“If you—” and my mouth locks up in shock at what I just sensed.
Did Peter get Franciscoa’s and my mind-to-mind communication? He had glanced at Franciscoa and I’d gotten the distinct impression he knew what I’d said mind-to-mind. This includes the follow-up response from Franciscoa but that is impossible. EB’s cannot, do not communicate mind-to-mind.
Now if this one can...he must have electronic equipment hidden about his person.
A quick inspection reveals nothing visible.
Franciscoa says, “We’re kinda low on preservatives. I’ll get more. How much?”
“Five gallons will do,” I say hoping he gets my need to concentrate on Peter.
“No kidding—big spender.”
“Franciscoa!”
He grunts waves to Peter, nods to me and heads off.
Peter’s cold eyes follow him far longer than curiosity would. I concentrate entirely on Peter. He senses my scrutiny and turns to me. A thought shadows across his eyes and gone.
He looks to the floor, meanders his attention to the rear of the shop as though deeply interested in my store. I wait him out. Our eyes meet and hold, but he remains silent. I crook a finger to indicate if he is staying—payment is due.
He nods and pays.
As he does, I reach out to his mind in new ways. A beep from my Nomadi announces his payment arrived but what he’s thinking does not. And from out last night’s adventures at the Drinks-n-All, recall strikes me.
Odious Odentien’s mind also seemed closed to me. But that was due to excessive alcohol. Or so I had thought. What if it’s not drinking hiding their thoughts? Could this be something new? Something I’ve not been briefed on? Are EB’s intoxicated all the time? Could that be the cause of my difficulty with Peter and Odentien? Without EB minds available to us our Campaign is doomed to failure.
I shudder at visions of how Madsen will be camping if I fail once again. I swallow at a dry mouth and say, “Thank you, Peter. Now, and before moving on, allow me to configure proof of payment so that Toip can verify taxes as paid.”
From out of nowhere, not even from out of the oppressive heat and without warning an involuntary flutter of nerves assaults me. My mouth locks closed and my heart beats unevenly. My fingers feel detached. I flex them, but they remain numb. My left arm aches and my legs turn into soggy paper. I struggle just staying upright.
I manage to hold still for an instant and once sure of maintaining dignity say, “Where shall I begin your tour?”
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m good,” I lie. “Where would you like to start?”
“What’s ah? Toip? What’s this Toip thing?”
Where does such a nonsensical question come from? Toip is from EB! Peter Wernt is from EB. Can he be that ignorant? No! Impossible. Bells alarm again yet provide no hint of why he pretends to such vast ignorance. Dare I question it? Would he be offended? No! Don’t do it born of curiosity alone for it’s not critical…at this stage.
I swallow hard. He watches me a fixed grin in place. This may be a hopeless campaign. What to do? End off? Keep going? Well. We have made our choice of weapon. Something will come up. I must be careful with this one, though, and very alert.
I take several deep breaths and resolve to discover what this Peter hides up his skin-tight sleeve. With luck good or bad, all this weirdness and sneering may simply be whom Peter Wernt is. And so I continue.
“Toip means taxation over internet protocol. You must be familiar with the Toip and the Poip, Peter?”
He shakes his head no.
It’s a little early to straight out call a new tourist a liar, so instead I say, “No? How astonishing. Hmm? Well. We’ll cover those later as they crop up. We’ll also meet a Poip pair.” And I hope pretended ignorance and lack of awareness will open him up.
“You’re not very good at this, are you Once-Other? What’s Poip?”
This time, I am prepared. “Poip means police over internet protocol. I’m real shocked you apparently don’t know that yet you’re from EB, but let’s move on with your one-on-one.”
“You telling me I’m stupid?” he asks. “A liar?”
Brakes screech and rubber burns upon an imaginary tarred road. I have one response to severe insults and I’m about to actually bow out when Madsen’s words of old wander on back, as they were intended to when he drummed them in during my training.
