“That’s okay,” said Martin. “I don’t need anything.”
~ * * * ~
Martin awoke to the sound of whispering and sat up in the booth. He banged a shoulder on the edge of the table, but it hurt no worse than anything else. He squinted across the diner, unsure of how long he’d been asleep. There was no sunlight in the vestibule. The dark Pepsi clock couldn’t be trusted. A third person was talking with Eileen and Lorie. Someone in a red hoodie.
Martin rubbed the sleep from his eyes and prepared to stand up, but Cheryl slid into the booth across from him. She’d been crying, and she still had shards of alien conduit tangled in her hair. “Hi,” she said.
“Stewart…?” Martin asked. Cheryl nodded and touched the back of her wrist to the corner of each eye. “I’m sorry. About everything.”
“Stewart told me what you’ve been doing for him, for me.”
“He loved you very much.”
Cheryl accepted this. “What are you going to do now? Stewart said you lost your job.”
Martin chuckled weakly, remembering Rick, maybe still at Cheryl’s place. It would probably be best to avoid him right now, likewise the Highway Patrol, and maybe the FBI. “Don’t worry about me. What about you?”
“I can’t imagine leaving Brixton,” said Cheryl. “Even now.”
“Brixton wouldn’t be the same town without you,” said Martin.
“Besides…” said Cheryl. She scanned the diner and blew out a hard sigh.
“What?”
“Stewart owned this place, Martin. After Herbert died, Stewart created a corporation, bought the place, and made sure they stopped selling rhubarb pie. He made them remodel and took out the bakery. And he stopped them spreading all the alien rumors.”
“To protect you,” said Martin.
Cheryl nodded. “And now, it’s mine. He left it all to me.”
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Martin. “Keeping in mind that it’s the only decent place to get breakfast and coffee in a hundred-mile radius.”
Eileen crossed the diner carrying a tray. Without a word, she set a steaming mug of coffee in front of each of them.
“What’s this?” asked Martin. “I thought you were out.”
“Lorie found a box of coffee up in the office,” said Eileen. “It’s on the house. This time.” She winked, spun away, and called back over her shoulder. “It’ll take more than this to close Herbert’s Corner.”
One Year Later
“Order a triple shot in your coffees, Waker Nation. It’s Weird Science Wednesday night, sponsored by the University of Phoenix, and in a moment we’ll be taking your calls and questions for Dr. Helmut Schwartz, theoretical physicist and the author of a recent paper that explores the relationship between dark matter and dark energy and redefines how they affect the fabric of our universe. But first, a reminder that with us tomorrow night will be our friend and official Waker Nation economist Lawrence Montgomery, a professor at the University of Rhode Island, and the author of the book Everything You Need to Know About Economics Should Be Taught in Kindergarten. On Friday, live all night with us in the bunker will be thirteen-year-old prodigy Ayani Anami. You absolutely have to meet this young lady. Not only has she been appointed as a UN goodwill ambassador for children based on her humanitarian blog, but she’s completing her medical degree, and her first play opens next week off-Broadway.
“And as always, you can find more detailed information about these topics and the work of all our guests on wakernation.com. Welcome back, Dr. Schwartz.”
“Thank you, Lee.”
“Now, I’m going to ask you more about what we learn from the map of dark energy, but I need to do my nightly penance first, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“Let’s get this over with, X-Ray. Greenville, North Carolina, you’re Beyond Insomnia.”
“Lee, this is Richard. I can’t believe you’re not talking about aliens anymore.”
“What’s there to talk about, Richard? Extraterrestrials exist. We know this for certain now. We know a little about their biology and their culture and are learning more every day. We’re preparing to make official contact. And we know that the government did not conspire to keep this from us. Every Thursday we get an update from Pauline Nelson, a member of the international observation and research team. There’s still much we don’t know, but the speculation is over.”
“And you believe whatever they tell you?”
“I believe the things that they have evidence to back up.”
“Someone got to you, didn’t they?”
“I came to the conclusion that it’s time to start living in reality. In other words, I woke up.”
“You’re a hack, Danvers. And your show is crap.”
