As he passed Wizzy, the little comet squealed, “I felt a drop of rain! Check my wrap!”
“Impossible,” Prince Pineapple said. “It’s not raining at all.” He tossed the oars in the pram, then went for Wizzy.
“You took your time,” Wizzy gruffed as the prince lifted him. “Each drop takes a portion of my strength. Oh, to be in deep space, where there is no atmosphere and no water!”
Wizzy had better help me, Prince Pineapple thought as he stepped in the pram, or I’ll drop him in the deepest part of Sacred Pond, He placed Wizzy beneath the aft bench.
Moments later the little boat was cutting slowly across the pond’s choppy, foggy surface. Wizzy heard the dipping of the oars in water and the thump of waves against the hull. And he heard the dull clunk of wood against wood whenever an oar slipped from its oarlock; Prince Pineapple would curse whenever this happened, but soon would be back at his task. In a distorted vision through the plastic wrap, Wizzy could see Prince Pineapple from the belly down, leaning forward and back as he pulled at the oars.
“Whatever you do,” Prince Pineapple said, “don’t say anything that rhymes. It would force me to flip backward, head over heels. That would capsize this little boat.”
“Like you did in court?” Wizzy asked, choosing his words carefully.
“Exactly like that.”
“You can’t control it?”
“I have tried. Dear me, but I’ve tried! It’s instinctual with us. Our muscles pull us right over.”
“You might have warned me about that earlier.”
The pineapple prince disregarded this remark. Soon he was grunting with each pull at the oars and panting heavily. After a while he had to ship the oars in order to take a rest. He wiped his brow, just then the boat rocked violently.
“What’s going on?” Wizzy squealed.
“It’s getting rough out here.”
“I can tell that.”
A wave washed over the gunwale, splashing cold water on the plastic wrap over Wizzy. Some leaked through and touched him, This sent the little comet into a state of panic. “Save me!” he cried out. “Save me!” Wizzy glowed bright orange now and scooted through Prince Pineapple’s legs to a dry forward portion of the deck.
The prince turned to watch Wizzy. “The plastic wrap!” Prince Pineapple said. “You’re glowing like a coal! It’s melting all over you!”
Wizzy paled to yellow. “That burst of heat dried me off,” he said. “But there’s a limit. Bursts like that use a lot of energy. I presume you brought more plastic wrap?”
“I did not.”
“I wish I hadn’t come on your ridiculous voyage!”
“Remember all those things we have in common,” Prince Pineapple said. Angrily, he resumed his struggle with the oars. He was fighting a strong current now, and had to row just to remain in one place. A floating log bounced off the side of the pram’s hull, sending a dull, disturbing shudder through the boat.
Prince Pineapple watched the log disappear in the current aft of his boat. He was straining to the breaking point; his hands were burning from his effort.
A light rain started. This caused Wizzy to cry out in terror and seek the farthest reaches of shelter under the forward bench.
Rain mixed with perspiration ran down Prince Pineapple’s face. Because of the current, he took quick breaks of only a few seconds to wipe his face.
All the while, Wizzy complained with each wave that washed aboard and with each increase in the intensity of precipitation. It was raining steadily now, and the prince turned to see Wizzy glow bright orange, drying himself. Finally, in desperation, Wizzy suction-perched on the underside of the forward bench, clinging there like a fat fly on a ceiling.
“I feel dizzy,” Prince Pineapple said.
“Then turn back!” Wizzy said.
“Never!” Prince Pineapple rowed harder now, drawing strength from his deepest reservoir of energy. Images of the Sacred Scroll of Cork danced across his half-closed eyes.
Something heavy landed on his belly, then pushed its way under his coat. “I’m losing strength,” Wizzy said. “Keep me in here. Keep me dry….” The voice faded.
Prince Pineapple considered returning to shore for Wizzy’s sake. “Do you still want me to take you back?” he asked.
Wizzy did not respond.
Now Prince Pineapple thought of the perspiration on his underclothes. Soon this wetness would soak through and meet the encroaching outside moisture from waves and rain. There would be no dryness then. He reminded himself of his priorities. Wizzy was expendable. The scroll was not.
