The Lord of Opium(107)

Cienfuegos grinned. “Very good, mi patrón. You’re learning.”

Of the three of them, only the Mushroom Master was at ease. He was used to dark, enclosed places like the elevator cage. The heat was unbearable. Their clothes quickly became drenched with sweat as the cage crawled into the depths. Matt found himself panting, whether from fear or heat he didn’t know. Cienfuegos, for all his bravado, looked nervous in the occasional lights that flashed by. Now and then they passed a platform where there was an alcove gouged into the side of the shaft.

“What does ‘cockroached’ mean?” said the Mushroom Master. It was a question Matt had wanted to ask. “We have cockroaches in the biosphere, several kinds, in fact. Our founders tried to preserve as many life-forms as possible, although they drew the line at smallpox.”

“Cockroached?” Cienfuegos seemed half-asleep. He was panting just like Matt. “It’s a punishment El Patrón dreamed up. He got it from some Indian raja. You tie a person down in a room full of roaches, the bigger the better, and pry his mouth open so he can’t close it. The roaches wander around and eventually one of them discovers the open mouth and decides to explore. More follow. There’s only so long you can spit them out. It’s a way of strangling someone slowly, and for some reason it caught the attention of the Farm Patrolmen. There’s nothing they fear more.”

Matt felt like throwing up. The more he learned about El Patrón, the more he wished he weren’t a copy of him.

“The punishment was never carried out,” the jefe said.

“Thank Gaia for that!” said the Mushroom Master.

“The old man liked to dream up lurid punishments to scare the crap out of people, but if he wanted to kill someone, he did it quickly and efficiently.”

The elevator bumped at the bottom. Here the tube ended in a ring of cement, and Cienfuegos locked the door open before they stepped out. They didn’t want to be trapped down here.

They walked around the edge, noting the lights, the air conditioners, and the pipes snaking around the wall. Matt didn’t know what they were looking for, but he was glad he hadn’t acted like a coward. He walked quickly so they could leave quickly.

On the far side of the tube, a red light illuminated part of the wall. “What’s that? Some kind of warning?” said the Mushroom Master. Beneath the light glimmered the red figure of a scorpion.

“Stop!” shouted Cienfuegos as the old man reached out. “I’ve seen those before. It guards something that only El Patrón was allowed to see. It recognizes his handprint and kills anyone else who touches it. You could open it, Don Sombra.”

Both men turned to Matt. He stared at the symbol. There was no telling what it led to, but he was suddenly unwilling to reveal the secret. El Patrón had considered it important enough to hide in this dangerous place. Matt wanted to be alone when he opened up whatever it was.

“I’ll come back another time,” he said in a tone that allowed no room for argument. “Let’s return to the hospital.”





42





THE SUICIDE BOMBER




They had lunch under a grape arbor. Fidelito and Listen had quarreled, and Sor Artemesia sat between them to keep the peace. “He wouldn’t play with Mbongeni,” Listen complained.

“Who wants to sit in a baby crib and glue chicken feathers to your fingers?” retorted Fidelito.

“You’re jealous ’cause Mbongeni likes me and not you.”

“He bit me,” cried the little boy.

“So? You had molasses on your hand. He likes sweets.”

“Both of you keep quiet,” said Sor Artemesia. She was out of sorts and was distant with Dr. Rivas. He, too, spoke little and appeared agitated. An uneasy atmosphere brooded over the gathering.

Only the Mushroom Master seemed relaxed. He rambled on about how mycelia wrap the roots of young fir trees and draw food to them when the soil is poor. “I think of them as babysitters,” he said. “ ‘Time for your three o’clock feeding,’ they say, and the little trees sit up and pay attention.”

“Shut up!” exclaimed Dr. Rivas. “I can’t take much more of your drivel. What in hell are you doing here anyway?”

“He’s helping us clean up the pollution near the eejit pens,” Cienfuegos said.

“Why bother? The eejits don’t care.” The doctor glanced toward the lab, where the cow was walking slowly through flower-filled meadows in her mind. “I’m sick of eejits. Nothing fixes them. Nothing works.”

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” the Mushroom Master said brightly. Dr. Rivas threw down his napkin and stalked off.