“No matter what an’ all. No matter who an’ all. He or she may be all of a high value. So round-n-about never allow personal feelings, likes or dislikes to get in the way of your campaign an’ all. You open every Foundation, ain’t nothing more to the task ahead. Plant the seeds of Freedom an’ Rights an’ grow they will.”
Peter lifts his face shield higher, points to his forehead and indicates questions.
I calm irresolute Once-Other and Madsen fades from mind as I answer. “Yes, you can use your recently purchased third-eye camera. My? It’s perfectly embedded in your forehead. It’s damn close to invisible with that imitation skin lens cover. Damn fine work it is.”
With his elbow up I note a small bulge near his armpit.
These at least I know of, but each differs in purpose.
Beyond the common though, devices exist which keep minds hidden. Scramblers or nullifiers we call them. He will have declared it on arrival so Madsen can find out for me. But for now I’ll assume Peter to be more than an everyday tourist.
But at this time, I don’t know what the more is.
“Costs extra I imagine,” he says.
I smile inside. If nothing else, I can make this endeavor profitable or end it right now. “The same again Peter,” I reply in a cold, flat voice.
He glares at me for a long time, then pulls out his Nomadi and pays. And you could have knocked me out Rocklands hard with a single grain of sand—not a protest, a counter offer.
Nothing?! Unheard of! Scary!
Nevertheless, I quickly accept and configure Toip fumbling in my haste with mind run amok. Who would pay almost four times the price of a tour? And why when he could leave and join another pre-owned vendor’s tour? I must get at his innermost self. Must use all questions correctly, effectively.
As do any-n-all of Here-Born’s Free Marketers, I stream questions that are the starting point for estimating a future. We also extend perception forward and back in time when assessing the current, past and future timelines for answers.
So the life of the Free Marketer is filled with questions—many are never answered. The others do provide answers and thus open doors within our minds. Those doors offer a view of the future and enable us to predict and to estimate.
This is our skill. A skill bare and devoid of all but facts.
Yet, buried deep within me the poet of my youth yet lives.
And so I have a threesome: My recording cold and true, my view of the facts themselves, and the poet now long dead which yet arises to lend a hand to life and livingness.
Peter lets loose a cough.
“Ah yes! Where shall I begin? Where in all my pre-owneds shall I start? Ah! You know? Pre-owned fingers bother me the most.” He about faces and films the hanging arms his head swaying in concert as the arms swing in the breeze.
I note the whisper of wind, the shouts, and laughter drifting in from the carousel. From behind me comes the hiss and gasp of the Mall doors opening and closing. The rumble-n-burble of SandRiders parking seems normal and reassuring.
Nodding to myself, I cut them all out and concentrate on Peter. “That’s right. Point down this way and then along those fingers. You’ve got it.”
“I don’t need a Director,” he snaps and continues recording but in a fashion unlike any other tourist.
He zooms in on the unruly fingers, drops to a knee and shoots low along a row of arms. Goes prone and records torsos displayed near the tent wall. Stands and examines the stuffed Arzerns suspended overhead as though in full flight.
He grimaces, shakes his head at something he finds d
istasteful, goes quickly to his knees and walks forward on them towards a pair of male legs for sale and pauses.
I redirect his attention. “See that Arzern over in the far corner. Left a little. Good. You’re looking at the largest one ever captured—lived to a ripe old age that one did. Wingspan is a good five sand-paces. As you can tell, that is around twenty-five of your feet. Most are only about three some sand-paces.”
“Yeah. Killer information Once-Other. Remind me to let you have a bonus.”
I send his acid remark to where water on a duck flows and say, “That big! They can take a man. Pay attention, please. Who knows when you’ll encounter one?”
“Yeah,” he grunts, stands and moves closer to the pre-owneds, pulls out his Nomadi and works the keypad looking for all like an accountant. He stares a long time at the results. Smiles with grim satisfaction, pockets it, moves closer to the pre-owneds and zooms in for close-ups.
With sudden insight, it dawns on me.
He is estimating the value of items—heads and torsos in particular. Could a sale be imminent? Is that what he is hiding? Or maybe he suffers from an incurable disease—one invisible to the eye. Who knows how many pre-owned parts he may need? Well now!
