by Robert Culp
Sounds to me like a little more family than I want to holiday with. Why can’t she go visit her family by herself? “Oh, well. Hey, if you find yourself with unexpected time on your hands, call me. Maybe we can get together somewhere? Or just have a nice chat?”
“Sounds good.”
I call Freddie back, “Looks like it’s just me. See you at 20. Where am I going anyway?”
“Cool. I’ll send you the address. See you there.” My perCom chirps. It has a whole route laid out telling me which trains to take, all that jazz.
At the train station I see Avi and Doc Traynor head towards the train on platform B. Hmmm. He’s guiding the baggage cart in his left hand and has her on his right arm. I thought you were making a match for me.
I have my arm up to hail a cab. One approaches me and stops. I turn to enter it and I’m nose to nose with Aria. “You read too much into it. Dr. Traynor is Dr. Took’s mother.”
“Holy…! Do not sneak up on me like that!” I take a few deep breaths, one hand steadying myself on the cab, the other over my racing heart. “So that’s why she looked at me so funny last month. It makes sense now. Okay, thanks for the word. Do you have plans or would you be available to join me in Scotia then Lemuria?”
“You are very sweet to offer, but I have to stay here.”
“Hundred year checkup?”
“Oh, you organics, always so full of yourselves.” We both laugh.
“Okay, see you later.”
“I am sure you will have a great time.”
I see the cabbie has started the meter, so I step in as I call back to Aria, “I’m curious. Why do you carry a perCom on the ship? You don’t need one.”
“Because it helps other people deal with me. And before you ask, the wine and coffee go into a containment bladder.” I had guessed, but really could have done without the confirmation.
The Roaster’s Squalor is just outside the starport in Yucca city. That’s good. I can hop the train from here and be in Scotia in a handful of hours. Looks like a typical Beef and Beer place. I hoist my duffle over my shoulder and walk into the bar. There is a pile of duffels on the floor by a raucous group, so I drop mine beside them.
Freddie waves me over to a small crowd. There are several other men and women with him around the table. The place is not as smoky as the last dive he took me, but it’s pretty close. The noise level is just above deafening. On the table I see fine ale, Atlantean crab legs, various cuts of Rison’s Beast—just about anything a person could want. Freddie and Stan are both there—with their boyfriends, might I add. Or pickups maybe, I don’t remember seeing them before and I think I would remember if I had. And they are some good-looking beefcake! Why do hetero guys rarely pay as much attention to their appearance as the homos? I’ve never wanted testicles of my own so bad in my life! And after my third ale, I protest: “Why do all the good looking men have boyfriends? It isn’t fair!” I pout and whine. The women toast and applaud me. Apparently I’m not the only one who feels like that.
Unfortunately, my complaint is mistaken for the Mating Call of the proverbial Drunken Party Girl. Of the unattached men, one staggers over and asks if I would like a long, delicious gynecological exam. When I ask if he knows anyone capable of giving me one that won’t make me puke, he roars, “Me, baby!” and his pants hit the floor. Drunken louts aren’t known for balance. He topples over quickly, the beer bottle Freddie smashes on the back of his head may contribute to his fall. The room explodes in laughter, and I join in. I don’t point, but I want to. The drunk gathers his pants and what little dignity he has left and slithers away.
A few minutes later, another fellow asks if he might be allowed to buy me breakfast in the morning away from the crowds. He’s older than the others. He’s seen some action if the scars are any indication. “Well that’s a better offer, as far as the phrasing anyway. Sadly I’ll be in Scotia t’morrow marnin’, would ye be givin’ us a rain check then?”
“Of course,” he replies.
“And just whose name will be on that rain check?”
“Jack Delford. It is my pleasure to meet you. You can get a rain check from me anytime you want one. I’m looking for a Trooper billet. I’ve been a freelancer doing it for various governments for fifteen years. Know anyone who might be hiring?”
“I know someone ye can ask,” I say, looking around for Freddie. “Freddie! C’mere lad! This is Jack, Jack this is Freddie. Jack is an unemployed pooper, I mean strooper, no, what’s…trooper, that’s it. Can ye help him out?”
