She smiled at Castor and then at the villagers in the suddenly soundless hall. "So you see," she finished, "there is nothing more to say on this subject." And indeed there was not.
There was not, at least, until the next morning, when Castor finished the sleepless night's packing and weeping and arguing and pleading and put his wife on the bus for, ultimately, Saskatchewan. Maria had been sleepless, too, and Maria had done her own share of weeping at the last, but by the time the bus rumbled up she was smiling. "I am still very fond of you, Castor," she announced, "and I will send you pictures of our child."
"Oh, Maria!" he groaned. Then, suddenly despairing, "Wait, don't go today, wait until tomorrow. I'll go with you!"
She shook her head. "You can't," she pointed out. "You aren't allowed to leave the village while you're needed to testify." And then, standing on the step of the bus, bending down to kiss him good-bye, "You don't really want to, anyway, do you?"
III
It was six days before the court summons came. In that time Castor had made his mind up about Maria a hundred times—a hundred different ways. The result was he did nothing. He had lost Maria. He was terribly, terribly hurt, a broken man. But on the other hand, he thought, if she could leave him so easily over so small a thing as an unborn child, why, then, why not?
He was not much use to the village in those six days. The assistant director did not fail to tell him so—then, adding in more human tones, "Be careful of your money, Cousin Castor, don't stay too long, and oh yes, please, if you have a chance, do pick up for me some of those chocolate mints—what's the matter?"
"These," grumbled Castor, waving his tickets. Han Chinese, high officials, and persons on government business were authorized air transport, as everyone knew, but the assistant director only laughed at Castor's pretensions.
"Government business! You are a witness, not a high cadre! You'll go to New Orleans, you'll tell what you saw, you'll come home—with the mints, please. No. Your government business is here, Cousin Castor, and how am I to make up the work you will miss? You'll take the bus." So Castor's long trip, the first time in all his life he had been outside the Bama Autonomous Republic, crawled along the coastal roads, across rice paddies and mud flats and stock-grazing land, up the delta to the big city. For the first five hours of the trip, Castor saw nothing he had not seen before, or something just like. That was bad. That gave him time to think. The same subjects kept coming up in his mind. They were subjects he was tired of and had no joy in pursuing. Castor knew very well why volunteers for Saskatchewan did not have to worry about the birthrate. It was because of the death rate—from the terrible winters, from the scant harvests, from the lingering pockets of radiation—from being there, on the frontier of a continent that had almost annihilated itself and still had not completely healed. He should have kept her from going. He could not do that, but should have gone with her. He couldn't do that, either, not until the inquest was over, but certainly he could go after her, next week, or next month... And that was where the thinking reached dead end. That he could do.
But she had been right in what she said to him as she left: He didn't really want to, after all.
Then the bus entered the outskirts of New Orleans. Maria disappeared from his mind.
They were still in the newer eastern fringes of the old city, but it was wonderland. Electric trolleybuses whizzed along the streets, people in bright clothes meandered from shop to shop, gazing at the displays in the windows and pausing to buy stick ices, cones of sherbet and cream, paper cups of drinks. The buildings towered over the sidewalks, three stories high, five, sometimes ten or more— later, as they approached the muddy trickle that was still called the Mississippi River, incredible skyscrapers of forty stories and more. Castor's mouth hung open. He was an abandoned husband, very nearly a father, a full-fledged working member of his commune, with grave matters on his mind. But he was also twenty-two years old. He dissolved in wonder and joy as he beheld the marvels all around. It wasn't until they had crossed the river and entered a huge, noisy terminal that he began to worry. He shouldered his backpack, checked his money to see it was still safe, exited through great, treacherous revolving doors that nipped at his heels for being slow, and stood on the curb, wondering what to do next. His orders were to report to the Criminal Courts Building; very well. Of course. But how, exactly, did one do that?
A green-shouldered traffic policeman defended an island in the middle of the road. Ask him? Again—of course, but how? To gawk at the traffic from the safe shelter of the bus was one thing. To be so dangerously in the middle of it was quite another. The number of vehicles was frightening—trucks, trolleybuses, private cars, vans, taxis darting in and out—surely every human being in North America was in New Orleans that day, and every one driving madly past the bus terminal. He watched from the curb for a long time, trying to solve the riddle of the traffic lights. Then, at a break, he dodged bravely in front of a slow-moving farm truck to the island. The policeman gazed at him sternly. "The Criminal Courts Building," Castor gasped, "where is it?"
He got the information, along with the news that he had foolishly gone more than two kilometers past his destination and a free lecture on the obligations good citizenship imposed on those who would cross a busy street. He was glad to get away from there. But, once he gained skill enough to be relieved of the fear of imminent death by being run over, his spirits rose again.
It turned out to be a very long walk. Castor did not mind, for there was so much to see! Even better than from the bus window, for you could smell and feel and jostle as well; Biloxi was nothing like this! There were excursion buses full of Home-Han tourists—it was not only the farm communes they found quaint enough to photograph. There were sidewalk vendors with tomatoes and grapes and pale, long lettuce stalks from their private plots, in town for the day to sell their produce and see the sights. Artisans lined up or filled the alcoves with the tools of their trade, to repair a shoe or cut a head of hair. Nearly all the sidewalk merchants were Yankees. Nearly all the strolling pedestrians were Han Chinese, but no one seemed to notice Castor among them.
He discovered he was hungry and paused to study the mob in front of a frozen-sherbet stand. When he had absorbed the technique of sliding to the counter, he unbuttoned his money pocket and slipped a note off his small wad of bills. The vendor regarded the red-rimmed Bama money suspiciously when Castor at last got his attention, but shrugged and accepted it—without, however, returning any change. As Castor turned away, irritable because he had been cheated and hadn't protested, a grinning Han Chinese youth slapped him on the shoulder. In nearly incomprehensible English he demanded jovially, "You just up from downcountry, brother? Never fear! Catch on quick-quick, you see!"
Castor winced at the English but was grateful for the good will. He asked in the high tongue, "Am I going the right way for the Criminal Courts Building?" Yes, he was; but it took minutes for the new friend to decide that that was so and then to explain to Castor which turnings he must make and how he must cross on the pedestrian bridges at certain intersections—all of it accompanied by many pats on the shoulder and slaps on the back and friendly nudges. Castor was surprised that a Han Chinese, of a people who traditionally avoided touching another person as much as possible, should show so much physical intimacy, but he remained grateful. For nearly an hour.
Then Castor took thought. Not the least of the attractions of New Orleans were the shops, the department stores, the clothing establishments, the hardware emporia; it was not only the assistant director who yearned for the goodies of the big city, and Castor made up his mind to carry back as many luxury items as he could afford. When he thought to count his money to see just what he could manage to buy, he discovered he had none. The pocket was unbuttoned and empty.