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Author�s Note
I think I�m beginning to define myself as an author (aside from the
�sick pervert� element). There are some science-fiction authors who take
an obviously implausible theme and go with it anyway. Clifford D. Simak�s
novel City comes to mind. The entire human race moves to Jupiter, and
lives unassisted on the planet�s surface. Totally implausible: if Jupiter
has a rocky surface down under all that atmosphere, the gravity would be
so intense as to kill you. But it is, nonetheless, except for the dopey first
chapter, a beautiful novel.
Ray Bradbury�s Martian Chronicles is heading the same way. Will
people really ever walk around unassisted on Mars, drive automobiles, and
live in earth-style homes? Probably not. But it is one of the classics of
science-fiction.
I fall into the same category, albeit down at the un-classic,
unpublished level of the genre (sometimes referred to as �mental
masturbation�.) Will the earth of five billion years hence be populated by
English-speaking Vampires and Werewolves? No. But hopefully Girl
Patrol is an entertaining story anyway. Will people be driving pickups
labelled Toyota in a universe completely covered by urban and suburban
sprawl? Well, humans have got some building to do before the whole
cosmos resembles Los Angeles. But perhaps you�ve read my Fading
Universe story anyway, and enjoyed it. Then there�s Amazonia, where a
boy wakes up to find that all the women in the world have evolved into
alligators. Again, not likely, although if you�ve been dumped by a woman
recently you might think the evolution has already begun.
I take a premise too far-flung to ever come true, even under the
most liberal assessment of scientific possibility, and work with it
anyway. I like authors who are willing to push their imaginations, and
their readers. So here is the next chapter of Girl Patrol, unlikely though it
obviously is.
30
Andrew Roller Presents
GIRL PATROL
Chapter Twenty-Six
The ground was flat under our feet, but it was no longer burnt. The
fire had veered off to the west. There was a pall of smoke on the horizon.
Someone was going to be quite warm tonight.
�I�m hot!� Becky whined.
�We�re all hot, shuttup,� Kim replied. She wiped the back of her hand
across her forehead. The heat was really getting us down. Although it
was nice to no longer be walking across ground that resembled charcoal, I
still felt rather like an ant caught in a broiler pan, the oven heat slowly
rising. We pushed back the wheat-like grass, an effort in itself, wishing
for shade. Now and then we stopped and drank from the river. We used our
hands, splashing the water in our faces, taking a quick dip, drying quickly
in the hot sun. I pulled my shirt off. The girls laughed at my blubber. But
I was losing weight, replacing fat with muscle, thanks to all our
involuntary exercise.
�Another month of this and you won�t laugh so hard,� I told the girls.
I flexed my biceps. �You�ll be walking with Conan.�
�Only if you walk on your hands,� Kim said. Becky came up to me and
slapped my belly.
�OW!� I said.
�Conan of the weak belly,� Becky teased. She hit me again, but this
time I was ready for her and caught her hand as it rebounded.
�Oh - let go!� Becky said. Her voice, usually happy, turned suddenly
cranky. I let go of her wrist and it dropped limply to her side.
�You can undress too if you want,� I said. It was something of a
tease, for they were, given the cut of their lingerie, already showing their
most intimate parts.
�We don�t need to,� Becky said proudly. She stuck out her little
chest, showing me her naked paps. �We can go swimming, or flying, or do
whatever, cause these magical costumes are good for everything!�
�We can even be in a strip show,� Kim said. There was a wry note in
her 10-year-old voice and I said,
�You don�t have to wear it if you don�t want to.� Kim turned up her
nose.
�No, that�s fine,� she said. �I�ll keep it on.�
�You�d be naked if you didn�t,� Becky said, innocent of the fact that
she and Kim both were, practically speaking, already nude.
We walked another mile or so. I saw a treeline in the distance. I
pointed it out. The girls gave a big hollar of glee and tore off through the
grass toward it. But they soon tired. After a bit I caught up to them, and
then we stopped again, and drank from the river. The sun sank toward the
horizon. It was a relief to see it going. We would be warm tonight, I
guessed. We were further south and the climate change seemed to bode
well for the evening, if not for the day. The girls felt their strength
rising again and decided to race again for the trees. I wondered aloud if
there might be any dangers ahead, werewolves perhaps, and if we
shouldn�t stay together, but with the ending of the bitterly hot day near
they felt like birds released from a trap.
