Timothy Zahn - Cascade Point and Other Stories

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Timothy Zahn

CASCADE POINT

Contents

THE GIFTIE GIE US

THE DREAMSENDER

THE ENERGY CRISIS OF 2215

RETURN TO THE FOLD

THE SHADOWS OF EVENING

NOT ALWAYS TO THE STRONG

THE CHALLENGE

THE CASSANDRA

DRAGON PAX

JOB INACTION

TEAMWORK

THE FINAL REPORT ON THE LIFELINE EXPERIMENT

CASCADE POINT

Acknowledgments

The Giftie Gie Us

The sun was barely up as I left the cabin that morning, but it was already

promising to be a beautiful day. Some freak of nature had blown away the usual

cloud cover and was treating the world—or at least the middle Appalachians—to

an absolutely clear blue sky, the first I'd seen in months. I admired the sky and the

budding April greenery around me as I made my way down the wooded slope,

long practice enabling me to avoid trees and other obstructions with minimal

effort. It was finally spring, I decided, smiling my half-smile at the blazing sun

which was already starting to drive the chill from the morning air. Had it not been

for the oppressive silence in the forest, it would almost be possible to convince

myself that the Last War had been only a bad dream. But the absence of birds,

which for some reason had been particularly hard hit by the Soviet nuke bac

barrage, was a continual reminder to me. I had hoped that, by now, nearly five

years after the holocaust, they would have made a comeback. Clearly, they had

not, and I could only hope that enough had survived the missiles to eventually

repopulate the continent. Somehow, it seemed the height of injustice for birds to

die in a war over oil.

I had reached the weed-overgrown gravel road that lay southwest of my cabin

and had started to cross it when a bit of color caught my eye. About fifty yards

down the road, off to the side, was something that looked like a pile of old laundry.

But I knew better; no one threw away clothes these days. Almost undoubtedly it

was a body.

I regarded it, feeling my jaw tightening. I'd looked at far too many bodies in

my lifetime, and my natural impulse was to continue across the road and forget

what I'd seen. But someone had to check this out—find out whether it was a

stranger or someone local, find out whether it had been a natural death or

otherwise—and that someone might just as well be me. Aside from anything else,

if there was a murderer running around loose, I wanted to know about it. I took a

step toward the form, and as I did so my foot hit a small pile of gravel, scattering it

noisily.

The "body" twitched and sat up abruptly, and I suddenly found myself

looking at a strikingly lovely woman wrapped up to her chin in a blanket. "Who's

there?" she called timidly, staring in my direction.

I froze in panic, waiting for her inevitable reaction to my face, and silently

cursed myself for being so careless. It was far too late to run or even turn my head;

she was looking straight at me.

But the expected look of horror never materialized. "Who's there?" she

repeated, and only then did I notice that her gaze was actually a little to my right.

Then I understood.

She was blind.

It says a lot for my sense of priorities that my first reaction was one of relief

that she couldn't see me. Only then did it occur to me how cruelly rough postwar

life must be for her with such a handicap. "It's all right," I called out, starting

forward again. "I won't hurt you."

She turned slightly so that she was facing me—keying on my voice and

footsteps, I presume—and waited until I had reached her before speaking again.

"Can you tell me where I am? I'm trying to find a town called Hemlock."

"You've got another five miles to go," I told her. Up close, she wasn't as

beautiful as I'd first thought. Her nose was a little too long and her face too

angular; her figure—what I could see of it beneath the blanket and mismatched

clothing—was thin instead of slender. But she was still nice-looking, and I felt

emotions stirring within me which I thought had died years ago.

"Are there any doctors there?"

"Only a vet, but he does reasonably well with people, too." I frowned,

studying the fatigue in her face, something I'd assumed was just from her journey.

Now I wasn't so sure. "Do you feel sick?"

"A little, maybe. But I mostly need the doctor for a friend who's up the road a

few miles. We were traveling from Chilhowie and he came down with

something." A chill shook her body and she tightened her grip on the blanket.

I touched her forehead. She felt a little warm. "What were his symptoms?"

"Headache, fever, and a little nausea at first. That lasted about a day. Then his

muscles started to hurt and he began to get dizzy spells. It wasn't more than an

hour before he couldn't even stand up anymore. He told me to keep on going and

see if I could find a doctor in Hemlock."

"When did you leave him?"

"Yesterday afternoon. I walked most of the night, I think."

I nodded grimly. "I'm afraid your friend is probably dead by now. I'm sorry."

She looked stricken. "How do you know?"

"It sounds like a variant of one of the bacterial diseases the Russians hit us

with in the war. It's kind of rare now, but it's still possible to catch it. And it works

fast."