I select an arm from under the counter; hold it at arm’s length, point at it and say, “Shoot this one and you’ll understand?”
He moves in close, shoots and shakes his head in reply.
I point and say, “Okay Peter. There. No, over there. How restless are those fingers? Nothing less than molecules of cheese trying desperately to escape being digested. Damn fine trouble fingers are. Neatness having gone missing altogether.”
Questions chase each other across his face. I await their utterance. But he asks none. Instead, he bites his lip and stares at the floor. I clear my throat. He looks up and in his eyes the snakes writhe.
I swallow an urge to comment on them fearing they are imagination alone and say, “Keep watching and note fingers don’t lie still. Shoot them. Okay. Good capture. You see what I mean. No? Okay. Let us ask a question. How does a vendor such as myself present Neatness if fingers move and point all over, all the time?”
I raise an eyebrow, he shrugs.
“Be assured...it’s never!” I answer on his behalf.
He brushes sand off his legs but freezes at the burble of a SandRider driving close by. I listen as well, but the exhaust note is different from Madsen’s. I sigh in relief glance over to ensure the flies are being kept at bay and again Peter coughs.
“This whole Neatness thing...an idiot’s delight—right?” he asks.
I bite my tongue. “Important to us Peter.”
“Whoopee!” he whispers.
One deep breath later I place the pre-owned arm back beneath the counter, ensure all of it is in the shade and tuck the fingers away. All done, I ready myself for this verbal combat Peter has packed along with his emotional baggage.
He stares off across the desert and whispers “Can’t imagine living here. Sand and sun, sand—and so quiet! So few voices.”
We stand close, listening. I play my attention over and around him. Still nothing. I keep trying and glance about as I do. Poip questioning someone is louder than usual. SandRider engines seem muted, windblown sand scratches at tent walls.
Peter becomes aware of my probing.
He turns and looks me in the eye. Hard-boiled hatred stabs at me for an instant and then vanishes. Now this I must understand, and soon. And the fastest way there? Give no hint of the importance access to a mind is.
Many tourists have come and gone since last I was forced to batter my way into a Foundation in this fashion. I’ve not often failed. This because my method is direct and simple, but not easy.
When forestalled I use my campaign like a blunt instrument. A battering ram so to say. No mental wall has held up; all castles have succumbed. As each one shatters torrents of hatred spew forth as he or she attempts to regain equilibrium.
That is when I move in and get the thoughts of those who work at keeping me out. And so I begin a more dangerous strategy with this Peter.
First comes the gentle probing with a virtual crowbar as the lever. Then the battering ram should that fail. In that he appears tougher than others screwball snorting as reported earlier by other Campaigners along with death out in the desert, should not be an issue.
I gather resolution to myself, nod pleasantly and say, “You’re right. This desert is enormous, planet-wide in fact. It’s damn dry and damn dusty all of everywhere. There’s nothing but sand-n-rock across our world and silent save for the wind.
“Now up north towers Iron Ridge Mountain from which Iron Rock Falls feeds to the Lowlands. But! What is not sand is rock so hot you cannot walk on it as it right off cooks your feet if you do. Well now!
“We’ve named all flat rock the Rocklands and yes...after itself though spoken of as a scar. And! We’ll come to all those later.”
The light of interest in his eyes turns hard then dims as he looks inwards. Light returns to them and he reaches over to shake hands. Surprised, I hold back. He keeps his hand out. I clasp it, shake, make to release but he holds on...and his thinking self, engulfs me.
I stagger mentally at the impact of vivid images of snow and desert and summer mingled with winter and night with day. My pre-owned parts blur, the tent walls vanish. Not a sound whispers save for the tread of boots crunching in sand spread across the faux floorboards by our winds.
Who has entered my store? Wait and see I advise self.
As though from out a vast distance Peter says, “Do you take medication, Once-Other?”
