The Time Of The Transferance

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Hey, eets no fun, bein’ an illegal ayleeun....”

  “Come on, pancho, open it up.” The patrolman stood impatiently next to the back of the truck. Cruz was fiddling with the lock, taking his time and wondering how he was going to explain the presence of ‘a kidnap victim. They could always insist he was just some crazy hitchhiker they’d picked up. Maybe he’d just take his animals and split, glad to get away.

  “Really, officer, I don’t know what kind of shape our stuff is in back here. My poor Consuela and I packed for days and days. If everything has shifted it’s all going to fall out.”

  “We’ll help you pick it back up.” The patrolman sounded tired. He also had the build of an ex-linebacker and was in no mood to coddle suspicious characters at two in the morning. Cruz knew he’d stalled about as long as he could. “Open it, or we can open it at the station.”

  “Oh no, no need of that, officer. It’s just that this lock here, it’s kind of rusty.” He took a deep breath and rolled up the door. “See, nothing but furniture and one...” he broke off. There was nothing in the back of the truck but furniture. There were no giant otters, no oversized raccoon, and no lanky, bigmouthed young Anglo. They had gone.

  The cop turned his flashlight on the furniture. Something was moving in the middle of the household goods. The light picked out the shape of a large colorful parrot with bound wings and beak. It struggled mightily to squawk a protest but was too tightly tied.

  “That’s no way to move a household pet,” the patrolman declared disapprovingly.

  Cruz stammered a reply. “I know, man, but Consuela wouldn’t listen to me and . . .”

  “Never mind. I’m not looking for birds. If you guys were smuggling endangered species you’d sure as hell have a load of more than one.” He leaned back and yelled toward the cruiser parked in front of the truck. “Skip that call in, Jay. These guys are clean.” By way of apology he offered Cruz a reluctant, professional smile. “Sorry to hold you up, buddy.”

  “Hey, no sweat, mon. We all got to do our jobs.” Cruz waited until the big patrolman had climbed back into his cruiser and driven off into the warm Texas night. Then he shouted for his partner.

  “Manco, get back here, mon!” When his companion arrived he saw on his boss’s face a mixture of confusion and glee. “The kid and most of his animals got away, but the cops didn’t find the coke.”

  Manco peered into the truck. “You sure? Somebody’s been into that trunk.”

  “Whaaat?” Cruz jumped into the back of the truck. He ignored the struggling, sputtering parrot. “Oh, mierda.” The two of them started pawing through the furniture, tossing pieces out the back of the truck, not caring if they broke on the unyielding pavement.

  Two hours later they sat staring out the back of the truck, forced to admit defeat.

  “I don’t understand,” Cruz was muttering disconsolately. “How the hell did they get out of the truck? It was still locked when that cop and I opened it up. How did that skinny bastard get out!”

  “Maybe the animals chewed their way out?”

  “I didn’t see no hole in the roof.” Cruz dropped his head into his hands. “What are we going to tell them in Vegas?” He was running his long fingers through his straight black hair. “That a college kid and some trained animals made off with forty kilos of coke from the back of a locked truck?”

  Manco looked wistful. “I got relateeves een Cheeleh I ain’t seen seence I was a keed.”

  “Terrific. Except we ain’t got no money for airline tickets and I forgot to renew my Visa. How about you?”

  “Just a few bucks for expeenses. But thee man doesn’t know when we’re supposed to show. We’ve got a chance to get away.”

  “Without money?”

  Manco gestured into the truck. “We steel got that beeg talking parrot. We can sleep eento Vegas and sell eet for plenty, then go straight to the airport.”

  Cruz perked up slightly, turned to gaze at the bird in question. It stared back at him with an alarmingly intelligent eye. “What if we can’t get it to talk? We aren’t animal trainers like that kid.”

  “Hell, it’ll talk. I know a leetle about birds like that. Give them some food, you can’t shut them up. Thees one ought to be worth a fortune.”

  “It sure as hell can say more than polly wanna cracker. Maybe we get out of this yet.” He slapped his compadre on the back. “All right, Manco. We go to Vegas, dump the furniture at some pawn shop and sell the bird. Then we take the first Aeromexico south. I’ve always wanted to see South America.”

