When Life Hands You A Lemming Part 2

"But why the ocean?" I asked.

"That's their lobster half." He shrugged, as if to say that that much was obvious. Perhaps it was. I was already getting ideas about how to keep them in their stables. Maybe we could make them less photophobic, even photophilic, and keep them tethered to a nightlight. Certainly, I thought, we could strengthen the symptoms of impending molt and remove their ability to molt on their own at all.

A cry from the farthest float caught my attention. Amy was on her feet, her rod on the float-deck beside her feet. She was pointing toward the mouth of the harbor. I yelled, "What's the matter?"

She waved her arm and shouted back, "What's that?"

I shrugged and yelled, "I'll find out!" "That" was a s.h.i.+p that looked like a miniature aircraft carrier. It had a flat deck with a two-story conning tower to one side. A heavy railing surrounded most of the deck, leaving an unrailed working area in the rear. I knew it was a working area because it was overhung by a stout derrick and coils of rope littered the deck.

"What is it?" I asked Clem and Alf.

"Used to be a ferry," said Clem.

"Till the state put a new one on the run," said Alf.

"Never did sc.r.a.p the old one, though," said Clem.

Several dark shapes were s.h.i.+fting back and forth in the railed section of the deck. "And those?"

"Sports," said Alf.

"Ayuh," Clem agreed. "Tasty, too. They sell 'em to the cannery." He gestured to one of the decrepit buildings along the harbor's waterfront. Steam was beginning to belch from a metal chimney.

As the converted ferry drew nearer, I saw that the dark shapes were actually roachsters. They were smaller than any on the roads, and they had no wheels, but . . .. "Ayuh," said Clem. "Your runaways go wild and start breeding. And they ain't the same."

Of course, I told myself sheepishly. Not sport fishermen, not in the old sense. But fishers for mutants. For sports. Sports with claws, which might well make them dangerous to a small girl fis.h.i.+ng by the edge of the sea. I swore that any more fis.h.i.+ng we did we would do in fresh water. There were plenty of brooks and lakes around. "But how do you catch them?"

Alf shrugged. "No problem," he said. He pointed toward the boat yard. Immediately, I saw what I had taken for a new addition as . . .. "Ayuh," he said. "Don't matter how big the lobsters get along the coast of Maine. We've always known how to build traps."

I hollered to Amy and waved her in. When she reached me, I said, "Want to go see?"

She looked where I was pointing, at the ferry approaching the cannery, and nodded eagerly. We left the wharf and put her fis.h.i.+ng gear back in the car. Then we walked down the sh.o.r.e to where we could watch as the ferry slid into a gap in the side of the cannery building and its bow railing folded down. Then the stern railing at the edge of the work area began to slide forward on rails, herding the milling Roachsters into the building. I noted that the swellings on their sh.e.l.ls that would normally be carved into windowed compartments held a lower, more streamlined profile. I wondered how fast they would be on the road.

I found out soon enough. Shots echoed from the cannery building as workers began to process the catch. The catch objected, their bodies slamming against the interior of the building. We could see the walls shaking, and then the door to a loading bay sprang open. A Roachster charged into the open, saw freedom, and accelerated faster than my Escort had ever managed. But a single shot brought it tumbling to a halt.

"Happens all the time." I turned to see Clem. He had followed us. Now, as a crew retrieved the fallen Roachster, he explained a little more. "They taste just like lobster, and that's the way the company packs 'em."

I guessed that just maybe a can that was labeled "Roach Meat" or even "Roachster" would fall rather flat in the supermarket.

"Cost-efficient, too," said Clem. "'Least, that's what they told my nephew. He works in there."

"They pay much, for the critters, I mean?"

Clem shrugged. "Dollar a pound."

And one of those wild Roachsters might run half a ton, easy. I could see why the cannery mislabeled its product and the sport fishermen kept quiet. They didn't want compet.i.tion. But I was beginning to get an idea.

Over the next week, I did indeed take Amy fis.h.i.+ng inland, and we caught a few trout. But I spent considerably more time talking to the sport fishermen and the cannery operators.

One evening toward the end of the week, I asked Betsy, "Do you still want to move to Maine?"

She looked at me as if I were crazy to ask. Perhaps I was. "Of course, dear. But your job's in Cambridge. We have to settle for these 'field trips.'"

"This one's done," I said. When her face fell, I told her about the molting connection. "All we have to do," I said, "is strengthen the pre-molt sluggishness. Maybe even fix them so they refuse to move at all. The dealers would have to fetch them for servicing, but . . .."

"But why did you ask about moving to Maine?" She had stepped closer to me while I chattered. Her hand was on my arm, and her eyes were anxious.

"Because we can do it. I want to quit." I told her why, and she agreed that it was worth a try.

The next morning, she began looking for a house. Then I called Cambridge, told them how to fix the runaway problem, and said, "I quit."

Then I opened my dealers.h.i.+p.

That's right. The sport fishermen bring their catch to me now. I pay twice what the cannery paid, install the necessary controls, gla.s.s, upholstery, and other tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, and sell them as high-status, high-price vehicles. I don't touch their tendency to run away at the first opportunity. Sports cars are supposed to be high-spirited.

The cannery is still working, but it gets the sports only when they have grown too big for the road.