Freddie looks over at Jack. “Let me tie up a loose end over here,” he calls to us. “I’ll meet you over there and we’ll talk business.”
Jack has the beginnings of a smile, I nod towards my earlier suitor and say, “I dinna mind shootin’ doofus over there down in public, but you ’ave manners an’ desarve better. Ye’re a foin lookin’ fellow, but I’ll not be a one night stand type. If Freddie hires you, we’ll see what ’appens. Good luck!”
Freddie walks back over with a pair of liter ale bottles. He hands one to Jack and leads him to an uninhabited end of the bar. I leave them to sort out the details, as I’ve a train to catch. And a hangover to avoid. I grab my duffle, a half bottle of ale abandoned on a table, and head to the train station.
8 VACATIONING
It’s a six-hour trip from Yucca to the MiddleLands, which is not bad considering it crosses one continent and an ocean. I buy a water bottle from the snack cart and keep it with me to stay hydrated, so between catnaps I’m making trips to the little girls room. I’m glad I took Mack’s advice and bought the seat next to mine because I can fold up the common armrest and almost ride comfortably. And I don’t have to listen to a great deal of senseless nattering from another traveler. There is still a bit, of course. Some men will see a sleeping woman and presume she’s lonely. I don’t understand that, but feigned nausea and a convincing gag noise are good repellents.
I arrive in MiddleLands a little bleary and sleep deprived, but no headache, praise the Creator. I have a bit of a fuzzy tongue and my mouth tastes like a herd of Rison’s Beasts has been napping in there, but a toothbrush will fix that.
The morning twilight greets the train as it pulls into the station. The Purple Heather Inn is within walking distance. It advertised itself to be a bed-and-breakfast type establishment. And right now I could use both. Once there, I sign in and pay for eight nights. I go to my room and nap for an hour then leave to scout up some breakfast. Fortunately, the kitchen here is still open and my hunger pangs are soon satisfied.
I browse through the local directory. MacDonald, MacDougall, ah! Angus MacTaggert! The book says he has no registered communication device, personal or otherwise, but there is a mailing address. No house number or street name, only a number on a route. I didn’t know such services still existed. When the waitress comes back to refill my coffee, I ask her about the postal delivery. She points me towards the local postal service, two blocks south and on the left. When I get there, they tell me they can either deliver a letter or tell him there is someone in town wishing to visit him, but, under no circumstance, will they take me to him. The fellow behind the counter pushes a pen and tablet across to me.
Ah, paper and ink, how quaint! I start a letter:
Mr. Angus MacTaggert, sir:
My name is Sonia MacTaggert. I am an engineer aboard a visiting starship. My father, Robert MacTaggert, told me years ago I may have family on this planet. I was wondering if we might be relatives. I am staying at the Purple Heather Inn for the next seven days. If you are accepting guests and would be good enough to tell me when I may, I would be delighted to drop by.
Sincerely, Sonia MacTaggert
On a whim, I find a very old picture of me with Mummy and Da in my perCom and send it to the Post Office’s printer. I drop it in the envelope with the letter. Hopefully, he’ll return it if he has no interest in me. I seal the envelope and write his name and address on it. The clerk tells me it will be delivered by lunchtime tod
ay.
The rest of the day, I look around the town and learning its history. I do some window-shopping, but in two hours I’ve walked by about every shop the village boasts, so I return to the inn and relax in a wooden rocking chair on the front porch. About an hour before sundown, a boy runs up to me.
“Good evening, miss. The man to the post office said give you this an’ you’d give me a silver.” He hands me a large key with an M on it.
I can’t stop myself from answering in dialect. “Did he now?” Good thing I got some local cash this morning “Well here you go, m’lad. One silver. And another for your dear mum.”
“Two silvers?” he blurts out. “For that I’d take a response to Mr. MacTaggert meself.”
“Would you? For three would you show me the way?” He hesitates, so I up the offer: “Four?”
“Four? I’d be more ’n ’appy to show ya the way to MacTaggert's. ‘Tis hard to find if ye dinna where ye be goin.’”