  “That’s thee spireet, mon.” They rolled down the back door and ran back to the front of the truck, ignoring the spitting and struggling of the big green parrot who represented their ticket to safety.

  X

  It was a beautiful beach, the kind of pure white sand beach that exists only in travel posters and, oddly enough, in the middle of New Mexico. Gypsum sand, powdery and canescent as sugar. It climbed unmatted ten feet -from the water’s edge before the first palm trees appeared. Beyond the beach the water was as transparent as the lens of an eagle’s eye. It lay like glass over submerged beach until finally giving way to deeper water and the distant spray of surf on a barrier reef.

  Jon-Tom looked down at himself. He was intact and unharmed. Mudge and Weegee embraced nearby while Cautious had squatted to inspect an empty shell. Eventually the two otters separated.

  “Where the ‘ell are we, mate?”

  He was staring up the beach. “Far south of where we escaped from the pirates, I’m guessing. Of course, we could be on the other side of the world, but I’d say we’ve moved about as far as we moved in the back of that truck. Time of day’s different, too. Tonight we can check the stars.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about no remaining pirates.” Cautious tossed the shell aside. “They won’t stop running ‘til they get back to their boat, you bet. I don’t think it much matter anymore. Kamaulk was brains and Sasheem the muscle. Others pretty well lost without those two.”

  “Then ‘tis about time we ‘ad a rest.” Mudge was stripping off his shorts and vest. Weegee matched him item for item, throwing her shoes at him and beating him into the water. Jon-Tom watched as they swam and dove with the agility of a pair of furry porpoises. Mudge rolled over onto his back with a sinuous motion no human could hope to match and shouted back toward shore.

  “Come on in, mate. The water’s swell. Fresh is better, but this ain’t bad.”

  Jon-Tom hesitated. He’d been skinny dipping with Mudge before, but Weegee acted almost human. Cautious was already trotting down to the water. Now the raccoon looked back.

  “I understand. You humans, you shy because you ain’t got no fur hardly.” Then he plunged into the shallow lagoon.

  Hell, Jon-Tom thought. It took him a few minutes to strip. The water was warm and refreshing, wiping away the sweat and dirt of the past several days, washing away the memory of the pirates and the tribefolk who’d captured them, relieving some of the stress that had built up during their trek south.

  “Odds are that he sinks,” said Weegee, watching the human’s clumsy attempts to emulate the otters’ agility in the water.

  “Not ‘im, luv.” Mudge lay on his back, floating, letting the sun warm him. “ ‘E does all right for a ‘uman, the way ‘is arms an’ legs are arranged notwithsjandin’.”

  They spent the whole day cavorting in the lagoon. The palm forest was full of tropical fruits and when they desired something more substantial, it took the otters only minutes to produce armfuls of edible shellfish. One particularly tasty mollusc was available in such quantities it threatened to permanently expand Jon-Tom’s waistline. Mudge called it a seckle. It was fiat on the bottom and full of blue spines on top and when toasted tasted just like abalone. Cut and polished, the shell would make beautiful jewelry. That led him to thoughts of Talea, and home, and induced a melancholy the otters understood and did not comment upon.

  It was evening and they were sitting around a fire Cau
tious had built on the sand. Recognizable constellations shone overhead, indicating they had indeed returned to the world of the otters a number of miles south of where they’d entered the cavern. Jon-Tom had tried resinging the alien song, to no effect. Clothahump had warned him that such special spells often worked only once. He wasn’t going to get back home that way.

  Their clothes had been washed and now hung on a palm branch nearby.

  Finally Mudge could stand the silence no longer. “Wot’s ailin’ you, mate? Thinkin’ about your ladyluv?” He pulled Weegee closer to him. Together the otters regarded their human companion.

  “I wish she were here.”

  “ ‘Ell, she’s better off back in the good old Bellwoods. Clothyrump will watch over ‘er. I wish we were back there. Ain’t no ‘arm goin’ to befall ‘er.”

  “I’m not worrying about harm befalling her. I’m wondering if we could find that cave again.”

