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«– And he doesn't know how to control it and disaster strikes! You're talking about one of my favorite films, Cullen. Don't you think I had a childhood too? Listen, how many times do I have to tell you – if your powers get stronger, then you wait to see what _kind_ of stronger and take it from there.»
A little surprisingly, he touched my cheek and ran one finger down to my chin. «Always remember too that I'm around if you need my help.»
I took his hand, squeezed it and gently bit the finger. «I know you are, pal. And I'm really happy you are too.»
The decor of «The Future of Lightning» was chic-Zen monastery: stripped and sealed wood floors in a nice herringbone pattern, no-nonsense white tables and bentwood chairs, an incongruous rock garden in the middle of it all. A big potted palm off in one corner looked strangely forlorn and out of place.
«Cullen, don't look now but . . . check who's over there to the left.»
Weber Gregston held a sparerib in one hand and gestured with it while he talked to the beautiful and famous June Sillman, the star of _Sorrow and Son_. That first unexpected sight of him sent goose-pimples over my skin like a searchlight over the ocean.
The maftre d' showed us to a table on the other side of the room. It was just as well because I didn't know how I felt about talking to him, even after everything that had happened.
«How do you feel, Cullen?»
«Kind of fu
Mae chose that moment to pick up my water glass and throw it on the floor. _Crash_! Thank you, Mae. A waiter moved right in to clean up the mess, but the noise had been loud and drawn a lot of eyes.
«He's coming!»
«So he's coming? Don't make me feel uncomfortable, Eliot.»
«Hi, Weber.»
«Hi, Eliot. Hi, Mae James. Hi, Mom James.» He patted Mae on the head, then came around the table and kissed me. «Where the hell have you been? Every time I call you no one's home.»
«My husband and I were in Italy for a few days. We just got back.»
«Okay – listen, you and I have got to talk about something. It's about this dream I had the other night.» His face was so serious it made me fidgety and he looked at Eliot to see if he was in on the whole Rondua thing.
«I know about the dreams, Weber. She told me everything.»
«Good, then let me tell you what happened.» He started to sit down, but saw Eliot gesture with his head toward Weber's table, where June Sillman was sitting alone now and not looking too happy.
«June can wait a few minutes. This dream can't. Cullen, do you know Fire Sandwich yet? Have you met him?»
«No.»
«He says he knows you. He said he's a friend of Squeeny.»
«Who's Squeeny, Weber?»
«You don't know him either?»
«Nope. Never heard of either of them.»
«All right, that doesn't even matter. I stopped dreaming about Rondua about two weeks ago. The dreams were coming hard and fast, night after night, but then one night they just stopped and then there weren't anymore. I didn't understand it – they're there a hundred percent one night, and then the next they're gone for good. And I haven't had another since then. Rondua's left my head forever, I think. But the last dream I had, Cullen, was a doozie. There were big battles and strange animals. . . . You know what I'm talking about. Anyway, I talked to this one guy named Fire Sandwich. He said you were going to have to fight Jack Chili and that Chili knew how to beat you.»
«I already know that, Weber.»
He was about to say something, but stopped and looked at me strangely. «So you know about your son too? About what happens to him?»
«What? What are you talking about?»
«Do you really want me to tell you?»
«Yes, of course.»
«He dies.»
7
Leaving Mr. Tracy was easier to do than I had imagined. The three of us walked silently across the now-empty meadow. All of the others were gone: the silver zeppelin, the music, the exotic languages and laughter around the hundreds of campfires. The safety of our numbers had gone home to await the outcome of our final confrontation with Jack Chili.
«I wish there was something more I could do to help you, Pepsi. Not so long ago I thought I had some power, but our friend Martio showed me I was wrong about that.»
«Do you think my plan will work, Mr. Tracy?»
«No. I told you that before and I don't even know why you are going to try. Jack Chili is too blind and rancorous to see your point, Pepsi. You're completely right; Rondua could work the way you've suggested, but he'll never understand that way of thinking.» The dog's voice was all defeat.
No matter what happened to us, I was convinced that Mr. Tracy would die soon, either because this fear had grown into a cancer or simply because he was just plain used-up. There seemed so little left in him that, to a certain degree, I was glad to be leaving before life rushed in to close on him right in front of us. His strength and courage had buoyed us up for so long. To see him without any of those things now was enough to make you fatally sad.
«You remember the route, Pepsi? Follow the Dead Handwriting until you come to the Hot Shoes. Carmesia knows the way, but you'll leave her at the Shoes and then the two of you will be on your own.»
Pepsi nodded and without another word, turned to leave. His face was twisted as if it had just been cut with a knife. I couldn't say good-bye that way. I went up to Mr. Tracy and put my arms as far around his neck as I could. The tears began before I got the first word out.
«Good-bye, Mr. Tracy. I love you. I love you very much.»
«Good-bye, Cullen. Do whatever you can for the boy. Then stand back and the rest will be up to him. It's his job now; you've done yours. He's a very good boy.» With the slightest movement of his leg, he pushed me away. Then he turned and began to limp back to the tent. I could feel his steps through the ground. I watched him until my heart hurt too much. Luckily, Carmesia the negnug marched up below me and said we had to get going – Pepsi was already «under way.»
We came to a valley that was jade green on one side, sheer black rock face on the other. Carved everywhere into the rock were mammoth letters and numbers, enigmatical words, sketches of half-completed things: animals, futuristic buildings and furniture and structures the likes of which I had never seen in Rondua, almost-human faces. The Dead Handwriting. Like those mysterious stone faces on Easter Island, no one in Rondua knew where the Handwriting came from. According to Carmesia, many thought it was one of the early gods doodling while he tried to think up what he wanted to do next with Rondua.
While we stared, Carmesia bent to the ground and started sniffing all over the place like a hunting dog hot on the track of something. Pepsi and I looked at each other, both equally mystified.
«The heat comes from up ahead; I can smell its direction. The Shoes should be very close.»
Everything seemed very simple now. Pass the Hot Shoes (whatever they were), say good-bye to Carmesia the negnug, then walk straight on until we came to Jack Chili and whatever horrors he had waiting for us.
I once watched a documentary on animals in Africa. Beside the usual vaulting gazelles and fu