“What’s this for?” a young boy asks.
“I’ll show you later,” the Curator says and heads down the Level.
“Tell me now,” one of them whines.
“Showing has more value than telling,” the Curator replies.
“Ah gee!” they groan and follow.
The solitude of the cage settles my turmoil and ruffled campaigner’s feathers. The cold metal container cools my mind and thoughts. Our rattling progress upwards serves as an invitation to Here-Born’s heated sand to request my presence upon itself.
I close my eyes, listen to the cage rattling and search sand both now and of the past for answers.
What had caused my failed endeavor and adventure with this Peter Wernt? No matter the angle I look at it from nothing makes sense.
Nothing other than Peter is weird, altogether.
How else can one explain the facial twitches, the almost rabid hatred of all things Here-Born and his unwavering dedication to the glories of EB?
CHAPTER 18
Of A Southern Lady
I’m lost in thought when the halfway Walmer sounds. And what just happened minutes earlier reverberates anew within me. I’d gotten the thoughts of the Earth-Born tourists who now wander below sand touring a dark goldmine—two of them clearer than the others.
Why not Peter’s then?
Can’t be me and not all of them either. Peter only?
No, from my night’s drinking there is odious Odentien as well. The cage slows as further questions arise. Could Wernt the Madman be lurking intent on doing me harm?
What if he’s an accessory in Jiplee’s murder?
Heart thudding hard I brace up as the doors slide open.
I peer about the foyer but there is no sign of Peter.
I shrug and head for the refreshments stand moving briskly. A glance ahead and my face relaxes and my smile broadens at the sight of Maggie Schwartzlauda, an intriguing wisp of a brunette with deep green eyes.
She waves to me from behind the counter and a smile twinkles in her eyes as she mouths a hello. I wave in return and admire her while pretending I am not.
We’ve been close since childhood. She had moved here from down south with her parents. Back in school, we once shared a brief kiss in the class tent when we were alone. Strangely, that was all that happened. That in part thanks to me and in part because of Deidre’s attitudes.
Enough said.
Maggie was a good athlete and competed in marathons, beating all other girls and at times the boys too.
Today, she is dressed in a tight fitting orange and white striped uniform and is busily making fresh popcorn. I consider her the guardian of all things popcorn, corn dog, soda, chocolate, candy, male egos and roasted sand-snails. The first and last of those being my favorites.
I lean on the counter.
She leans on the counter.
“That Peter Wernt sure can run something way fine,” she says.
I grin despite sensing something is amiss. But I dismiss such thoughts as she places her hand over mine, digs her fingernails in and says, “How’s our single man these bright an’ sunny days?”
A tingle rushes through me and to cover it I ask, “Where’s he now?”
“Wernt you mean?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Gone I figure. Madsen ain’t gonna be happy.”
Her words turn my blood into ice. I wait until all has warmed and say, “You notice any change come over Madsen these last years...months?”
“No way can I say I do. But I don’t see him often as you do. What happened with you an’ this Wernt?”
I get the distinct impression she is holding back and watching her carefully say, “Damn Maggie. I got nowhere with him. Something was going on, with him I mean. He even asked if I am the sole owner of my pre-owned parts store. Where did that come from?”
“You’re right,” she agrees, “where under the stars an’ moon an’ sun did it come from? He’s maybe been reading Here-Born fiction an’ is now mighty confused?”
Still pondering over Madsen, I say, “Madsen’s southern accent comes across stronger than yours. But he’s been here longer than you—how’s that?”
“Different regions, says the wise answer. Ya did naurt know thaaaat?”
“Now you’re thickening it like in the books. I’ve known him since we were ten. How does he keep an accent that long?”
In almost perfect northern English Maggie says, “That he has, dear Once-Other.” She laughs, sobers and continues, “Where he comes from, the far south, I don’t know any ‘as lost their accent even when leaving around ten years old an’ never returning. They kinda keep it forever an’ on. Or so my mother informs me while looking down her nose at his accent. Anyway. What can I do for you in this cool an’ peaceful Mall?”