  “I don’t see why not. Might take a bit ‘o ‘untin’, but I’m sure we could find the inlet where our playful seagoin’ friends anchored their craft and then work our way south from there. Why?”

  “If it’s the permanent gate between our worlds that I think it is, it means I can go home anytime I want.”

  The otter stirred the fire with a stick. Something that looked like breadfruit but tasted like sugared tangerine was roasting on the coals. “If that’s the case, why go all the way to this Screaming Kitty Muse place?”

  He shrugged. “We might run into trouble trying to find the cave again. If so, I’d like to have an operational duar with me. Also, I’m kind of interested to see if I can make magic with it in my own world. Or just great music. But Talea’s my main concern. I love Talea and I....”

  Mudge raised a restraining paw. “Spare me the sappy ‘omilies.”

  Weegee whacked him in the ribs. “Like hell.” She smiled at Jon-Tom. “Go ahead. I love sappy homilies.”

  “It’s just that I can’t imagine life without her.”

  “That’s good. Go on,” she urged him, a contented expression on her face.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “No problem, I’m thinking.” Cautious poked at the fire. “You go get your instrument fixed, then we go back and get your lady, and lastly you both walk back through passage to your world.”

  “It’s not that easy, Cautious. That’s what’s tearing me up. Talea’s never known any world but this one. Remember how you three reacted to mine? And we were in one of the simpler, easier to adapt to parts. In someplace like downtown Los Angeles you might’ve gone crazy. I don’t know if Talea could handle it.”

  “Don’t underrate ‘er, mate. She’s pretty tough, that redhead. I think she’d manage it.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Mudge, because I’m not going back without her.”

  “Right.” He hopped to his feet, pulled Weegee up after him. “Now that that’s settled, I’ve something to show you, luv.”

  “Mudge, I’ve already seen that.”

  “Not like this you ain’t.” Together they strolled off into the bushes.

  Jon-Tom stared out over the silent lagoon. A cry of pain and surprise shattered the mood. Wordlessly, he and Cautious ran for their weapons, then turned and raced after the otters.

  “What happened?” he asked breathlessly as they practically ran into Weegee. It was Mudge who answered, was leaning againt a bush, holding his right foot.

  “Tripped over this bleedin’ thing I did, but it don’t ‘urt no more. No it don’t.”

  Jon-Tom’s gaze dropped to the ground. What Mudge had stumbled over in the poor light was a medium-size cerulean blue Samsonite suitcase. A second case lay nearby, half buried in the sand.

  “We didn’t see them earlier because they came through here in the weeds,” Weegee commented. “They must have been close enough to have traveled through on the same spellsong, Jon-Tom.”

  “One of them was right next to my foot when I started singing in the truck.” He started to pick one up but Mudge beat him to it, began working on the locks.

  The hundred pounds of cocaine was still inside, snug in its plasticine sacks.

  Mudge danced gleefully around the suitcases.

  “Mudge, we can’t keep this junk.”

  The saraband ceased in mid-leap and the otter gaped at him in the moonlight. “Can’t keep it? Wot the ‘ell are you sayin’, we can’t keep it? You want to haul it back through the cave so you can give it back to those two delightful blokes who were ready to sell us into slavery and kill you?”

  “Of course not, but we can’t keep it. It’s too damn dangerous.”

  “Oh matey-mine,” the otter moaned, “don’t you go all ethical on poor Mudge now. Not now p’ all times.” He picked up a bagful of white powder. “Do you know wot this ‘ere stuff is worth? There’s them in places like Snarken an’ Polastrindu that would pay through the nose for a pinch of it, so to speak. Weegee and me, we wouldn’t ‘ave to work another day in our lives.”

  Jon-Tom was adamant. “I haven’t fought my way across this whole world and learned how to be a spellsinger so I could stoop to dealing drugs.”

  “Fine! Let me stoop. I’m a ‘ell of a stooper. I’m the best damn stooper you ever saw. It ain’t entirely your decision to make anyways. This ain’t no kingdom an’ you ain’t no bleedin’ emperor.”

  “I know that.”

  “The rest of us ‘ave as much right to this booty as you do. We sure as ‘ell ‘ave gone through enough to earn it.”

