Gargantua Read online

  “This is great. I’m already doing a piece on a famous Australian geologist who’s here to study—”

  “Doctor Ralph Hale?” Jack interrupted.

  Paul blinked. “You know him?” Hale was a minor celebrity in these parts—though the man himself would be the first to deny it—and Paul was almost done transcribing the interview with him that would run in one week.

  “No, but I know his work.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll get to meet him. In fact, I can probably introdu—”

  “Hey, Dad, look at this!”

  This last came from Brandon. Paul turned to see that the kid had unearthed a large jacknife that was dark brown with rust. He started to open the knife up.

  “Don’t play with it, Brandon.”

  Even as Jack spoke, Brandon cut his finger on the blade. “Ow!”

  Jack immediately ran over to his son, Paul behind him. As Jack grabbed Brandon’s wrist to examine the finger more closely, Paul gingerly took the knife from the kid’s other hand. He carefully closed the knife and put it in his shirt pocket.

  “Are you gonna say ‘I told you so’?” Brandon asked with the practiced here-we-go-again tone that kids often used with their parents. Paul himself had made a career out of using it with his own father.

  “No, I’m gonna say ‘tetanus shot.’ ”

  “Can’t you say ‘I told you so’ instead?”

  Jack laughed. “ ’Fraid not.” He turned to Paul. “Where’s the nearest emergency room?”

  “Australia,” Paul said without missing a beat. At Jack’s aghast look, he quickly added, “No, I’m kidding. We’ve got a clinic on the island that’s pretty complete. C’mon, I’ll take you there.”

  He lead the pair to the edge of the beach, where Jack had a quick conversation with a young man regarding the boxes. The young man nodded—Paul was pretty sure he worked at the Ritz—and went off to take care of it.

  The walk to the clinic was a short one down the island’s main street. Brandon spent it holding his injured hand at the wrist and biting his lip. Jack asked, “Just a clinic? What happens for real emergencies?”

  “Like I said, the place is pretty complete. For major surgery, or stuff like that, there’s a big hospital on Kalor. Just a helicopter away. Don’t worry, though, the clinic’ll be fine. Actually, it’s also run by an American—woman named Alyson Hart.”

  Jack looked like he was going to say something in response to that, but they had arrived at the clinic. Like most of the buildings on Malau, it was a modest, one-story wooden structure, with the ground floor about half a foot above the earth as a caution against flooding. A Malauan nurse greeted Paul by name, asked Jack and Brandon some questions while putting a bandage on Brandon’s finger, then told them to wait.

  “What, no forms to fill out?” Jack asked as he took a seat on one of the couches.

  Paul laughed. “They’re not real big on forms ’round these parts. Back when I applied for permission to live here, the paperwork was minimal. The guy who put it through just shrugged and said, ‘paperwork gives us gas.’ ”

  Even Brandon smiled at that; prior to this, he’d been focusing on his finger.

  The waiting room was empty when they arrived, but five more people came in right after them. The nurse dealt with each of them in turn. Within a few minutes, two women came out of the door adjacent to the waiting room, and then the nurse showed Paul, Jack, and Brandon into that same door.

  It led to an examination room that had all the usual accoutrements: exam bed; scale; drawers full of various drugs, needles, medicines, and rubber gloves; various posters providing useful information on weight loss, the Heimlich maneuver, and anatomy on the wall; and a doctor, in this case a very attractive blonde in her early thirties.

  As Alyson examined Brandon, Paul looked over at Jack and tried very hard to hide a grin. He recognized the look on Jack’s face; it was the same one Paul had when he first met Dr. Alyson Hart. Paul had been completely smitten with her then. She was charming, bright, witty—and also completely uninterested in Paul Bateman, to his dismay. Not one to beat a dead horse, his pursuit of her stopped before it started, and he hoped they could at least be friends. Sadly, her lack of interest extended even to that; she was willing to talk to him professionally as a journalist, and respected what he was doing with the Weekly News, but refused to connect to him personally.

  He wondered if Jack would have better luck.

