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Foreman started to turn back to me, then caught himself. "Oh-one more thing. Jim raised some points here about brainwashing. Let me handle that right now." He completed his turn and looked me straight in the eye, again. "Jim, do you know the difference between brainwashing and training?"
I shook my head. "Obviously not."
"It's really very simple. You get to choose to be trained. You don't get to choose to be brainwashed." Foreman turned back to me and said, "Did you choose to be a part of Jason Delandro's tribe?"
"It looked like it-but no, not at first. Not at the begi
"Right. Did you choose to be here?"
I looked at the memory. "Yes, I did. I want this training. I signed up because I thought it would help me-get better."
"Yes, I know," said Foreman. "Now, then: you said you wanted to leave. Do you still want to?"
"Huh?"
"Remember? You were on the floor, screaming at me. You said you didn't want to do this any more."
"Oh," I said. "But I didn't mean it. I mean, I did-but I don't any more." I had to laugh. "That really was fight-or-flight, wasn't it? No, I want to stay."
There was loud laughter now. And applause. The wall of faces suddenly disintegrated. I wasn't alone any more. And this time, the tears in my eyes were tears of happiness.
I didn't know why, but I was happy. Again.
9
A Rhyme for Jason?
"A limerick is a primitive art form; it starts with a pair o'dactyls."
-SOLOMON SHORT
The problem was, I couldn't find a second rhyme for Jason. Basin? Pacin'?
Just south of the Dixon and Mason?
No. This was obviously not going to be one of my more noteworthy efforts.
Disgracin'? Maybe:
- but I doubt that he would be chastened.
Dammit. Why couldn't Delandro have been named Chuck? Chuck, I could rhyme.
This was the worst part of being captured. The waiting. The boredom. At least Loolie had a coloring book to keep her occupied.
I had given up trying to keep track of where we were going. We had wound around through so many twisty back roads, up and down so many rumpled brown hills, that I was begi
It almost could have been pretty, except-somehow, the Chtorran life forms looked stark and malevolent; their growth was malignant. Cancerous. Where the infestation was at its thickest and reddest, the landscape looked diseased; it looked sick. The alien ecology leeched at everything it touched: the purple vines encircled the trees with spiky tendrils and sucked at the life within, the red ivy on the ground was bordered with brown patches of dying grass, and there were dead cows lying in a field of rust. Pink puffballs the size of tumbleweeds rolled across the hills, bounced across the highway.
The disaster was complete. The sky was yellow and smoky. Even the clouds were tinged with blood. The air smelled sulfurous---except when it was worse. As we climbed higher, the pungent and cloying odors that came in through the windows of the van were so thick as to be nauseating.
After a while, I couldn't look any more.
I closed my eyes and tried to make up limericks. They might control my body, but I was still in control of my mind.
There was an old witch, name of Jessie
whose crotch was all smelly and messie.
Um....
Jessie was even harder to rhyme than Jason.
No. I had to find a rhyme. I wouldn't be defeated. My sanity might depend on this. I had to have a way to resist.
She enjoyed a good squirm with an alien worm
But if I used that, I'd have to make up something else for Jason. Jessie. Jessie. What rhymes with Jessie?
- and got stains all over her dressie!
All right, so now what could I do with Jason?: What I really wanted to do was kill him, Painfully. With my bare hands, if I could.
I thought about that for a while.
It was much more satisfying than limericks. For a while.
The convoy jolted off the pavement onto a dirt road that twisted impossibly through dirty black brush. It was almost dusk. We'd been traveling half a day.
"We're almost there!" said Loolie. My gut began to tighten again.
It was the not knowing that was driving me crazy. Were they going to torture me? Feed me to the worms? Put me in a sensory deprivation tank? I'd heard stories about the Tribes.
We rattled across a wooden bridge over a dry gully, up an incline and down into a sheltered bowl of land, shadowed by leafy willows and black oaks. The only obvious sign of Chtorran infestation were purple and red veils hanging from some of the trees. They looked like cobwebs, or silk. They had a shimmery look where the sunlight still sparkled off of them.
As we circled down into the clearing, I could see that the camp itself was a ragtag collection of vehicles, motor homes, trucks, trailers, and collapsible dwellings scattered around the parking lot of an old abandoned motel. Some of the buildings showed signs of recent repair work.
The Tribe was already pouring out of the woods and the buildings, shouting and rushing to greet us. It was joyous pandemonium! I heard someone calling, "Come on! The young god is back!" A pack of children and dogs came scrambling and ru
The children were dirty, and many of them were naked, but none of them looked hungry or unhappy; they varied in age from toddlers to pre-teens. They came charging like warriors, the dogs barking and yapping around them. The dogs were a mixed assortment of unpleasant-looking canines; they looked like leftovers from the pound, the dregs of the species.
The various bu