come from?Ó he asked
me, turning. We walked along and I explained to him that I had come from
far off. ÒAnyone with you?Ó Frank asked.
ÒNot at the moment,Ó I replied. He didnÕt pursue the inquiry. Five
billion years in the future the shades of meaning invented by Bill Clinton
had apparently faded. The trees gave out, and I found myself on the edge
of a clearing. There was a surprise waiting in the middle of it: ÒA
village!Ó I cried. Frank nodded. We walked toward a group of old wooden
houses. ÒHow many people live here?Ó I asked.
ÒToo many to feed us all, and not enough to ward off the vampires,Ó
Frank answered. ÒThough we havenÕt had so many lately.Ó People came
toward us. They were all, like Frank, dressed in rags. A fashion designer
obviously didnÕt live here or, if he did, he must have been a very poor one.
The people seemed quite interested in me. Frank introduced me. I nodded
and tried not to seem nervous. It was shocking to find myself suddenly
among people. But what would they think if they saw the girls?
ÒUh, have you had any other visitors around here lately?Ó I asked.
ÒNo,Ó Frank said. Several others nodded in the negative. I began to worry.
I looked toward the river, which flowed close by. Could the girls be
swimming? I was about to try to walk toward it when, turning the other
way, I saw fields stretching off past a rim of trees that ran behind the
homes.
ÒYou growing stuff?Ó I asked. I pointed toward what appeared to be
corn, with patches of smaller stuff in front, my voice already beginning to
take on the slightly clipped quality of these impoverished people.
ÒIt donÕt grow by itself,Ó Frank replied.
ÒWe -- I mean, I -- eat manna,Ó I said. I lifted my hand, as if
scooping it up off the ground. ÒThatÕs what we call it.Ó He seemed not to
understand and, since the rest of the crowd apparently shared his
ignorance, I said, ÒIt falls out of the sky in the morning.Ó
ÒOh. Shit!Ó Frank said. Everyone laughed. I turned red-faced then.
ÒItÕs edible!Ó I spluttered.
ÒIf you donÕt mind eating shit,Ó someone said.
ÒSure, anyone can eat that,Ó Frank said. ÒI mean, itÕll keep you
alive.Ó He raised his chin. ÒBut we grow our own food. WeÕd only eat shit
if we were starving.Ó We talked some more, and I told them about the
attack by the wolves. I edited my remarks to make it seem as if IÕd been
alone. Gradually the sun set behind us, and as they realized I had little
news of the world beyond and ate less well than they did, their interest
waned. Nonetheless a woman invited me to dinner. I was hungry, but I
declined. I was worried about the girls.
30
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