by E. R. Mason
My three traveling companions stared at me blank-faced, not having understood a word of it. I motioned them to sit at the conference table, and went over everything. When I was done, they all still had blank stares.
Chapter 6
Lotho returned a short time later with the promised contraband. From that point on, no one was willing to linger within the safety of the ship. They were inherently an adventurous bunch, the kind I always seemed to attract. Outside, there was a strange alien city with even stranger alien people. We were about as prepared as Christians exploring the arena. The reading of the social intercourse directives had only confirmed dangers from the unknown, but now we were all equipped with translators. Lotho suggested a place called The Black Cistern, nearby, reasonably safe.
One by one we emerged into Enuro’s late afternoon sunlight and stepped down to the well-lighted landing apron. A sparkling silver, semitransparent electronic fence and dome had been raised around the ship. We were given special pins that allowed us and those with us to pass safely through the curtain. My first look around at the Griffin brought a flash of alarm at how many underside panels already had been removed. A dozen short little men in the same Spider-Man-style uniforms were busily charging to and fro, climbing up and in, down and out. They did not seem to speak, yet their efforts seemed fully coordinated.
We turned in place to see everything. Our view of the city wavered from the effects of the curtain, making the place seem even more surreal. Wilson charged on ahead.
Beyond the tingle effect of the curtain, we abruptly became aliens among aliens. There was foot traffic typical of New York City. We were of no interest whatsoever to anyone passing by. The majority were little people who looked just like those working on the ship, although they were adorned in attire of such wide variations it seemed there were no standards of style at all. Our bland gray flight suits were also of no particular note except that we were all wearing them.
Buildings of light surrounded us. The overhead roadways were busy with traffic that never seemed to stop or even slow. The street we were on looked like cobblestone with softly lit seams. Occasionally, passersby brushed against us, just as they would in a busy Earth city. The difference was, some of them were frighteningly alien. We all knew enough not to stare. Quick glances brought sightings of pedestrians with short elephant-like trunks in place of a nose. I was bumped at one point and looked up at a lizard face that ignored my flush of fear.
We stopped at a four-way intersection where each direction was illuminated by a different color.
“Just our luck. No scarecrow,” mused R.J.
“I think he said something about the blueway,” said Danica.
“Let’s not ask someone,” joked Wilson.
“I see it. Halfway down the blue light trail. That way.” R.J. pointed.
“I wish I had used the restroom before we left,” said Wilson.
Everyone laughed. Nervously.
The Black Cistern had the correct blue arched vestibule marking its entrance. We could not make out the obscure symbols on the sign overhead. We pushed in through the light into a busy, colorful serving area, and quickly spied a tiny glass table with four empty glass seats.
The place was packed, our entrance ignored. It was noisy as hell.
In any given jungle, there are certain species which respond negatively to eye contact: bears, gorillas, and lions, to name a few. To those particular predators, a moment of eye contact is an insult to their dominance. For whatever reason, this primitive trait has somehow survived the millennia and remains a primeval stimulus in some arthropod males. The four of us were experienced enough to know about this frequently overlooked bit of wisdom, especially Wilson. So, as we took our seats, we evaluated our surroundings with cautious sideward glances. I had a table of cute little blue girls laughing and drinking nearest me. R.J. had a band of the Spider-Man-suited individuals. Danica’s nearest neighbors were extraordinarily tall, green, hairless beings with long spidery fingers, wearing long shimmering gowns.
Unfortunately for us, Wilson happened to get the nearby counter with the six Norsican-looking individuals. The Norsicans were quite familiar to us, having been portrayed quite appropriately as a warlike species in a number of successful Earth movies. The Norsicans are a hearty bunch. They are spacemen Vikings, typically in excess of six feet, well-decorated with crude tattoos, long black hair with disgusting biological trophies woven into it, more hairy skin showing than oiled leather covering it. Their attire is decorated with weaponry. These were not true Norsicans. They were some other species, but close enough to be mistaken for Norsicans. That added a nasty little unknown to the equation. Before Wilson had even begun to take his seat, the situation spiked a bit of fear in me. R.J., already seated, had seen the conundrum and was looking up at me worriedly. It was at that point I realized I was holding my breath.
I opened my mouth to whisper a caution to Wilson, but it was already too late.
“You lookin’ at us?” The nearest Norsican’s query was directed at Wilson.
As usual, Wilson tried his best. “No, no, sir. I wasn’t lookin’ at nothin’.”
Another Norsican stood to face us. “You sayin’ we’re nothin’, scab?”
“No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”
The remaining Norsicans rose to their feet. R.J. slapped one hand against his forehead.
“You want a closer look? We’ll give it to you,” said another.
Having only half sat down, I froze in place, then slowly stood back up. Regretfully, Danica sprang to her feet. Rather than looking worried as I’d hoped, she looked excited and fully ready and made sure they knew it.
Wilson continued his best. “Please let’s just all calm down. No problems, okay?”
The Norsicans began to push chairs out of the way from between us.
Wilson stood back up, held up one hand, and in his standard pre-holocaust booming voice said, “Now, I don’t want any trouble.”
