Rick removed the two travois poles from the platform and tore strips of cloth from the scraps of a shirt to use in tying driftwood to the poles. When that was done, he bade Con good-bye and headed for the riverbank. The fire was almost completely out before he returned.
"How's Joe?" he asked.
"Still sleeping, but he doesn't look good. Even without taking off his jacket, I can tell his arm's all swollen. It smells bad, too, and he's still really hot."
"Maybe we should look at his arm," said Rick.
The "jacket" consisted of two shirts stuffed with night-stalker down. Joe's arm had swollen until it was jammed in the sleeve like a sausage in a casing. The only way to remove the jacket was to cut it off. Yet, Rick and Con knew, once they had done that, they couldn't really treat the arm. They had only water and rags to fight the infection. All they would accomplish would be to deprive Joe of the jacket's warmth. In the end, they decided to leave it alone.
The most effective thing they could do was to maintain a fire to keep Joe warm. Con tended the fire and Joe, while Rick searched for more wood. He had been gone for almost an hour when Joe began to stir. Con lifted him partly upright and held a water bottle to his hot, dry lips. Joe drank, then slowly opened his eyes. "Con," he said in a hoarse voice.
"How do you feel?"
"Been better."
"Joe?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you remember last night?"
"It's all fuzzy."
"You said something about the probe Green and Daddy left in."
A stricken look came to Joe's face. "I did?"
"Joe, you must tell me the truth. I need to know where that probe went."
"No you don't."
"I know you're afraid to tell me. You think that... that I'll hate you if you do." A look of profound sadness crept over Joe's face, and he turned his head to hide his tears.
"I won't hate you," said Con. "I just need to know."
"I'm sorry, Con," whispered Joe.
"Where did it go?"
"Nowhere."
"Nowhere?"
"Only data returns to the future. The probe self-destructs."
"Oh," said Con quietly.
Joe began to cry softly. "I'm sorry, Con," he said between sobs. "I'm so sorry. Green would have never gone without him. I tried to make it up to you. I'm sorry."
Con looked at Joe and knew she could never hate him.
She was still confused, but one thing was clear to her—she must soothe Joe's anguish.
"I forgive you."
His look of sorrow faded. "You do?" he asked like a hope-ful child.
"He left me, Joe. He left by his own free will. But you stayed. You took care of me." Joe's face grew peaceful. "Yeah," he said faintly. "I took care of you." He slowly sank down and slept. RICK WALKED ALONG the riverbank, collecting driftwood as rapidly as he could. When he accumulated a small armload, he set it in a prominent place for pickup later, then headed off, carrying only the travois poles. By that means, he hoped to accumulate enough wood to make a large load. It was important to collect as much fuel as possible, for there was food for only one more meal. The only thing that stymied Rick's efficient plan was a scar-city of wood. He had already picked the riverbank clean for several miles from the camp. When he reached virgin territory, driftwood was still scarce. Since he would carry a load only on the return trip, Rick's gathering technique allowed him to cover distance more quickly. Before too long, he was miles downstream and approaching a bluff that towered over the river. It was the highest landmark in the flat landscape. If I climb it, he thought, maybe I can see where we are. Rick left the poles by the river and began to ascend the bluff. He climbed despite his concern that the delay might cause him to get caught by the dark as he returned to camp. The risk seemed justified, for it was his first chance to study the trail ahead. Viewing conditions were ideal. No snow was falling and the dark gray of the sky had not yet begun to deepen.
Rick ascended the bluff and was rewarded for his effort beyond his wildest hopes. The river flowed through the snowy landscape until it crossed a dark, wavy line toward the horizon. The line had the appearance of debris left on a seashore at high tide. Even from this distance, it was plain that the line was the high-water mark of the tsu-nami. Beyond the line lay the sea.
For the first time since Joe had become ill, hope re-turned to Rick's heart. The sea was no longer a distant goal. He could see it. From where he stood, he could make out the spire of Montana Isle near the horizon. Upon it, he envisioned scientists like himself—people with medicine for Joe, food for Con, and the means to return them all home. Enough wood for a hundred signal fires lay in the mounds deposited by the tsunami. It seemed to him to be a sign that this harsh world was relenting and loosening its grip on them.
With energy born from hope, Rick headed down the bluff to collect his wood. Even when the poles bent under the heavy load, his light heart sped him along. There was still light when he returned to camp. As he approached the campsite, Rick was puzzled to see that the fire had gone out despite the fact that there was still wood. He dropped his load and rushed to the tent. When he peered in inside, Con was cradling Joe's head as she slowly rocked back and forth. Joe appeared to be peacefully sleeping.
"Con?"
She looked up at Rick. Tears had made pink trails on her grimy face. Con blinked to clear her eyes.
"Joe's dead," she said.
34
THERE WAS NO DOUBT THAT JOE WAS DEAD. RICK HAD
felt his cooling wrist for a pulse and found none. His bearded face had assumed the rigidity and stillness of sculpture. His voice, so full of humor, was silent. Everything told Rick that Joe was dead, yet Rick's mind could not form a vision of the world without him. For a while, Rick lived in two worlds: the familiar one, with Con and Joe, and the alien one, where Joe lay still in the tent.
Carefully and methodically, Rick built up the fire. He placed a bit of down, a handful of tinder, and a few sticks of kindling beneath some driftwood. He struck a spark with his knife and whetstone and blew softly until the down glowed orange, then burst into flame. When the fire spread to the driftwood, Rick thought, That will make Joe more comfortable. Then he remembered cold no longer bothered Joe, and his eyes filled with tears.
Rick heard a faraway voice. "It happened so fast," said Con. "He opened his eyes and looked right at me, but he didn't see me. He said, 'Nicole, Nicole, it's dark.' He felt about until he touched my face, then he smiled, and said 'Nicole' again. And I said 'Daddy.' And he said 'I love you, Nicole. I never wanted to leave you.' And I said, 'I know. I love you, too, Daddy.' You should have seen his face, Rick. He looked happy. He looked so happy that I said it again 'I love you, Daddy. I love you.' " Con began to sob. "He was so happy. You should have seen him. And then... and then his hand dropped from my cheek. At first I thought he was sleeping, but his eyes were open. Then I knew ..." Con dis-solved into tears and was unable to continue talking.
Rick entered the tent and wrapped his arms around Con. They wept for Joe together. Entwined in grief, they also clung to one another for reassurance. Rick and Con were the last two people in the world, and they had just been shown how fragile a vessel is a person's body. Joe's death made the prospect of unbearable loneliness frighteningly real. Each felt they would rather die themselves than have the other leave them.
For a while, they were paralyzed by their sorrow. Yet, as they embraced in the tent, the cold eventually forced them to mind the necessities for living. Rick added wood to the fire and recalled the wood he had left behind when he had run to the tent. That reminded him of the news that he had thought would bring so much joy.
"When I was getting driftwood, I climbed a bluff and spied the sea."