  After treating the wound itself, she prepared a needle for the tetanus shot. Brandon had spent the entire exam looking desultory and unhappy, though he answered all of Alyson’s questions with clear answers and didn’t act in the least bit surly. She dabbed a cotton ball in alcohol, rubbed it on his arm, and said, “Okay, this is gonna hurt a bit.” Putting the cotton down, she picked up the needle and gave him the shot.

  Brandon didn’t even flinch. This time, Paul didn’t bother to hide the grin.

  “Didn’t hurt?” Alyson sounded almost disappointed. “Must be losing my touch.”

  This, finally, got a rise out of the kid, and he smiled.

  She continued, “Have your mom change the dressing tonight—”

  “My mom’s dead,” Brandon said in a matter-of-fact tone that belied the information presented. He may as well have said she was back home in the States. Paul filed this bit of information away in the ever-growing compartment of his brain that he had labelled ELLWAY FAMILY.

  “I’m sorry,” Alyson said with inevitable awkwardness.

  “Don’t worry,” Jack said lightly, “I know how to peel a Band-Aid.”

  Alyson looked almost relieved, which was obviously Jack’s intention. Good move, Paul thought.

  Jack continued, “How much do we owe you?”

  Paul chuckled.

  “Medical care’s free on Malau,” Alyson said.

  Paul put in, “And worth every bit of it.”

  Alyson gave him a withering look. Paul just grinned. So easy to get the good doctor’s goat.

  “Okay,” Jack said, “if we can’t pay you, how about buying you lunch?”

  Damn, Paul thought, even I didn’t move that fast. He also noticed that Jack’s posture had improved. On the beach and in the waiting room, he stood only moderately straight, but ever since he came into the exam room, he had practically dislocated his shoulders throwing them back.

  To Paul’s combined amusement and consternation, Alyson seemed to actually consider it, but then she looked out through the still-open door to the waiting room. Jack followed her gaze and nodded—and his shoulders returned to the slump of before.

  “Some other time?” Alyson said.

  The shoulders went back again. “Okay.”

  Alyson turned to Brandon. “And you be more careful with what you pick up on the beach, all right?”

  Brandon nodded.

  “Thanks, Doctor,” Jack said, extending his hand.

  “Please, it’s Alyson,” she said, returning the handshake. Father and son then went out to the waiting room. Paul noticed a moderate spring to Jack’s step. Better not tell him that Alyson tells everyone to call her by first name, whether she likes them or not. It’ll just burst his bubble.

  “ ’Bye, Alyson,” he said with a jaunty wave to the doctor. Alyson simply nodded at him. Shaking his head, Paul followed the marine biologist and his assistant/intern/kid.

  As they exited the air-conditioned clinic into a blast of hot arid humid tropical air, Paul said, “I realize that I’m no Alyson Hart, but since she turned you down for lunch, mind breaking bread with me instead?”

  “We probably should get back to work.”

  “Dad,” Brandon said, managing to make it a three-syllable word. “The last meal we had was on the plane.”

  Paul grinned. Inviting Alyson to lunch obviously had more to do with wanting to spend time with Alyson than actually eating anything. Just as obviously, that fact had gone completely over Brandon’s prepubescent head, and he had gotten his hopes up for a real meal.

&n
bsp; “As it happens,” Paul said, “I can take you to the best restaurant on the island.”

  Jack glanced down at Brandon, who gave his father a pleading look, then grinned. “All right, then, let’s eat.”

  “Great. Follow me.”

  They started down the main street toward Manny’s. Paul had introduced many a new person to Malau in his time here, and he always made sure to at least direct them to Manny’s Fine Food and Spirits, if not take them there himself. It was always worth it to see the looks on their faces when they found out who ran it. Besides, it really was the best food on the island.

  “So,” Jack said, “what’s your story?”

  Paul shrugged. “It’s not much of a story. I graudated from Berkeley—degree in journalism—came here to do a little surfing before hitting the job market, and never left.”

  “ ‘Just came down for the weekend / But that was twenty-five years ago.’ ” Jack sang the words in a quiet voice.

  Paul blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Jack shook his head. “Sorry—just a lyric I heard in Key West a while back. How’d you end up running their newspaper?”