“We’ll be goin’ in the marnin’ then,” I tell the lad. “But I’ll be sleepin’ in. Meet me around nine-tharty or so at the Purple Heather.” I won’t catch the first plate at breakfast, but I’ll be there before they stop serving.
“Yes miss, nine-tharty at the Purple Heather.” And he scampers off.
Back at the Inn I look at the key while waiting for supper. It’s very old, easily decades, maybe a century. It’s also quite large, at least six inches long, the handle is three inches across. And it’s solid brass, maybe a half a pound. I’m guessing it was to be used by someone wearing gloves. It would be difficult to lose, given its size. If a person dropped it, they couldn’t help knowing it—especially if it landed on a toe.
I enjoy a meal of the local cuisine. I opted for the lamb over the haggis. Maybe another time. The lamb is delicious, but there is a taste in it I find unfamiliar. The food on Night Searcher is tasty, and from time to time is pretty high dining. Twelia did something with fish a few weeks ago that was absolutely to die for. This meal, by contrast, is very simple. I can easily identify the lamb, potatoes and some other local vegetables. I flag the waitress and ask if I might speak with the chef.
“Of course, miss. I’ll send her right over.” She enters the kitchen. Within moments she reappears and points another woman in my direction. She walks to my table.
“Yes, miss? Was something not to your likin’?” She’s an older woman. Well, she’s older than me anyway. Chronologically, I doubt she’s even fifty, but she has lines on her face that make her look much older. I don’t think they’re all from frowning either.
“Oh far from it, mum, far from it! But I’m tasting something I can’t put my finger on. Do you use a secret spice?” She smiles and gestures at the chair. “Och, where are my manners?” I ask. “Sit, please.”
She sits and leans forward, her hands folded on the table. “You aren’t from around here. I’m guessing you’re a traveler. So you’ve eaten many meals prepared for an army, have ye?”
“Aye, I’m currently employed on a starship. We have some very fine cooks aboard and I’ve probably gained ten pounds or more since I joined ’em. But I can’t remember when I’ve tasted anything this appealing.”
She smiles. “Sad that such a minor ingredient is oft overlooked when cooking for hundreds. It’s so simple, so plentiful, and so often forgotten. Sometimes even left out intentionally.” Her eyes are twinkling.
“And how might I convince you to share your secret?”
She laughs. “Lass, it’s no secret. It’s called ‘love.’ When ye care for the people ye’ll be feedin’, they can taste it.”
I sit back and just look at her. That doesn’t jibe with my education. How can an intangible affect something in the material world? “I…I have trouble believing it’s that simple.”
She smiles at me. “The best things in life are astonishingly simple. And free. But I’m not the first person to tell ye that, am I? Now, if ye’ll excuse me,” she says as she stands, “I’ve a kitchen to tend.”
After supper I wander into the recreation room. The holoCom is present and very clean. But it’s also off. There are several people about the room engaged in various forms of recreation. A handful of people are reading; two old men are bent over a chessboard. An older woman, probably married to one of the chess players, is knitting. There is a poker game going on in the corner. The laughs outnumber the insults and curses. I consult the clock on the wall. If I want to sleep until I wake up, I need to get to bed.
Back in my room I open the window. It has a security filter that will let in the breeze, but nothing larger than a pollen molecule. In the cool rural air I sleep divinely. The fluffy comforter doesn’t hurt, nor the fine mattress. I wake to the twittering of birds and the sound of the village waking. Out of habit, I look at my perCom. It’s blissfully blank.
At 9:30 sharp my escort finds me finishing a cup of tea. Guessing from his implied description of the route, I decided in favor of dungarees, flannel shirt, and my boots, rather than skirt, silk blouse, and heels. As we set out on our trek, it appears to have been a wise decision. The boy takes me down a country lane and then out a long dirt road that leads up into the hills. Several trails, all in relatively straight lines, cross the road we walk, which winds around various farms and herds. I’m astonished there are no fences. The herds are not contained. We walk for an hour and a half easily. The occasional horse drawn carriage shares the road with us, as well as one personal anti-gravity carrier. Were it not for the contrails I see in the sky, and the lone G-car, I’d think I was in a society thousands of years younger than the one I know. Soon a large house built atop a hill comes into sight. It is surrounded by a grassy square yard easily a thousand meters to a side. And enclosing it, a wrought iron fence protects the estate from visitors.