  “It’s not a question of who has the right, Mudge. It’s a question of what is right. The people of your world aren’t used to drugs of such potency.”

  “ ‘Ow the ‘ell would you know? I could tell you stories.”

  Jon-Tom tried a different tack. “Well, they’re not used to this type of drug.”

  The otter let out a snort. “Stinger sweat is stinger sweat no matter wot world it comes from.”

  “Mudge, it’s dangerous stuff. I don’t want any part of dealing it.”

  “No problem, mate. I’ll take care o’ all of it.”

  “Jon-Tom’s right, Mudge.”

  The otter spun, stared at Weegee. “Wot do you mean ‘e’s right, luv? ‘E ain’t been right since ‘e slid out o’ “is mother’s womb, an’ I think ‘e’s gettin’ less right every day.”

  She gestured at the suitcases. “If he says it’s dangerous, I’m inclined to agree with him. After all, this comes from his world, not ours.”

  “But luv,” Mudge pleaded, “don’t you see wot this could mean to us?”

  “I think I do, yes. Mudge, I haven’t led the kind of life you have.” She looked apologetically at Jon-Tom. “Not every otter is an incurable hedonist like my sweet Mudge. Some of us do have higher aspirations and a semblance of morality.” She stared hard at her lover. “Do you know what we are going to do with this otherworldly poison, sweetness?”

  Mudge turned away from her, in obvious pain. “Don’t say it, luv. Please don’t say it. Can’t we keep one packet?” She shook her head. “ ‘Alf o’ one?”

  “I’m sorry, Mudge. I want to start off our life together on a higher plane.”

  “Fine. Let’s just ‘ave a few snorts of this an’ . . .”

  She grabbed a suitcase in each paw and while she wasn’t strong enough to lift them, she was able to drag them through the sand. An admiring Jon-Tom followed her as she trudged toward the lagoon.

  Mudge parallelled her, sometimes arguing with his paws, sometimes pleading on his hands and knees. “Don’t do this, Weegee. If you love me, don’t do this.”

  “I do love you, Mudge. And if you want to prove your love for me you’ll help me with this thing.”

  “Don’t ask me that. I won’t stop you. By all the powers that live in the ground and make tunnels I should stop you but I won’t. But don’t ask me to ‘elp.”

  “Piffle. Don’t make such a fuss. Here.” She dropped one of the suitcases. “I know you can do it. I know what you have inside y
ou.”

  “Right now ‘tis mostly pain.”

  “I’ll dump this one and you do that one.” Jon-Tom and Cautious stood side by side higher up the beach and watched as the otters waded into the shallow lagoon. A horrible keening sound drifted over the water.

  “Never heard an otter make noise like that,” Cautious commented.

  “Me neither.” Jon-Tom watched small puffs of white rise into the air as sack after sack of pure cocaine was ripped open and scattered upon the tide. When the last had been emptied the suitcases themselves were left to sink peacefully into the pale sand.

  Weegee came trotting back to rejoin them. Splashing sounds rose from the water behind her. Jon-Tom peered over her.

  “What’s he doing back there?”

  She shook her head, sounding disgusted. “He’s out there in the water trying to snort half the lagoon, the stupid fuzzball. But all he inhales is water. Then he sits up spitting and choking for three minutes before he tries again. Let’s go back to the fire. He’ll either give up or drown pretty soon now. I’m not going to baby him. He’s no cub. Just slightly retarded.”

  So they sat and waited and nibbled on the roasted seckles until Mudge, looking more pitiful and bedraggled than Jon-Tom had ever seen him, came trudging back to flop wetly down in his spot. He said nothing at all the rest of that evening. The depth of his depression was demonstrated by his refusal to join Weegee in the bushes for some post-dumping discussion.

  Morning returned him to something like his usual effervescent self. He was simply too full of life to remain morose for long.

  “Easy come, easy go, they say.” He was rearranging the supplies in his backpack. “Time to move on an’ no use to lookin’ back.”

  “You got over that fast enough,” said Jon-Tom.

  “Wot’s the point in stayin’ down?” He rubbed noses with Weegee. “Besides, when you make a commitment you either stick to it right down the line or you don’t.”