“It’s not just bad reviews of my work anymore,” she continued. “I’m almost certain he’s been eavesdropping on my e-mail. Then there was that strange and frightening loss of samples at Singh’s lab. I’m beginning to think old Veera will stop at nothing to remove any competition for funding. I’m certain if he could bribe a courier to get my samples, that’d be the end of it.”
“You’d think his funding would dry up regardless, since he never actually gets results,” puzzled Pala.
“Oh, he gets results. Every year he—well, his postdocs—solve another little problem. Transport of monosaccharides across the pseudoplacenta. Regulation of monosaccharide transport. Transport of gamma globulins across the pseudoplacenta; regulation of… and on and on and on. Kliunas once started to tally how many different molecules cross a placenta, and he stopped counting at ten thousand. At this rate in twenty thousand years, Veerapatram will actually be able to support an embryo.” Saira would have snorted except she’d been brought up not to.
“You’d think hundreds of other scientists would be trying other tacks besides you.”
“And sink their careers?” Saira asked with raised eyebrows. “That old goat is the IAS. They’d never get anything published, and they’d have to work without funding. The only reason I can function is my family, especially my cousin, channel money to me. They know I wouldn’t last here very long if I had nothing to do. How many other scientists have that luxury?
“Now,” she continued, looking at him seriously, “you be careful, and watch out for pickpockets. There’s no reason for him to think you’re my messenger, but be careful.”
Pala left in a warm glow at Saira’s trust in him.
Pala called for a minicab on the day of departure, more excited than a boy on his first elephant ride. He was disappointed when the company did not send around his family’s usual driver, who would have enjoyed his elation, but that didn’t stop Pala from beaming at every passerby from the open back seat of the little three-wheeler. As a priest, half the town knew him, and good wishes mingled with the cab’s electric hum almost to the airport. There the cab driver turned down a bumpy dirt road.
“Ei!” Pala cried. “The airport.”
The driver ignored him.
“Ei!” Pala cried louder and shook the driver’s shoulder. The man shrugged him off and set the speed to maximum. The cab whined much more and went a little faster, Pala gesticulating wildly in the back. He was seriously frightened by now. Just a moment ago the world had been so familiar.
A farmer’s pickup appeared bumping along in the other direction. It slowed. A young man with a mop of bushy hair leaned out the window.
“Good day, Shri Veenda! Is there a prob—?”
The minicab driver had to slow to avoid the interfering pickup on the narrow dirt road. Pala grabbed the chance to jump out.
“Desi, quick,” he babbled, struggling with the pickup’s passenger door, “quick, get me to the airport. And away from this demon driver!”
The minicab driver abandoned his mission and steered his cab away, whining its heart out.
Pala stared after it bewildered. It occurred to him he was lucky Veerapatram was just an amateur at this. Suddenly he was jolted back to the here and now by noticing that Desi was turning to follow the cab. Was it more important to follow one cab driver, who probably couldn’t even be linked to Veerapatram, or to complete Saira’s vastly important project?
“No, no,” Pala commanded. “To the airport!” Desi was urging the need for police. “Forget the police. I have to get my flight!”
At the airport he asked Desi to stay with him. He might have imagined it, but he was sure a disappointed fellow shadowed the pair of them until he was actually boarding the plane. Pala sincerely hoped old Veera didn’t have any henchmen in Holland. And what was he going to do once he got back? Demand a police escort? What plausible reason could he give, since he had no time now to fuss around with a police report?
The flight itself was uneventful, until Shri Palanniappam Veenda felt the wheels of the jet carrying him bounce on the runway of a grey, flat, misty country, dimly seen through the little window. The four-hour flight on the slow jet from Delhi had left him feeling tired and cramped. He had expected to be unable to contain his excitement at this point, but now all he really wanted was a bath.
However, his feelings started to change in the cavernous Customs hall, even before he walked out into the new world itself. There were women everywhere. Women fussing over baggage; women reading books as they waited in line; serious, uniformed women asking curt questions and marking bags as having passed inspection. One woman quickly moved away from him when she noticed him behind her in the line, but he was too busy staring around to give it any more thought until much later. For now he just goggled at the overwhelming result of people wanting daughters as well as sons.
Out in the throng of people meeting the plane, he saw a sign with his name on it floating above the crowd. Two people, not one, were standing under it: a large, black man with smiling eyes, and a little, white woman with a bold and confident air.
“Mr. Veenda?” the black man had spotted him. “Amenatave Mbalavu,” he pointed to himself. “I am the Fijian representative for the Methodist delegation. Ms. Karen Springer, with the USA Unitarians.”
They asked about his flight and said he must be tired, but Pala was suddenly wide awake as the cold air of northern Europe hit him when they stepped outside.
“Ai-ya,” he breathed, “what a country!” Every pore in his body clamped shut, and even wrapping his arms around himself hardly helped. “I-I have a few warm things in-n m-my bag,” he said, his teeth already chattering, pointing to the suitcase the Fijian was courteously carrying. He opened it, and pulled out a vest and a long cloth coat in the Nehru style.
The Fijian’s ready smile showed what he thought of these completely inadequate garments. He took his coat off. “Here. I’ve had a few days to acclimatize, being an organizer. We brought a coat for you in the car, in case you didn’t have one. No, no, no. Put it on. You’ll get pneumonia otherwise. Come on, put it on.”
“I know how it is,” Mbalavu continued as they trekked across a vast parking lot. “It was thirty-eight degrees centigrade with 90 percent humidity when I left Suva. When I got off the ramjet it was like walking into a meat cooler at five degrees in my underwear. It was probably closer to twelve but—” He stopped and looked around. “Where is that miserable two-horse excuse for a car anyway?”
“That way,” the American nodded toward their left.
Mbalavu just shrugged his shoulders, as if to say he was willing to take it on faith, headed in that direction, and continued to talk. “I’ll tell you the real secret, though, to dealing with this climate. Long underwear.”
“Ah, long? Long what?” asked Pala, just as they found the car. Gratefully he got out of the biting wind blowing cold, damp air through every- chink in his clothes.
“You know, that’s a very good idea,” Springer joined in. “There’s a C&A just a little bit out of our way.”
A short while later, outfitted in his new thermal bodysuit, his Indian clothes blowing gracefully in the wind, Pala got back in the car feeling like a new man. It was amazing how much nicer the intricate houses and vibrantly green fields looked, now that he was no longer freezing. And the cold, damp breeze—why hadn’t he noticed how good it smelled? There was no hint in it of dust or cooking fires; only rich earth and grass.