a necessary inconvenience to travel to and from your moored boat in
another craft. Roosevelt had subleased a space from Dieter Gessel, a
fisherman whose trawler was docked farther out along the northern horn
with the rest of the fishing fleet but who had kept a junk dinghy at
the mooring against the day when he retired and acquired a pleasure
boat.
Rumor was that Roosevelt was paying five times what the lease was
costing Dieter.
I had never before asked him about because wasn’t any of my business
unless he brought it up first.
Now I said, “Every night, You move the Nostromo from this slip out to
the mooring, and You sleep there. Every night without fail-except
tonight, while You’re waiting here for me. Folks thought You were
going to buy a second boat, something smaller and fun, just to play
with. When You didn’t, when You just went out there every night to
bunk down, they figured-‘Well, okay, he’s a little eccentric anyway,
old Roosevelt, talking to people’s pets and whatnot.”
He remained silent.
He and Orson appeared to be so intensely and equally fascinated by
those three dog biscuits that I could almost believe either of them
might abruptly break discipline and gobble up the treats.
“After tonight,” I said, “I think I know why You go out there to
sleep.
You figure it’s safer. Because maybe monkeys don’t swim well-or at
least they don’t enjoy it.”
As if he hadn’t heard me, he said, “Okay, dog, even if You won’t talk
to me, You can have your nibbles.”
Orson risked eye-to-eye contact with his inquisitor, seeking
confirmation.
“Go ahead,” Roosevelt urged.
Orson looked dubiously at me, as if asking whether I thought
Roosevelt’s permission was a trick.
“He’s the host,” I said.
The dog snatched up the first biscuit and happily crunched it.
Finally turning his attention to me, with that unnerving pity still in
his face and eyes, Roosevelt said, “The people behind the project at
Wyvern . . . they might have had good intentions.
Some of them, anyway. And I think some good things might’ve come from
their work.” He reached out to pet the cat again, which relaxed under
his hand, though he never shifted his piercing eyes from me. “But
there was also a dark side to this business. A very dark side. From
what I’ve been told, the monkeys are only one manifestation of it.”
“Only one?”
Roosevelt held my stare in silence for a long time, long enough for
Orson to eat the second biscuit, and when at last he spoke, his voice
was softer than ever: “There were more than ‘just cats and dogs and
monkeys in those labs.”
I didn’t know what he meant, but I said, “I suspect You aren’t talking
about guinea pigs or white mice.”
His eyes shifted away from me, and he appeared to be staring at
something far beyond the cabin of this boat. “Lot of change coming.”
“They say change is good.”
“Some is.”
As Orson ate the third biscuit, Roosevelt rose from his chair.
Picking up the cat, holding him against his chest, stroking him, he
seemed to be considering whether I needed to-or should-know more.
When he finally spoke, he slid once again from a revelatory mood into a
secretive one. “I’m tired, son. I should have been in bed hours
ago.
I was asked to warn You that your friends are in danger if You don’t
walk away from this, if You keep probing.”
“The cat asked You to warn me.”
“That’s right.”
As I got to my feet, I became more aware of the wallowing motion of the
boat. For a moment I was stricken by a spell of vertigo, and I gripped
the back of the chair to steady myself.
This physical symptom was matched by mental turmoil, as well, and my
grip on reality seemed increasingly tenuous. I felt as if I were
spinning along the upper rim of a whirlpool that would suck me down
faster, faster, faster, until I went through the bottom of the
funnel-my own version of Dorothy’s tornado-and found myself not in Oz
but in Waimea Bay, Hawaii, solemnly discussing the fine points of