Her whole body seemed to sag, and she closed her eyes. "I have to be sure.

You might be wrong."

"I'll go and check on him after we get you settled," I assured her. "Come on."

She let me help her to her feet, draping the blanket sari-style around her head

and torso and retrieving the small satchel that seemed to be her only luggage.

"Where are you taking me?"

That was a very good question, come to think of it. She wasn't going to make

it to Hemlock without a lot more rest, and I sure wasn't going to carry her there.

Besides, if she was carrying a Russian bug, I didn't want her going into the town

anyway. Theoretically, she could wipe the place out. That left me exactly one

alternative. "My cabin."

"I see."

I had never realized that two words, spoken in such a neutral tone, could hold

that much information. "It's not what you think," I assured her hastily, feeling an

irrational urge to explain my motives. "If you're contagious, I can't let you go into

town."

"What about you?"

"I've already been exposed to you, so I've got nothing to lose. But I'm

probably not in danger anyway—I've been immunized against a lot of these

diseases."

"Very handy. How'd you manage it?"

"I was in the second wave into Iran," I explained, gently pulling her toward

the slope leading to my cabin. She came passively. "They had us pretty well doped

up against the stuff the Russians had hit the first wave with."

We reached the edge of the road and started up. "Is it uphill all the way?" she

asked tiredly.

"It's only a quarter mile," I told her. "You can make it."

We did, but just barely, and I had to half-carry her the last few yards. I put her

on the old couch in the living room and then went and got the medical kit I'd taken

when I cleared out of Atlanta just hours before the missiles started falling. She had

a slight fever and a rapid pulse, but I couldn't tell whether or not that was from our

climb. But if she'd really been exposed to one of those Sidewinder strains, I

couldn't take any chances, so I gave her one of my last few broad-spectrum pills

and told her to get some rest. She was obviously more fatigued than I'd realized,

and was asleep almost before the pill reached her stomach.

I covered her with her blanket and then stood there looking at her for a

moment, wondering why I was doing all this. I had long ago made the decision to

isolate myself as much as possible from what was left of humanity, and up till now

I'd done a pretty good job of it. I wasn't about to change that policy, either. This

was only a temporary aberration, I told myself firmly; get her well and then send

her to Hemlock where she could get a job. Picking up the medical kit, I went

quietly out.

It was late afternoon when I returned with the single rabbit my assorted snares

had caught. The girl was still asleep, but as I passed her on my way to the kitchen

she stirred. "Hello?"

"It's just me," I called back to her. I tossed the rabbit on the kitchen counter

and returned through the swinging door to the living room. "How do you feel?"

"Very tired," she said. "I woke up a couple of times while you were gone, but

fell asleep again."

"Any muscle aches or dizziness?"

"My leg muscles hurt some, but that's not surprising. Nothing else feels bad."

She sat up and shook her head experimentally. "I'm not dizzy, either."

"Good. The tiredness is just a side effect of the medicine I gave you." I sat

down next to her, glad to get off my feet. "I think that you're going to be all right."

She inhaled sharply. "Don! I almost forgot—did you get to him in time?"

I shook my head, forgetting how useless that gesture was. "I'm sorry. He was

already dead when I found him. I buried him at the side of the road."

Her sightless eyes closed, and a tear welled up under each eyelid. I wanted to

put my arm around her and comfort her, but a part of me was still too nervous to

try that. So I contented myself with resting my hand gently on her arm. "Was he

your husband?" I asked after a moment.

She sniffed and shook her head. "He'd been my friend for the last three years.

Sort of a protector and employer. I'll miss him." She swallowed and took a deep,

shuddering breath. "I'll be okay. Can I help you with anything?"

"No. All I want you to do right now is rest. I'll get dinner ready—I hope you

like rabbit. Uh, by the way, my name's Neil Cameron."

"I'm Heather Davis."

"Nice to meet you. Look, why don't you lie down again. I'll call you when

dinner's ready."

Supper was a short, quiet affair. Heather was too groggy and depressed to say

or eat much, and I was far too out of practice at dinner conversation to make up for

it. So we ate roast rabbit and a couple of carrots from last summers crop, and then,

as the sun disappeared behind the Appalachians, I led her to my bedroom. She sat

on the edge of the bed, a puzzled and wary look on her face, as I rummaged in my

footlocker for another blanket. "You'll be more comfortable here," I told her.

"I don't mind the couch," she murmured in that neutral tone she'd used on me

before.