Struggling to break free of the surreal creature that holds me immobile, I squeeze Peter’s hand real hard. The images vanish and Peter’s face appears before me. I stare in awe as his eyes grow brighter, his mouth twitches like a possessed rock-n-roller and his eyebrows slam together.
Then all freeze in place as though time stands still.
One by one they unravel. He grins like nothing happened, releases my hand and wipes sand off his glossy silver-gray sleeve. He checks the contents level of the Quaaseon gas flask hanging at his hip and is satisfied. He adjusts cooling to warmer and waits, a child at a bus stop and the bus is late.
First, I search for the owner of the footsteps to find only Peter present. Who walked across my floor? I glance at Peter.
He smiles of secrets.
This has become weird—too weird in fact. Not the battering ram nor crowbar I envisioned. Yet there’s a message in those images. A hidden one I can but sense.
To buy time in which to examine them further, I pretend to inspect Peter’s suit in detail and to my utter speechlessness, he turns as though on a fashion ramp. At a loss for words, I mutter, “Excellent...er...silky fan-n-fit...um...quality Peter.”
“You better believe it,” he says holding his arms wide, wrists locked. Suddenly a buzzing alarms from within his suit. He pulls out his Nomadi steps outside and walks off a distance.
From inside my store, with my back to Peter I work on getting his conversation. Sweat drips down my brow as I all but strain at it. Those perception tendrils I so prize seem suddenly disabled, hidden from me as though they are no longer mine.
I keep pushing outwards though, but they refuse to materialize. I try reaching him without them. After several minutes and receiving nothing, I glance over my shoulder.
His feet splayed upon the hot desert, Peter pumps his Nomadi in the air and slips it into a pocket. He walks back inside, stands close and says, “Okay. You look hot. Yeah. What’s this idiot’s notion Neatness all about?”
Mind numbed, I yet nod sagely at this my latest campaign and personal failure. Now, irrespective of what I tried, I failed to receive a single scrap of his conversation. But! No EB tech blocks at so consistent a level. How then can this be?
Also, what has happened to my perception? This is the second time now. Out upon sand seated alongside Jiplee I had found nothing when I sent tendrils across sand. At least that
time I perceived the obvious—sand.
Am I seriously ill? Is sickness the cause of my shrinking skills? I must have a check-up. And damn! Perhaps I should have listened to Peter’s conversation instead.
And damn again.
However, I brace up, swallow my frustration and set resolve to undefeated. Taking his elbow, I walk him towards my hanging pre-owneds, stuffed animals, stuffed birds and thriving cacti.
A quick check of our surroundings confirms we are alone—regular clients receive notification well ahead of time when a new campaign begins—with no such reason given.
I check once again. Is someone hiding behind those barrels over in the southwest corner? No. Well. At least scanning is still operational.
I clear a throat and mind dried by pitiless winds. And once again driven by the urge for a free tomorrow for Karrell and all our children, I proceed.
“See these arms over here. Note how they keep to a neat row, altogether. They will at times twitch a little. But if you speak in a kind, cajoling, but firm like voice they’ll behave themselves.”
He rubs his eyes as though they hurt beyond repair. “Did you not understand?” he says. “Your stock doesn’t disgust me—comes close, though. Only on this sanity forsaken planet can horror shows be treated as normal.”
Ignoring that, I plow onwards. “Doesn’t support Neatness. Understand? Ah. Look over...little right. Focus. Fingers! Oh, how they wiggling around and get out of line. You get that?”
“Aargh! What?”
“No Neatness Peter.”
“You a control freak or just plain stupid?” he growls.
My smile ticks, a stuck clock determined to make time. I ease my mind into neutral and edge him closer to my stock.
He attempts to step around me.
I block his escape and say, “On Here-Born Neatness earns extra points. Reputation points that is. Oh! Wait. Are you familiar with our motto? No? Ah! Explains all...that does. Pay attention now it’s—never let there be many when Neatness makes one.”
CHAPTER 10
Of Neatness, Fingers And Cacti
“Awfully comprehensible Once-Other. Awfully so.”
Once-Other Page 7