R.J. raised both hands in exasperation, as though all hope was now lost.
“What’d you say?” demanded the first Norsican.
“I said, I don’t want any trouble.”
A strange silence came over them. They looked at each other for a moment, then back at Wilson. The Norsican who seemed to be the leader suddenly slammed his drink down on the counter and proclaimed, “Well, why didn’t you say so? Drag your warrior’s ass over here and tell us of your exploits. The swill is on us. Come on, then.”
Wilson looked at me in disbelief and confusion. He gave a huge shrug, pushed his chair away, and plodded over to their table. Two of them slapped him on the shoulder, dragged chairs from neighboring customers without asking, and the motley bunch sat amid loud grunting and laughing. They began talking all at once too loudly in grated, belching gravelly voices, spilling ale as they poured it. In the oddest anticlimax of all, Wilson, with his back to us, looked like he fit right in.
I sat back down, fear quickly replaced by tension-relieving hysteria. The urge to burst out in uncontrollable laughter was so overwhelming I had to wince and bury my face in my hands. I dared not break out into laughter in front of them, but tears began to stream down my face, and tiny squeaks of suppressed guffaws kept leaking out. I tried to wipe my face with one hand, resting one elbow on the table, shaking from the effort to conceal the hilarity of it. I had to pause frequently to wipe away more tears.
Danica remained standing, looking at me with a disconcerting stare as though an opportunity had been lost.
When I was finally able to sit up and wipe the wetness from my eyes, R.J. looked at me with a pathetic and somber expression. “I do not believe it.”
I spotted a queer-looking napkin dispenser, took one and continued to wipe, quietly bursting out gulps of laughter in between. “Maybe Wilson’s shrink was a Norsican.”
Danica remained standing, as though she had been robbed of Shangri-la.
“Danica, SIT DOWN, right now.” I broke back into muted la
ughter.
With an annoyed stare she obeyed.
The three of us sat back in silence to allow our pulse rates to drop back to John Young levels, finally taking a chance to look around again. Wilson and the Norsicans were the loudest bunch in the place. Beyond the packed disarray of tables, there were elevated circular platforms at the room’s front. They were illuminated with white light, were no more than a couple feet off the ground, and were being used for some form of entertainment I did not understand. A dark-skinned individual with narrow red eyes, two dots for a nose, and lips that did not close all the way over spiked teeth, was chanting something that sounded like duck calls. As annoying as the sound was, the Norsicans had distracted me so fully I had not noticed it until now. There was a smattering of applause for no apparent reason from one corner of the room, and to my relief, the spiked-teeth entertainer stepped down from his circle and disappeared into the crowd, shaking a few alien hands as he went. No sooner had he disappeared into the crowd than another even more bizarre performer mounted a different circle of light bearing something that looked like a lighted yo-yo. Immediately he began spinning it, creating circular light trails which brought a chorus of ooo’s and aah’s from yet another section of the room.
There was a very long bar near the right side of the place. It was constructed of something that looked like a wooden telephone pole. Patrons of varying species sat at it, but were unable to rest their food or drink upon it. Against the opposite wall, there were 3-D framed pictures of the city and its visitors. They were the size of movie posters and periodically switched between video and still image.
I glanced over at Danica, and found her still eyeing the Norsicans' table as though she was considering paying them a visit. It was time for some fatherly intervention. I opened my mouth to ask her if she’d like a drink or something, but before the words could get out a server appeared next to us bearing a large seashell tray from which she drew three blue-colored drinks and placed them in front of us, then left without having said a thing.
R.J. looked at me with his favorite comical expression. “This must be what we wanted,” he said, and he raised his glass in a toast.
Danica came back into focus, looked at him, and burst out laughing. She clicked her glass to his and took a drink. I obliged them by carefully sipping at my own and found the mixture a delightful cross between pineapple juice and strawberry. What I did not know was that there was some sort of delayed reaction, because as I lowered my glass I found my two companions sitting wide-eyed and red-faced. It hit me a second later.
Tequila to a power of ten. I did my best to appear unfazed, but it was possible smoke was coming from my ears. As I struggled with it, R.J. suddenly spoke in a broken voice. “Oh my god, that is fabulous!”
Danica agreed. “It is! It is! I’ve never had anything like this!”
As the four-alarm fire in my head died down, I suddenly had the greatest feeling of well-being I had ever known, and along with it was the most pleasant taste in my mouth I could remember. And it sustained.
R.J. gave me a smug look. “Adrian, I think I might actually like this place.”
Danica nodded enthusiastically.
I suddenly realized this was a very pleasant atmosphere after all. It was completely relaxing. Everyone was friendly. Where else could you get this kind of escape?
We sat in quiet satisfaction, smiling at everyone, trying to understand all the life forms around us. The yo-yo spinner had brought out a second yo-yo and was furiously spinning both, drawing circles of green neon in front of him. There were now extra trails I had not noticed before.
R.J. stared down at the blue unknown in his glass and spoke in a voice raised just enough to be heard over the crowd. “So, Danica, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
She made a curious face at him, then looked away. “Where else would a space-faring woman want to be?” she asked.
“Anywhere but on Earth?” replied R.J.