Just at the moment when Prince Pineapple felt he could row no more, the waves subsided and the rain stopped. He shipped his oars and took deep breaths to restore himself. An eerie low light radiated across the surface of the water. The pond was like glassplex here, and there was a purple luminescence just below the surface.
“What’s going on?” Wizzy asked. He poked his nucleus out from under the coat.
“I don’t know. It’s different here. And I feel the boat moving forward, as if it’s being pulled by something. It’s not an opposing current now.”
“The rain is gone!” Wizzy said happily. He ventured into the night air for a little spin, being careful only to fly above the boat. His tail was yellow orange as he flew, and it cast a sparkling reflection on the water that had accumulated in the boat bottom. Soon Wizzy alighted on Prince Pineapple’s shoulder. There he glowed orange for a moment to dry the fabric of the coat.
Overhead, Prince Pineapple saw stars burning more clearly than he could ever recall having seen them. Two synchronized Corkian moons passed over them quickly, momentarily casting their warm glow across the water. Then the moons disappeared beyond the horizon of fog.
“I have seen the magician’s bubble out here,” Prince Pineapple said. “On clear days. According to legend, my scroll is trapped in the bubble.”
“Your scroll?”
“A slip of the tongue.”
Squinting his cat’s eye, Wizzy saw a yellow glow in the fog off their starboard bow. “I see something out there,” he said.
“Where?”
“Off the starboard bow.”
“Where? Where?”
“It’s impossible to miss!”
“I don’t see it!”
“Well I see it clearly,” Wizzy said. “The fog’s clearing. We’re drawing nearer. Yes! It’s a bubble—floating just above the surface of the pond.”
“Must be a spell on me,” Prince Pineapple muttered thoughtfully, “caused by Lord Abercrombie’s soil nutrients every time I recharge. I am permitted to see the bubble from afar, but once I draw near . . . ”
“Could be a magician’s trick, all right.”
“We’re going directly toward the bubble?”
“Yes. And I see something inside. A rolled parchment.”
“The Sacred Scroll!” Prince Pineapple said. “How far?”
“Less than fifty meters.”
“Tell me when we’re close enough to hit it with the oar handle. Something dull will pop the bubble, according to legend.”
“Don’t rely on that legend. It may have been planted in your pineapple brain by Lord Abercrombie.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having a pineapple brain.”
“I didn’t say there was. But your legend smacks of trickery to me.”
“Then forget the oar. Do it your way. You with all the knowledge of the universe.”
“We’d better stop bickering,” Wizzy said. “It’s just ahead now.”
Prince Pineapple felt the boat slow.
“Almost there,” Wizzy reported, perching himself on the bow seat. “We’ll go right under it.”
The bubble-was bright yellow and perhaps half as big in circumference as the length of the pram. Inside the bubble, floating freely, Wizzy saw an old-looking rolled parchment tied with brown cord.
When the bow of the pram slipped beneath the bubble, Wizzy glowed the hottest whit
e-orange he could and smashed against the underside of the bubble. He bounced off a soft surface. Then he tried again, bouncing off again.
Seeing where Wizzy was attacking, Prince Pineapple thrust forth his oar handle. He felt it strike something soft. Then there was a loud clap of thunder. A lightning bolt in front of Wizzy’s eye sent him scurrying for cover beneath the prince’s coat. The oar clattered to the deck of the boat.
Prince Pineapple began to see something where the oar had struck: the broken image of a rolled, yellowing parchment, bound with brown leather cord . . . unidentifiable letters on the parchment with an “X” over them. The image faded to invisibility.
“I saw it!” Prince Pineapple said. “But now it’s gone!”
Venturing out on the prince’s lap, Wizzy said, “We’re dead in the water. You just have to reach out and take it. Would you look at that! It says ‘Torah’ on the scroll, but that’s been crossed out. The bubble’s gone now. You blasted it with the oar.