“I’m sorry you think so…and he’s hung up. If you’re still listening, Richard, and every other Waker out there, I’m sorry. I will gladly shoulder the blame for the speculation and lies for as long as it takes. Phew. Okay. Let’s get back to business. Helmut, you described how if you overlaid the map of a galaxy’s dark energy with a map of its dark matter…”
~ * * * ~
The pilot relaxed and let his computer maneuver the rig into the slot. He stretched his tentacles and torso, expelled all the air from his bladders, and filled them anew. When the ship was parked, he activated system standby and then noticed an object near the portal facility on the icy chunk. He glurmed quizzically, tapped his screens, and his windshield targeted and magnified the image—a flat, rectangular, faintly lit object, but readable. A homey amateur logo decorated one corner, a flap-watering picture the other, and familiar and welcome script filled the space in between. He plurbed to himself, pleased, and found his dermis generator in a drawer.
A few minutes later, he blurred into place behind a steering wheel on a familiar road between two walls of crumbling rock. More than a thousand lenses, sensors, and monitors captured his arrival and his descent of the hill. He crossed a bridge, slowing as the new signs directed. A lowered barricade blocked the road, so he turned onto a driveway of freshly constructed concrete.
He rolled down his window as he stopped by a little building, built up on a platform. A window slid aside, and a man said, “Welcome to Earth. Name and destination?”
“Um…Glen,” said the pilot.
“You real name, please,” said the attendant.
“Mushfronf,” said the pilot, but with a little burble in the middle of it all. “Do you need my reef name, too?”
“Please,” said the attendant, and Mushfronf obliged. “Destination?”
“Headin’ up to the Corner.”
The man in the booth handed him a blinking puck of plastic. “Keep this in your vehicle at all times,” he said. He handed him another that had a clip on one side. “And that one stays on your person. Return them here on your way out.”
“Got it,” said the pilot.
“Have a nice day.”
“I will. You, too,” Mushfronf replied.
He parked alongside several other trucks at Herbert’s Corner and headed inside.
“Glen,” said Eileen. “Long time, no see.”
“Afternoon, Eileen. But forget the ‘Glen.’ I suppose you can call me Mushfronf now, seein’ as.” He chose a stool. “Saw your new sign. Says you got the pie again.”
“We surely do,” said Eileen. “Made fresh every day. You want some now, or do you want somethin’ that Mama would want you to eat first?”
“Better bring me a number seven with a side of coleslaw, but make sure and save me a couple slices,” he said.
“I’ll save you a whole pie,” said Eileen.
Eileen put in his order, then headed upstairs to the office. She knocked and opened the door, then shut it as quickly.
She scurried away, laughing.
“What’s going on?” Lorie asked her, peering up the stairs. “Let me guess.”
“Goin’ at it again. At least with their clothes on this time,” said E
ileen.
A minute later, Martin found Eileen in the kitchen. “Sorry about that. What’s going on?”
Eileen nodded out through the kitchen window, and Martin ducked to peek out into the diner. “You’re sure?” he asked.
“I can’t believe you don’t remember that mustache and that ridiculous little hat,” said Eileen.
Martin donned the dark glasses to be sure.
Cheryl came in behind him. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“The truck driver there. I’ve had Eileen keeping an eye out for him. I owe him an apology,” said Martin.
“He’s asked for the pie,” said Eileen.
“He probably deserves pie for life after the scare I gave him,” said Martin.
“Don’t look at me,” said Eileen. “The owner’d have to approve that.”
“What do you say, Madame Owner?” asked Martin.
“What did you do to the poor man?” Cheryl asked, and then threw up her hands. “I don’t care. If you want to give him free pie, go ahead, but it’s coming out of your paycheck, Mr. Manager.”
Martin delivered the man’s meal and set his pie on the counter.
“It’s you,” said the pilot.
“Yeah, hi. I wanted to say sorry about…everything. Your meal’s free today, and anytime you want pie, it’ll be on me.”
“Thank you,” the pilot said hesitantly. “Mighty generous.”
“Enjoy,” said Martin. The pilot took a large bite of pie and quivered with delight. “As good as you remember?” Martin asked.
“Oh yeah,” said the pilot. “I’ve always said that you could sell this here recipe. Probably make a fortune.”
“Nah,” said Martin. “It’s not that good.”
About the Author
M.H. Van Keuren quit a perfectly good job to devote his life to writing science fiction. He lives in Billings, Montana, with his wife and two sons.
Find his blog at: mhvankeuren.blogspot.com.
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