Suddenly a touch of discomfort returned to her manner. “What are you talking about?”
R.J. persisted. “We’ve come seven trillion miles from Earth together. If you can’t trust us, who can you trust?”
R.J. has a special way about him, the ability to put people at ease, sometimes without their permission. He can listen with such devotion that you wind up feeling as though you are the most important person on the planet. Under R.J.’s compassionate stare, grown men have on occasion led themselves to weep, while many women have hurried home to call their fathers.
“Maybe later,” answered Danica, and she turned away to watch the yo-yo guy recall his yo-yos and step down from his circle to a smattering of applause and extraterrestrial accolade.
R.J. broke the impasse. “Hey, look at the stuff hanging on the wall by the stage platforms.”
We all looked. It was a mishmash assortment of articles I did not recognize, except for the item nearest us. One of the fanciest gold-inlaid banjos I had ever seen hung there on the wall.
R.J. took another shot from his drink, slapped the table a couple times, and rose to his feet.
I offered a happy word of caution, “R.J…”
He straightened up his flight suit, stood up straight, and headed for the banjo.
As before, our compatriots in celebration paid no mind to the short, bearded man in gray flight suit crossing over to the side of the room where the banjo hung by its shoulder strap. R.J. stood for a moment of close inspection, then looked around the room to see if he had attracted any of the wrong kind of stares. His watchful gaze was equally ignored.
But when he reached up to take the banjo down from the wall, the patrons nearest ceased talking and turned to look. R.J. rotated the instrument in his hands, carefully inspecting it, then looked again to see if any dissension was brewing. A few patrons continued to watch with great interest.
Satisfied he was not to be accosted for some unwritten establishment rule, he carefully slung the strap over his shoulder and hefted the banjo into place. A few more patrons stopped what they were doing and began to stare. As quietly as possible, he tested each string for tuning, and twisted the appropriate tuning knob. He next fingered a cord and gave the instrument a gentle strum, but stiffened and looked around when the loudness of the instrument surprised him.
A slow wave of silence flowed over the place. There was not a soul in the establishment whose gaze was not locked on R.J. The atmosphere of anticipation was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. R.J., startled by the attention, froze for a moment, expecting the worst. To his surprise, the room remained as still as it was silent.
Not knowing what else to do, and without daring to look away from the crowd, R.J. fingered the first nine notes to the song, "Dueling Banjos." He paused and watched apprehensively as a few patrons across the room stood. When no assault seemed indicated, he continued looking out over the room and played the next nine notes and stopped once more. Several more individuals rose to their feet.
Confidence growing, he dared the next sequence of notes. Someone yelled out an unintelligible cry that sounded like a cowboy riding a bucking horse. Still more rose. A few more notes and more cries began to be heard and more admirers began to leave their seats. Finally convinced there would be no carnage, R.J. broke full into the song.
The place went wild.
People began jumping around and yelling, throwing things in the air, dancing, and clapping. A surge charged toward R.J., pushing past our table, knocking our seats out of place so that we had to cower down and protect our precious drinks until the onslaught had stabilized. We then sat with a multitude of strange and exotic faces towering in close above us, unfamiliar body parts pressed against us, all alien sensory modes captivated by R.J., an hysteria that the Beatles or Elvis himself would have envied.
With great diligence, Danica and I wormed our way out of the alien menagerie of bodies and found seats on the side of the room away from Enuro’s new super star.
Danica looked over
at me shaking her head. “It could only happen with him.”
“Bernard Porre wanted us to make a good first impression,” I replied.
“Well, this should be a feather in your cap then, Commander.” Danica toasted me with her glass.
“Or another windmill yet slain.” I returned her toast.
“What?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing. It’s a long story.”
“I’m thinking one of us should get back and check on the Griffin, Adrian.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said. “There’s no way we can get through that crowd to pay, but I have a feeling these drinks are on the house.”
“I’d like to have a bottle of this stuff.”
“Yeah, tomorrow I’ll barter with Lotho for a case.”
As we rose to leave, R.J. was being carried by the crowd over to one of the stage platforms. He was lovingly placed upon it, and quickly resumed his medley to the continued delight of his new alien groupies.
We made our way without incident back to the Griffin’s worksite and found the place as busy as ever. Lotho was overseeing work near the aft entrance. He stopped when he saw us.
“Did you enjoy the Caldron, Commander?”
“What is that blue stuff, Lotho?”
“It is a common denominator among many, many species. That is why it is always available here on Enuro. It is used for many social occasions.”
“Could we get some of it to go?” asked Danica.
“I’ll have a case of fifty bottles brought over tomorrow, compliments of the Enuro high council.”
“Lotho, why don’t I ever hear your technicians speaking to one another even when they are working together?”
“Why they have the implants, of course.”
“Implants?”
“In the frontal lobe. Communication and data implants. They can access all design criteria and discuss it as necessary with each other simply by thought transfer.”
I glanced at Danica. “We are very impressed, Lotho. Thank-you for everything.”
“It is my pleasure indeed, Commander Tarn. If you will excuse me, the tail-section team is uncertain about something.” He smiled, gave the impression of a bow, and headed aft.