  “They didn’t have a paper when I got here. They thought, ‘What’s the point? Everybody already knows everybody’s business.’ But now they’re real into it—everyone subscribes.”

  “They don’t mind that you’re American?”

  Paul couldn’t help but laugh at that. “See that over there?” He pointed at a flagpole in an intersection half a block away, on which flew not just the Malauan flag, but the stars and stripes of the American flag right under it. “They love Americans. We liberated them from the Japanese.”

  “Really?”

  Jack seemed genuinely surprised, both by the flag and the information, which amazed Paul. Geez, this stuff is all over the brochures. Then he remembered that Jack was here to work, so he might’ve missed that.

  “We still protect them,” Paul said, using we to refer to the United States despite his not having lived there for years, “but from far enough away that they don’t feel Uncle Sam is breathing down their necks. There’s not even a military presence here—just one small unit stationed over on Kalor.”

  “That why Kalor rates a hospital?”

  Paul laughed at that.

  They arrived at Manny’s shortly thereafter. A rhapsody in rattan, the centerpiece was the gorgeous teakwood bar, with rattan tables and chairs festooned around it. Nothing about it said fancy restaurant, so newcomers were always surprised, and initially dismayed, when Paul brought them here. It looked for all the world like a glorified pub.

  A very distinguished-looking man in his sixties approached. “Hello, Paul,” he said.

  “Hiya, Manny. This is Jack Ellway and his son Brandon.”

  “Welcome.” He grabbed three menus and led the trio to a table. “We have an excellent grilled grouper today, and—”

  A voice with a heavy New Zealand accent interrupted. “Tell ’em who caught it, Manny.”

  Paul sighed as he took a seat opposite Jack. Derek. Great. Just great. Had he known the brash expat would be here, Paul would have suggested going to the Flying Fish instead. But Paul had expected that Derek Lawson would be out with his two cronies, Kikko and Naru, on their little fishing trawler, showing tourists the finer points of netting lobster. But then, after what happened yesterday, tourists are probably staying away from the water. Instead, the three of them sat at the teakwood bar, sipping pints of beer.

  “Derek caught it,” Manny said unnecessarily while placing the menus on the table. “Our best catch is usually from Derek.” Typically, Manny sounded completely neutral, neither praising Derek’s skills nor condemning the fisherman’s arrogance. Paul had always admired and envied that particular talent.

  Derek hopped off his barstool and came over to the table, ignoring Paul completely—which suited the reporter just fine—and handed Jack a business card. “Welcome to Malau. If you’re lookin’ for the best deep-sea fishin’ of your life, come out with Derek Lawson and crew.” He gestured back at Kikko and Naru, who tipped their pints in acknowledgement.

  Jack took the card and nodded politely. To Paul’s glee, and Derek’s apparent confusion, Jack seemed completely uninterested in what Derek had to offer. Paul, not a little smugly, said, “Mister Ellway is a marine biologist.”

  To his credit, Derek recovered well. “A man who knows his fish—even better.” He tousled Brandon’s hair, a gesture that, based on the kid’s half-frown, half-snarl, he didn’t appreciate in the least. “Kids’re half-price.”

  He retreated to the bar and his crew. Manny then asked Jack, “You are staying on Kalor?”

  “No, here on Malau. At the Ritz.” As he spoke, a bus-boy placed three glasses of water on the table.

  Manny nodded. “Our accomodations are modest by comparison . . .”

  “This is where the tremors are. We prefer to be where the action is. I’m here to examine the effects of these tremors on the local marine life,” he explained.

  “Yes, well, we feel differently here. Our last ‘action’ was World War II.” He smiled a tiny smile, taking the edge off his statement. “When you are ready to order, Tari will take good care of you. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  Paul noticed that Tari was taking someone else’s order. “Thanks, Manny,” he said.

  Manny went off to a corner table, where various bits of paper were laid out.

  “Nice old guy,” Jack said as he reached for his water glass.

  This was Paul’s favorite part. “President Moki’s a great father figure.”

  Jack did a spit-take with his water. Brandon started to laugh.

  Paul grinned, and elaborated: “Manny’s the President of Malau.”

  Dutifully wiping his chin with his napkin, Jack said dryly, “I’ll leave a nice tip.”