"I insist." I found the blanket and turned to face her. She was still sitting on

the bed, her hands exploring the size and feel of the queen-size mattress. There

was plenty of room there for two, and for a moment I was tempted. Instead, I took

a step toward the door. "I've got another hour's worth of work to do," I said. "Uh,

the bathrooms out the door to the left—the faucets and toilet work, but easy on the

water and don't flush unless it's necessary. If you need me tonight, just call. I'll be

on the couch."

Her face was lifted toward mine, and for a second I had the weird feeling she

was studying my face. An illusion, of course. But whatever she heard in my voice

apparently satisfied her, because she nodded wearily and climbed under the

blanket.

Leaving the bedroom door open so I could hear her, I headed for the kitchen,

tossing my blanket onto the couch as I passed it. I lit a candle against the growing

darkness and, using the water from the solar-heated tank sparingly, I began to

clean up the dinner dishes. And as I worked, not surprisingly, I thought about

Heather Davis.

All the standard questions went through my mind—who was she, where did

she come from, how had she survived for five years—but none of them was really

uppermost in my mind. Five years of primitive hardship and self-imposed solitude

should have pretty well wiped out my sex urge, or so I would have thought. But it

was all coming back in a rush, and as my lust grew my thoughts became

increasingly turbulent. I knew she would accept me into her bed—if not willingly,

at least passively. In her position, she couldn't risk refusing me. Besides, I'd given

her food and shelter and maybe saved her life. She owed me.

And then I glanced up, and all the passion left me like someone had pulled a

plug. Reflecting dimly back at me from the kitchen window, framed by the bars I'd

installed for security, was my face. I'd lived with it for over five years now, ever

since the Soviet nerve gas barrage near Abadan that had somehow seeped through

my mask, but it still made me shudder. The reactions of other people were even

worse, ranging from wide-eyed stares to gasps of horror, the latter especially

common among women and children. Frozen by some trick of the gas into a

tortured grimace, the left side of my face looked more like a fright mask than like

anything human; the right side, normal except for three parallel scars from a

mortar fragment, only made the other half look worse. My hair and beard followed

the same pattern: a normal chestnut brown on the right, pure white on the left. And

if all that weren't enough, there was my left eye; mobile and still with perfect

vision, it had turned from brown to a pale yellow, and sometimes seemed to glow

in the dark.

I stared at my reflection for a long minute before returning to my work. No, I

couldn't take advantage of Heather's blindness that way. It would be unfair of me

to go to bed with her when she couldn't tell how horrible I looked. Somewhere in

the back of my mind, I was aware that this was the same argument, in reverse, that

I used to avoid approaching any of the sighted girls in Hemlock, but that was

irrelevant. The discussion was closed.

I finished the dishes in a subdued frame of mind and then headed toward the

front door. As I reached it, I heard a muffled sound from the bedroom and tiptoed

in to investigate.

Curled into a fetal position under the blanket, her back to the door, Heather

was crying. I stood irresolutely for a moment, then went in and sat down by her on

the bed. She flinched as I touched her shoulder. "It's all right," I whispered to her.

"You're safe now. It's all right. I won't hurt you."

Eventually, the sobs ceased and the tenseness went out of her body, and a few

minutes later the rhythm of her breathing changed as she fell asleep. Careful not to

wake her, I got up and went back to the doorway. There I stopped and looked at

her for a moment, ashamed of my earlier thoughts. Heather wasn't just a warm

female body put here for my amusement. She was another human being, and

whether she stayed here an hour or a week she was entitled to courtesy and respect.

It was the least I could do for her in the face of the barbarism out there. For that

matter, it was the least I could do for me. There were enough savages in the world

today; I had no desire to add to their number.

I closed the bedroom door halfway as a gesture to her privacy and went to

finish my chores.

—

I stayed close to the cabin for the next couple of days, tending my garden and

doing needed repairs and odd jobs. Heather's fever disappeared, and she recovered

quickly from the effects of her journey and the medicine I'd given her. By the third

morning after her arrival, I felt it was safe to leave her and go check on my snares.

They were empty; but after a few hours of hunting with my bow and arrows I

bagged a small squirrel, so at least we wouldn't go hungry. I swung by my

"refrigerator" to pick up some vegetables and then returned to the cabin. Once

there, I went straight to the bedroom to check on Heather.

She was gone.

I stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. The damn girl had cleared out, sure

enough—and probably helped herself to everything she could get her hands on. I'd

been a naïve fool to leave her here alone. "Heather!" I barked, the name tasting like

a curse.

"I'm back here," a voice called faintly.