With reluctance, I gently remove her hand from mine and point to an extra-large sized transparent container its sides decorated with popcorn falling like rain.
Her eyes and face light up and in a husky voice she says, “To eat now? You just had breakfast an’ all.”
“How do you know?” I demand.
An enticing burble mixes with the huskiness in her voice as she says, “Where handsome goes, news round we ladies who are not all too concerned with riches an’ possessions, travels way faster.”
“Later please,” is all I can muster blushing some at her sideways reference to Deidre.
She takes a container from the shelf as though midst the act of undressing, trickles corn through her fingers while watching my reaction in the wall mirror. She smiles secret thoughts, and with her eyes on me attaches the container to the popper and turns it on with a seductive stroke of her delicate hand.
The corn slowly expands until a little of the fluffy white becomes visible. She suspends popping, seals the container, brushes her fingers down the back of my hand, and in a tight, urgent voice she says, “Press right here...an’ the popping completes.”
“Thank you,” I reply barely able to whisper.
“Remember,” she says stroking the container, “be sure an’ pop inside of ten hours.”
She leans back showing off her beauty and laughs something damn naughty, altogether.
With tremendous reluctance, I take my popcorn now no longer merely semi-popped corn and head off with a last lingering glance back.
Her face set and contemplative, she waves as I exit the Museum door.
CHAPTER 19
Of Traditions, Co2 Captures, The Inflation Falsehood
Back at Pre-owneds Galore, and with desire’s urges somewhat under control, I fasten a loose tent flap, take a minute to clean sand out of the nooks-n-crannies sand likes to collect in, and damn!
I’ve wasted precious campaign time and expended energy to no effect with Peter. No worthwhile product gained. Nothing. Damn again!
Worst of all...there is the specter of meeting Madsen.
If any chance of success existed, I would hunt Wernt down. Unfortunately, by now he’ll be in a state of high escape ready to board an Inter-Constellation flight back to LAX-EB that inevitable finger pointing in my direction.
EB tourists never hang about once they make a break for home. A sudden sense of danger—someone is behind me. This someone has stood there for some minutes. Long slow minutes ticked by during which I had been too internal.
Lack of awareness invites failure. Failure to perceive danger is often the final error made upon sand.
At the scuffing of boot upon sand, I turn slow and easy—and sigh in relief. Jenk Nordt waits ten paces from the entrance.
He is a direct descendant of the original Northern Settlers most of whom stand about one-n-a-bit sand-paces high and four wide, more-or-less. The exact silhouette of an armored tank endowed with thick black hair hung to its hips. Jenk walks wherever he travels—they all do.
Not that modern transport isn’t used as required.
I suffer a moment of heat suffocation at the sight of him in full leather and a black, whit
e and beige ankle-length fur coat over the leather. His feet are large and wrapped inside fur-lined boots. Fur-lined gloves cling snug to his hands and are strapped tight at his wrists.
Yet, not a single drop of sweat blisters his brow.
There are none hardier, bolder nor possessed of a stamina compared to Northerners. In the north temperatures are a good fifteen to twenty-five degrees higher than down here. When traveling in the south they dress up against the cold.
I’d met Jenk soon after I became a pre-owned vendor. It was partially by accident.
Early one long ago Sunday morning I was out test-driving Hellbent having taken possession of her the previous afternoon. I was miles-n-miles from anywhere with half a tank of gas already burned.
Hunched low behind the windshield I at first figured I was looking at a dead fly that had splattered itself on it. But it began to grow larger. Soon it was evident that out ahead someone was walking across sand.
I pulled up throwing a larger than normal sand-cloud. When the dust settled, I almost choked at the sight of Jenk dressed in fur and leather striding swiftly across sand.
He halted and examined me and Hellbent. “A cheery good day to you fellow traveler,” he said.
Mind locked by shock, I merely waved.