Prince Pineapple reached for the place he had seen the scroll. He felt something there: stiff paper. But he withdrew his hand suspiciously without grabbing hold. “Too easy,” he said.
“Probably a discarded religious document from Earth,” Wizzy said. “Torah . . . that was sacred to one of their religions.”
“This cannot be,” Prince Pineapple said. “The Sacred Scroll of Cork predates the arrival of Earthian gar-bahge.”
Wizzy glowed red, calling upon his data banks for assistance. “I think it’s the original scroll, all right,” he said. “With fake markings added by Abercrombie to confuse anyone finding it.”
Prince Pineapple extended both hands, wrapping his fingers around the parchment. The paper was rough to his touch and cool. He pulled it to him, pressing it against his belly. “I have it!” he said. “I have it!”
Wizzy flew to one side of the prince and watched him bend over the scroll, like a fleshcarrier parent sheltering its child.
A bright vision flashed across Prince Pineapple’s brain. He saw Lord Abercrombie clutching the scroll in much the same way. In fast forward, he watched Abercrombie cross a series of obstacles: desert . . . ice . . . swamp. . . . It went too fast for further details. In his vision, the prince saw Abercrombie immerse his entire body in the soil—-in a rock-walled cavern somewhere beneath the planet’s surface. Then he saw the scroll fly back on its own, returning to Sacred Pond. Distantly, Prince Pineapple heard a voice. The image faded.
“Snap out of it,” Wizzy said. “Let’s get this boat moving.”
Prince Pineapple tucked the unseen scroll inside his coat and buttoned the coat all the way up. In a daze, he located the oars. Soon he was guiding the pram back the way they had come. “That sure was easy,” he said.
“Your troubles have just begun,” Wizzy said.
CHAPTER 10
The females of every fleshcarrier
planet claim to have special
powers. On Earth, it is
known as “woman’s intuition.”
Morovians call it “yenta.”
Universally, it causes females to nag.
Excerpt from the expeditionary notes of Sevensayer Arnold
Javik made his way across the purple-dark clearing carefully, trying to recall his ship’s location from the momentary flash of the comet. His belly ached with hunger, a gnawing sensation that increased with each passing moment. There was food on the ship. He looked forward to it.
After a good deal of probing with his hands and with the tips of his boots, he encountered something on the ground which rustled like gortex. He knelt and picked it up, recognizing it by touch as a survival pack. All the pack’s normally full pockets were open and empty.
He muttered a curse. His foot came in contact with a cello-wrapper, then another. Then a small pile of them. All were empty.
“Someone’s been here, damn it. And I’m hungrier than hell!”
Bemoaning his misfortune, Javik located the Tasnard rope he had left dangling from the side of the ship. He wrapped the rope around his chest and under his armpits, then mento-commanded it. The rope lifted him gently up to the corrugated metal surface of the entry platform. The hatch was open.
He smelled something peculiar as he entered the cabin, something unlike any odor he had ever before encountered. It struck him that it was a dull odor, if an odor could be dull. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. He still could not see anything, but the sensation of purpleness was gone.
An animal? he wondered. It’s not an offensive odor.
Javik stood motionless for a moment, listening to night sounds. The mournful howl of a wolf drifted across the clearing, followed by what sounded like an owl’s hoot. Then he became aware of something alive on board, breathing deeply and roughly, as a large man or animal might do. He detected separate sounds.
There’s two of them in here, he thought. Asleep with full bellies.
Cork’s two synchronized moons moved overhead in their rapid night passage, lighting the clearing with a cool harvest glow. Feeling exposed in the doorway, Javik dropped silently to the deck. When the moons had passed, he rose and crept stealthily across the cabin.
Can’t risk a light, he thought, pushing debris on the deck away carefully with his foot. Maybe I can find Blanquie’s automatic pistol.
The rumbling breathing changed in cadence. Javik froze. Only one of them was breathing deeply now. The other was chugging rapidly, like a steam engine. Presently, the rapid breather joined the other in a symphony of deep breathing.