I started, and after a second I went outside and made my way to the rear of the

cabin. Sleeves rolled up, Heather was standing by the hand pump that brought

water from the nearby stream and sent it into the storage tank on the roof. She

smiled in the direction of my footsteps, her face glistening with sweat. "Hi," she

said. "I was just taking a break. How was the hunting?"

"Fair; we've got squirrel for supper," I told her, trying to keep my voice

casual—hard to do when you're feeling like a jerk. "Also brought some corn. Why

aren't you in bed?"

She shrugged. "I've never liked being a professional freeloader. Besides, you

forgot to pump any water last night."

I hadn't forgotten—I'd just been too lazy—but I hadn't expected her to notice.

The tank usually held enough water for three or four days, though I tried to keep it

full. "Well, thanks very much. I appreciate it."

"No charge. You said you had some corn? Where did you get that?"

I started to point north, remembered in time the gesture would be wasted.

"About a mile upstream there's a hollow right behind a small waterfall. The creek

comes from underground at that point and stays pretty cold even in the summer. I

use the hollow as my refrigerator. In winter, of course, it's more like a freezer."

"That's a good idea," Heather nodded, "although it's kind of far to go for a

midnight snack. I'll bet it's fun keeping the animals out, too."

"It was, but I've pretty well got that problem solved." I suddenly realized I

was still holding the squirrel and corn. "Come on, let's go inside. You look tired."

"Okay." She seemed to hesitate just a second, then stepped up to me and took

my arm, letting me lead her back into the cabin.

Another surprise awaited me in the living room. Heather had neatly folded my

blanket and laid it at one end of the couch; her satchel, some of its contents strewn

around it, sat at the other end. In the middle lay a shirt I'd torn just that morning,

neatly mended.

"I'll be darned," I exclaimed in delight, unaware of the pun until after I'd said

it. "How did you know that shirt needed sewing?"

She shrugged. "I heard you getting dressed this morning, and right in the

middle of it I heard something tear. You muttered under your breath and threw

whatever it was onto the couch. When I got up I found the shirt and used a needle

and thread from my sewing kit to mend it. I hope the thread doesn't look too bad

there—I had no idea what colors I was working with."

I opened my mouth, but closed it again and instead reached for the shirt, my

cheerful mood suddenly overshadowed by an uncomfortable feeling creeping up

my backbone. Dimly, I remembered the sequence of events Heather had described,

but it seemed too incredible that she should have pieced such subtle clues together

that easily. Was it possible she wasn't quite blind?

There was a way to check. Still holding the shirt, I walked over to the

window, loosening my belt with one hand until the big brass army buckle was free.

The sun had come out from behind the clouds and light was streaming brightly

through the glass. I turned slightly so that I was facing Heather and twisted my

buckle, sending a healthy chuck of that sunlight straight at her eyes.

Nothing. She didn't flinch or even blink. Feeling a little silly, I let the

loosened buckle flop back down against my leg and held up the shirt for a close

examination, trying to pretend that that had been my reason for moving into the

light in the first place. The seam was strong and reasonably straight, though the

material bunched a little in places and the white thread was in sharp contrast with

the brown plaid. "It looks fine," I told Heather. "It's exactly what I needed. Thank

you for doing it for me."

Her face, which had been looking a little apprehensive, broke into a tentative

smile. "I'm glad it's all right," she said, and I wondered that I had ever doubted her

handicap. Only a blind woman could ever face me and still smile like that. And

even though I knew how undeserved that smile was, I rather liked it.

I cleared my throat. "I guess I'd better go skin the squirrel and start cooking

it."

"Okay. First, though, come on back and show me how to tell when the water

tank's full. I want to finish that pumping before dinner."

—

It was pretty clear that Heather was completely healed from whatever she had

caught, but I decided to keep her at the cabin for a few more days anyway. My

official reason was that it would be best to keep her under observation for a bit

longer, but this was at least eighty percent rationalization, if not outright lie: the

simple fact was that I found her very nice to have around. I had never before had

the chance to find out how much easier primitive life could be with an extra pair of

hands to help with the work. Despite her blindness, Heather pitched in with skill

and determination, and if I somehow failed to give her enough to do she would

seek out work on her own. One morning, for example, as I was weeding the

garden, she came to me with a pile of dirty clothes and insisted that I lead her

down to the stream and find a place where she could wash them.

But most of all, I enjoyed just being able to relax in the company of another

human being. That sounds almost trite, I suppose, but it was something I hadn't

been able to do for five years. And, while I'd buried my need for companionship as

deeply as I could, I hadn't killed it, a fact my infrequent trips to Hemlock usually

only emphasized. The people of that tiny community were helpful enough—their

assistance and willingness to teach me the necessary backwoods survival skills had

probably saved my life the first year after the war—but I couldn't relax in their

presence, any more than they could in mine. My face was a barrier as strong as the

Berlin Wall.