A half hour later I was walking alone among the trees. I was idly
wondering where the girls were but as we had seen no one since crossing
the river (except Jan, of course), I felt at ease and began to sing. There
was an old song from a cartoon called Kid Power that I�d watched, when I
still qualified as a kid, and I sang it now. But since the society didn�t
consider me a kid anymore I modified it, and my version went like this:
�It�s up to Pedo power,
�Pedo power,
�All the power in the world!�
I had sung this several times when suddenly a voice snapped out,
�Wha-? What are you, some kind of pervert?� For a moment I
thought the voice was in my head. After all, I was five billion years in the
future, and except for the medium we�d met, nobody here talked. I was
about to start singing again when I realized there was a man beside me. I
flinched and looked at him. He was eyeing me through slit-eyes but they
opened wider as he realized he had come upon me by surprise, only his
voice giving him away.
�New here, eh?� he asked me.
�Uh, yeah,� I said.
�Have to be quick in these parts. Vampires,� he said. He extended
his hand. I took it, as stupidly as if I were in a car dealership in
Columbus. �Ah, nice to meet you,� the man said. His hand lingered on mine
a moment. Then he let go of my hand. I realized I�d passed some test, but
I didn�t know what it was. �My name�s Frank,� the man said, after his hand
was already back at his side.
�I�m Brian,� I said. �Brian Galbladder.�
�Frank Yates,� the man elaborated. He was in rags and I was
shirtless, my pants torn and battered. We were something of a pair, I
thought, ready for a 1930�s movie about the Depression.
�Hot day, isn�t it?� I said. Frank turned, as if to estimate, through
the lengthening shadows of the trees, the time until sunset.
�Ending soon,� Frank said. �What parts you come from?� he asked
me, turning. We walked along and I explained to him that I had come from
far off. �Anyone with you?� Frank asked.
�Not at the moment,� I replied. He didn�t pursue the inquiry. Five
billion years in the future the shades of meaning invented by Bill Clinton
had apparently faded. The trees gave out, and I found myself on the edge
of a clearing. There was a surprise waiting in the middle of it: �A
village!� I cried. Frank nodded. We walked toward a group of old wooden
houses. �How many people live here?� I asked.
�Too many to feed us all, and not enough to ward off the vampires,�
Frank answered. �Though we haven�t had so many lately.� People came
toward us. They were all, like Frank, dressed in rags. A fashion designer
obviously didn�t live here or, if he did, he must have been a very poor one.
The people seemed quite interested in me. Frank introduced me. I nodded
and tried not to seem nervous. It was shocking to find myself suddenly
among people. But what would they think if they saw the girls?
�Uh, have you had any other visitors around here lately?� I asked.
�No,� Frank said. Several others nodded in the negative. I began to worry.
I looked toward the river, which flowed close by. Could the girls be
swimming? I was about to try to walk toward it when, turning the other
way, I saw fields stretching off past a rim of trees that ran behind the
homes.
�You growing stuff?� I asked. I pointed toward what appeared to be
corn, with patches of smaller stuff in front, my voice already beginning to
take on the slightly clipped quality of these impoverished people.
�It don�t grow by itself,� Frank replied.
�We -- I mean, I -- eat manna,� I said. I lifted my hand, as if
scooping it up off the ground. �That�s what we call it.� He seemed not to
understand and, since the rest of the crowd apparently shared his
ignorance, I said, �It falls out of the sky in the morning.�
�Oh. Shit!� Frank said. Everyone laughed. I turned red-faced then.
�It�s edible!� I spluttered.
�If you don�t mind eating shit,� someone said.
�Sure, anyone can eat that,� Frank said. �I mean, it�ll keep you
alive.� He raised his chin. �But we grow our own food. We�d only eat shit
if we were starving.� We talked some more, and I told them about the
attack by the wolves. I edited my remarks to make it seem as if I�d been
alone. Gradually the sun set behind us, and as they realized I had little
news of the world beyond and ate less well than they did, their interest
waned. Nonetheless a woman invited me to dinner. I was hungry, but I
declined. I was worried about the girls.
30
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