“I am bound for Sand Lake Flats and there to meet with a Once-Other. I am party to pre-owneds and tend to gather those of a higher quality. It would be of great service if you would describe him to me and perhaps impart a whisker of knowledge of the kind of man I am to meet. How do you feel about that? I see your vehicle is out of the same city.”
“My name is Once-Other,” I replied and Jenk slapped a knee or two and burst out laughing.
“How coincident. How welcome.” And he offered me his hand. We have been firm friends ever since.
I check him over in detail.
His outfit, cut from the skin of a Roanark Braer, speaks volumes of his hunting prowess. Braers are beige-n-black deer like animal with a donkey face and Kudu like horns. They roam the Highlands and bray like donkeys at the faintest hint of danger.
I believe they eat cactus and being shy beasts possessing their skins requires hunting skills par excellence.
With an eye I measure Jenk’s height and width and smile.
There is a history behind the Northerners’ physical attributes and skills. After our ancestors had arrived, they figured out how to take advantage of the changes wrought by preservatives. Using the knowledge gained, they have developed their physique to what one sees today—short and stocky crosses sand easier than tall and gangly.
Negotiations are imminent though. I prevent myself from looking directly at why so. But under his arm, Jenk carries a bundle wrapped in a Braer’s hide.
With Northerners being socially formal, I wait as Jenk removes his gloves and arranges his fur cuffs and collar into a more orderly affair. He then pulls his coat open, left and right, revealing he has come unarmed.
“A good and cheery day to you Once-Other,” he communicates and enters my store. His feet glide across the floorboards without a whisper. Where he stepped, no imprint of a foot is evident in the perpetual film of sand.
“Welcome Jenk, honest collector of pre-owneds,” I reply.
“Allow me a moment to impart an observation,” he says.
I nod and wave him on.
“This dear world of ours, Here-Born, despite the centuries passed is still famously a frontier world. Or infamously. As you know, strangers from all around this Inter-Constellation Arena Thirty come here. Many of them are dangerous and adding Jiplee’s death to that mix, danger multiplies.”
“I know,” I grumble and concede.
He bows extends his bundle towards me and says, “So please remain alert. But for now. I’ve been down and away for some months and on this my return, I’ve come directly to Pre-owneds Galore. With grace, I request the right to present this my latest collection. I do confess though, not all are worthy of your store.”
“I appreciate your directness—it’s refreshing how down-to-sand you are, Jenk. Welcome. Come! Let’s drink some damn cold water.”
“I am honored,” he replies.
I turn, he follows and my step feels clumsy by comparison.
Seated, I dispense water for us.
We hold the glasses high and take an instant to examine the honor in the other. Jenk nods. We clink glasses and drink the water in one breath, drop the glasses, stand and switch places. Each stamps on the glass the other had used. We shake hands again and sit down where the other had sat.
In the bundle are three arms and two legs.
I examine the first arm in detail, place it to one side and check the remaining items. These four appear in excellent condition. I flex the fingers, check the elbows bend smoothly, toggle the toes back-n-forth, rotate the ankles-n-knees and all work well.
“Well now Jenk. These are excellent but this other one doesn’t work for me.”
“That I predicted Once-Other and I’ll gladly accept twenty-five-hundred for all four.”
“No doubt you would Jenk. No doubt you would.”
I present him two fingers bent at the knuckles, sit back and await his response to my bid of one thousand. After a few seconds, he holds out two fingers extended requesting two thousand. I counter with three fingers bent at the knuckles for fifteen-hundred. He agrees to that and we shake hands.
“Let me verify all’s well with these, Jenk.”
Using a tiny spot of blood from each, I check if any are Criminal Pre-Owned Parts, C-POP that is, but none are. Verification and clearance certificates download.
I print two copies per stock item and give Jenk his ones.
“Well, Jenk. Damn fine parts indeed.”
“To echo an honored friend and business acquaintance—damn fine as you’ve often said Once-Other.”