But with Heather the problem didn't exist. We talked a great deal together,

usually as we worked, our conversation ranging from trivia to philosophy to the

practical details of postwar life. Heather's knowledge of music, literature, and

household tasks was far superior to mine, while I held an edge in politics, hunting,

and trapping. Her sense of humor, while a little dry, meshed well with mine, and a

lot of our moral values were similar. Under different circumstances I would have

been happy to keep her here just as long as I possibly could. But I knew that

wouldn't be fair to her.

My conscience finally caught up with me late one evening after dinner as we

sat together on the couch. Heather was continuing her assault on the pile of

mending I'd accumulated over the years; I was trying to carve a new ax handle. My

heart wasn't really in it, though, and my thoughts and gaze kept drifting to Heather.

Her sewing skill had increased since that first shirt she'd mended for me; her

fingers moved swiftly, surely, and the seam was straight and clean. Bathed in the

soft light of a nearby candle, the warmth of which she enjoyed, she was a pleasure

to watch. I wondered how I was going to broach the subject.

She gave me the opening herself. "You're very quiet tonight, Neil," she said

after a particularly long lull in the conversation. "What are you thinking about?"

I gritted my teeth and plunged in. "I've been thinking it's about time to take

you to Hemlock, introduce you around, and see if we can get you a job or

something with one of the families there."

The nimble fingers faltered for a moment. "I see," she said at last. "Are you

sure I'm not contagious anymore? I wouldn't want to get anyone sick."

"No, I'm certain you're completely recovered. I'm not even sure you had a

deadly bug, anyway."

"Okay. But I wonder if it might be better if I stick around for another week or

two, until the garden's going a little better and you don't have to spend so much

time on it."

I frowned. This was going all wrong—she was supposed to be jumping at the

chance to get back to humanity again, not making excuses to stay here. "Thanks

for the offer, but I can manage. You've been a lot of help, though, and I wish I

could repay you more than..." I let the sentence trail off. Heather's face and body

had gone rigid, and she was no longer sewing. "What's the matter? Would you

rather go somewhere else instead of Hemlock? I'll help you get to anywhere you

want."

Heather shook her head and sighed. "No, it's not that. I just... don't want to

leave you."

I stared at her, feeling sandbagged. "Why?"

"I like being here. I like working with you. You don't—you don't care that I'm

blind. You accept me as a person."

There was a whole truckload of irony in there somewhere but I couldn't be

bothered with it at the moment. "Listen, Heather, don't get the idea I'm all noble or

anything, because I'm not. If you knew more about me you'd realize that."

"Perhaps." Her tone said she didn't believe it.

There was no way out of it. Up till now I'd been pretty successful at keeping

my appearance a secret from her, but I couldn't hide the truth any longer. I would

have to tell her about my face. "If you weren't blind, Heather, you wouldn't have

wanted to stay here ten minutes. I'm... my face is pretty badly disfigured."

She nodded casual acceptance of the information. Maybe she didn't believe it,

either. "How did it happen?"

"I was a captain in the army during the Iranian segment of the Last War; you

know, the Soviet drive toward the oil fields. They were using lots of elaborate

nerve gases on us, and one of them found its way into the left side of my gas

mask." I kept my voice even; I was just reciting facts. "None of it got into the

nosepiece or respirator, so it didn't kill me, but it left one side of my face

paralyzed. I won't trouble you with any details, but the net effect is pretty hideous."

"I thought something must have happened to you in the war," she murmured.

"You never speak of your life during that time.... Is that why you were here when

the missiles came?"

"Yes. I was in a hospital in Atlanta, undergoing tests to see if my condition

could be reversed. They hadn't made any progress when I saw the handwriting on

the wall and decided it was time to pull out. A friend of mine had told me about his

cabin in the Appalachians, so I loaded some supplies in a Jeep and came here. I

beat the missiles by about three hours."

"Oh, so this place wasn't originally yours. And I'd been thinking all along how

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TimothyZahnCASCADEPOINTContentsTHEGIFTIEGIEUSTHEDREAMSENDERTHEENERGYCRISISOF2215RETURNTOTHEFOLDTHESHADOWSOFEVENINGNOTALWAYSTOTHESTRONGTHECHALLENGETHECASSANDRADRAGONPAXJOBINACTIONTEAMWORKTHEFINALREPORTONTHELIFELINEEXPERIMENTCASCADEPOINTAcknowledgmentsTheGiftieGieUsThesunwasbarelyupasIleftthecabinthat...

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