  Before Paul could get into the rather interesting story of how a restaurant owner came to run the island, a tremor hit. The whole building started to shake. Most everyone tried to find something solid to hold onto, even if it was just a table. Paul himself didn’t bother—a native Californian, he’d lived through much worse than this, and he could walk a straight line during a genuine quake, much less a comparatively wimpy tremor like this.

  Naru, Paul noticed, wasn’t so skilled; he fell off his stool. Kikko helped him back up just as the tremor died down.

  “Cool,” Brandon said.

  Paul grinned. Kids . . .

  TWO

  Ralph Hale, Ph.D., bolted upright as the alarm on his watch sounded with an insistent beep-beep noise that would not cease until he pushed the tiny button on the watch’s side. Hell and damnation, but that thing’s annoying, he thought as he felt on his right wrist for the watch.

  He couldn’t find it.

  Then, as awareness slowly penetrated his sleepy haze, he remembered that he had put the watch across the room precisely so he couldn’t just switch it off and fall back asleep.

  Gotta stop outsmarting myself, he thought with a chuckle as he clambered off the sofa where he had taken his nap. After a moment, he located the watch on the sideboard that served as his liquor cabinet and switched it off.

  He gazed at the watch’s digital display: 12:30. He still had half an hour before it was time to take the seismograph out from its underground—or under sand, really—hole. Why would I set the alarm early and spoil a perfectly good nap, when—?

  Then his eye caught his battered old computer. Right. Haven’t checked the e-mail in almost two days.

  After switching the machine on—it took almost a full two minutes to boot up—he walked the short distance to the kitchen to turn on the burner under the kettle. He didn’t really need the caffeine. Ralph Hale was a napper; he could go full-bore for four or five hours, crash for two, then be ready to go for another four hours. He had attained enough prominence as a geologist to be able to set his own peculiar hours, which is just how he liked it. Smiling as he dumped some herbal tea leaves into a strainer, he remembered his underg
raduate days in Sydney, driving his roommates up the wall with his odd sleeping habits. ’Course, then there were the grad school days in Boston where everyone kept calling me “Oz,” and that lovely tenure at Emory when everyone was browned off ’cause I didn’t sound like Paul blasted Hogan. Not that it was any better when he returned home to Australia. All the endless rules and regulations were enough to drive a man mad.

  So finally he grew fed up and used the money he’d saved over the decades to put together the Hale Institute for Oceanography in Melbourne. He made his own damn rules and regulations.

  One of those rules meant he could pick and choose his projects. The latest had him studying the unusual increase in seismic activity on and around Malau, his favorite of the numerous local islands. He could do what he was best at, do it how he wanted it done, and do it in a pleasant locale. As a result, he did excellent work, which made his Board of Directors at the Institute happy; and he got to take lots of naps, which made him happy. Hale’s philosophy had always been that everyone should be as happy as possible, so this arrangement suited him just fine.

  Eventually, the computer finished going through all eight million stages it needed to go through before it would allow its user to actually use it. Times like this, I miss the old IBM PC. Couldn’t do much more than a crummy word processor and a crummier database, but at least it booted up in thirty seconds.

  Hale double-clicked on the icon for his e-mail program, then single-clicked the CHECK MESSAGES icon. As the modem made the various and sundry awful noises it needed to make to connect Hale’s computer to the Internet (or, at least, to his e-mail provider’s little corner of it), he noticed another icon for the program he checked Usenet with. Better not get into that, he decided. The e-mail alone’ll take the whole time. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered with the various newsgroups that discussed geology (his chosen field) and scuba diving (his favorite hobby), since ninety-eight percent of what was posted there was either useless and/or inaccurate. Still, that other two percent can be gold.

  He winced as the program informed him that he had three hundred and sixty-two messages. The program also sorted it for him. The stuff from the various mailing lists could wait until later; that accounted for eighty percent of the messages right there. Of the balance, he recognized only a few e-mail addresses, and only three absolutely required a response. One was from the dive shop, informing him that his new air tanks had arrived and when did he want to pick them up? Another was from Paul Bateman, saying he’d have the transcription of the interview for Hale to go over in a couple of days.