“There it is, Miss. Likely as not, tha’ key opens the front gate. Old MacTaggert is always either in the cellars or on the side porch. Farewell!” And he dashes off back towards town. I wish I had that kind of energy. We walked up, he’s running back. He appears to be in a hurry for some reason, so I hope he’s running towards something, and not away from something else.
The gate is very large and made entirely of wrought iron. Close examination reveals the hammer marks on the metal. This was made by hand on a forge in a smithy. The wind occasionally brings the sound of metal striking metal. So the gate—the fence itself—may have been crafted on the premises. There’s an enormous ‘M’ crowning the gate, and extensive decorative artwork surrounding it. I twist the key in the lock. The tumblers cry and screech, but they open and the gate swings loudly on its hinges. I close it behind me.
A large dog, easily eighty pounds, trots from the house to meet me, its fur is the color of honey. I can’t say it’s eating well, but it’s certainly eating often. I hear the beginnings of a deep growl, but there’s no barking yet. It circles behind me. I stop walking and turn to keep facing it. I note the grass, which is bending away from me, but towards the dog. I hold out my left hand, prepared to punch it with my right if need be. It sniffs at me, licks my hand, then apparently satisfied, turns and trots back towards the house. I take a few tentative steps then stop. The dog stops and looks at me.
“Mr. MacTaggert?” I call out. I’m still at least a hundred meters from the house. The dog makes its way to the cellar door and barks in my direction once. Then it comes around behind me and, placing its head against my thigh, nudges me towards the cellar. “Alright, alright! I can get yer hint, I’m goin’!” I stop at the top of the stairs leading under the house. I hear tool noises from there. “Mr. MacTaggert? Cousin Angus? Are you in there?”
An old man with a short gray beard appears at the bottom of the stairs, wiping grease from his hands. He looks over his wire rim glasses at me. “Hallo lass, I’ll be with ye in a few minutes. Step into the kitchen and make us some tea, love? I’ll meet ye on the side porch. Dinna worry about Daisy, she’ll no’ bite a MacTaggert.”
“I know. She and I have met.” I look for the entrance to t
he house. Daisy has already started that way and turns as if to ask “Coming?” I find the kitchen and after a brief search find the kettle and the tea. I’m an engineer not a cook, so I have to tinker and reason a bit before I figure out how it all works together. A few minutes, two singed fingers, and one bruised ego later, I carry two steaming mugs out to the side porch. “It’s been a while since I brewed tea. It’s so much easier aboard Night Searcher. I hope it’s to your satisfaction.”
Angus takes a few sips. “Quite right, now. For a first effort.” His eyes twinkle; he’s teasing me! “Now, how can an old man be of service to ye?”
I take a deep breath. “My name is Sonia MacTaggert, my father was Robert MacTaggert, his father was Connor MacTaggert, his father Seamus MacTaggert, and his father William MacTaggert. Do you recognize any of those names? I’m trying to find out just how widespread Clan MacTaggert is now. Oh, an’ here’s your key back.” I put it on the table between us.
He slides it back to me. “That is your key now, lassie. I am the only MacTaggert left on this continent. Quite possibly on this planet—exceptin’ you of course. An’ don’t you be worryin’ about calling out ten generations of grandfathers. My father was your granddaddy’s brother on your own daddy’s side. You are my niece and now my heir. The CSIS has kept me up to date on you. You have the look of your mum.” He pats his pockets. “She could sure turn the heads of the boys, and make the girls so mad.” He laughs and pulls a pipe from his pocket and loads it with tobacco from a pouch. “So you’re working on a starship now? How ye likin’ it?” he asks as he lights the pipe. The pungent blue smoke dances in the breeze.
“Och, Mr.—I mean ‘Uncle’—it’s everything I’d dreamt it would be! Sure, I’ll be spending my time in the engine room or a machine shop, but that’s what I know how to do, so that’s okay. If I have any regrets it’s that Mum or Da couldna know. But I couldna stay there, Tammuz, one more day without bursting.”