We chuckle as I transfer payment and eCopies of the certificates to his Nomadi. He wraps the remaining arm with the Braer’s hide, ties it and his attitude abruptly sours. “Maggie informs you’ve lost your tourist...oh dear. What’s happening honored friend?”
I bite my already mangled tongue. “Nothing altogether. Something was wrong with this one.”
“I was informed and as southerners say...Once-Other blew it. How many times is that now? This my dear friend affects all of us dependent on campaigners...that’s no tourist going home spreading our ideas of freedom...of rights. Has something come over you? Have you lost your will to continue? Or maybe you’ve changed sides...as Madsen hints upon.”
My temper explodes. “Damn him! You notice anything about Madsen...never mind! Jenk! I did everything I possibly could. This tourist was weirder than any before. Enough! Let’s drop it—got Madsen to deal with altogether.”
“That includes every Here-Born Citizen Once-Other. We are all affected! Correct?”
“Talk about something else or damn leave.”
I cross my arms and stare off into the northern desert.
After a thoughtful silence during which he tapped his cheek, he says, “Okay, old fiend. I leave matters in your hands.”
“Did you say fiend?” I ask.
“Yes...friend Once-Other.”
And we laugh.
He falls silent staring out at the desert. I sense him longing to be walking across sand but he turns to me and asks, “Tell me Once-Other...what will you do now your tourist has left?”
“Well...there’s Madsen to see even just to request the next one. Perhaps I’ll take a little time off, visit Reggie and see how they are all doing. You know...with Jiplee not long....”
He nods thoughtfully and says, “Tragic what happened. It will be good finding out who did this. It makes a man edgy. Dear me and blast all ancestors.”
We sit in silence listening to the wind when suddenly he jerks as in a sudden realization.
“You know Once-Other, and I’m changing the subject on us, I’m pleased we voted Meredith Nother into the Federal Senate for the Upper Highlands. Jolly excellent.”
Relieved, and withholding my failure to get Wernt’s thoughts, I dive in saying, “Oh damn. You are? I myself could not believe it. Her program read as wishy-washy to me. All filled with holes—so to say.”
“Well. Okay. But no.”
“You’re happy with her in Office?” I ask unable to keep the dismay out of my voice.
“My friend. More to her than meets the eye. Not that what meets the eye isn’t outright, and in all possible ways attractive.” He blushes, wipes his mouth and says, “Okay. Well. Look. On this trip I found a few CO2 captures had overflowed some fifty to one-hundred sand-paces.”
“Dangerous,” I offer.
“Yes. Now listen to me. Up around Tower Dune City work has already started on deepening, enclosing and widening them just as she promised...if elected. What a shame! Something tragic....”
I allow him a minute.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Blast all sandstorms, Once-Other! Bloody horrid mishaps! One of the workers had faulty equipment...which failed. He succumbed in a standing position. No one noticed until the Walmer declared lunchtime had begun. By then it was too late.”
“Damn shame. But tell me now Jenk...are they losing it?”
“Okay! Okay! I get it good friend. So to conclude. They made a detailed check of equipment after that.”
“Bit late...better than never. Hmm? Breathing pure CO2 is a quick way to go. Oh, wait!” I glance at the parts I had just purchased.
“No-no my dear friend.”
“No?” I say.
“Yes, no. These are not his. CO2 makes for useless parts—like poison does.”
Assured, I take some damn fine EB cigars from out their cool-n-moisturizing container. Offer him one, he accepts, we light up and watch as the smoke rises in wisps above us, catches the breeze and sails off towards the exit and parking lot beyond.
Eying his cigar, he says, “Oh yes! Oh dear! EB this very day doubled prices for trees and all things flora.”
My mouth drops open. “What? No. What happened? How do you know this?”
“Again...up around Tower Dune City. The Senate Committee delved into it...those of us present paid attention and then some. Just another below the belt blow from EB’s economic practice of inflation come to stab us dead-eye in the buttocks—rumor says the cost of EB soil will be next.”
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