Javik emitted a sigh of relief, then tiptoed aft. He dropped to all fours, feeling along the corrugated metal floor for the sleeping compartment hatches. Feeling a fine powder on the surface, he paused to lift some to his nose. It smelled dull.
Now his groping fingers touched one hatch cover and, just aft of that, another. Still farther aft, he touched a third. This was Blanquie’s, the one he wanted. Javik mento-spun the little wheel that controlled the hatch, and heard the wheel’s metal parts grind too loudly.
A sleeper stirred, causing the ship to move.
Something heavy, Javik thought.
The deep breathing resumed its cadence.
Carefully, Javik lifted the hatch. It creaked, but did not disturb the sleepers. Then he dropped his legs over the edge into the compartment, probing down for the first rung of the ladder. He reached up and dropped the hatch cover without locking it, then descended to the floor of the compartment. A loose object was on the floor. His foot found it, sending him down with a thud that shook the ship.
He took a deep breath, listening with every pore and nerve of his body.
“Ahunga!” a deep, loud voice said from above. This translated across Javik’s language mixer pendant as: “What in the MoroHell?”
Javik tried to mento-lock the hatch, but felt no click in the back of his brain. That gun had better be in here, he thought. He mentoed on the light, feeling the brain click that told him his implanted mento unit was functioning. Corner ceiling lights flashed on, casting stark white shadows around the compartment. He tried mentoing the hatch lock again, but got no response.
While Javik searched the compartment, he heard an angry voice and a good deal of commotion in the cabin above.
Crash! Something fell up there. The shattering of glassplex followed.
“Over there!” another voice said from above. This voice was not nearly so deep as the other, and sounded female to Javik. “A light!” the voice said.
They spoke in a peculiar language, translated to Javik by the language mixer pendant around his neck. He touched the pendant for a moment, then mentoed off the compartment lights.
They saw a ring of light around the hatch, he thought.
“Now it’s gone!” the female voice said.
Javik groped in the darkness, opening cupboards and drawers. Finally he located the service pistol in a drawer, wrapped in a cotton shirt
The voices and movements were directly overhead now. “I saw it here someplace,” the
female voice said.
Javik checked the clip of the automatic pistol. It was loaded. He crouched in a corner, staring up at the pitch-black ceiling of the sleeping compartment.
“This thing opens,” the deep voice said. Javik heard the hatch mechanism turn.
If only I could mento the main cabin lights from here, Javik thought. Then I could see them when the hatch opens.
The hatch creaked open. The voices were near now. Javik saw four eyes above, glowing in the dark like red coals.
Not human, Javik thought. That’s for sure. His pulse quickened.
“In here,” the deep voice said.
“You’re going in?” the other asked.
Javik felt the floor shake as one of the intruders descended the ladder. Whatever it was moved athletically and heavily, with no hint of clumsiness. The odd, dull smell touched Javik’s nostrils again.
“Here somewhere,” the deep voice said from inside the compartment with Javik.
Javik held his breath for a moment that seemed like an eternity. Then he mentoed on the compartment lights. “Freeze!” Javik shouted as the lights went on. He trained his gun on the intruder.
Rebo coiled back on his haunches, staring at Javik with smoldering, startled eyes.
Javik was equally startled upon seeing a three-legged, hairy creature wearing a black leather jacket. Rebo held his long knife in one hand. He shifted it to the other menacingly, staring all the while at Javik with red, pupilless eyes. He took a step in Javik’s direction.
“Back!” Javik ordered.
Rebo took another step forward.
Javik aimed the gun at the pillow on Blanquie’s bed and fired. An orange flash shot out of the barrel, whacking a laser bullet into the pillow. The pistol crack was deafening.
Terrified, Rebo dropped his knife and leaped for the hatch ladder. He pulled himself up smoothly to the cabin level, then reached back to close the hatch.
Seeing what the creature had in mind, Javik fired again. A bullet grazed Rebo’s fingers, creasing and stinging them. He cried out in pain, then withdrew his hand. Javik heard him lumbering away.
The Garbage Chronicles Page 17
