In fact, Ian was quite glad to have the Twiller for protection. Though he had experienced a surreal amount of weirdness in his travels, Bez Erkeley ratcheted the bizarreness quotient up to a new level. Ian felt very strongly that, even for an unknown alien planet, the place was just weird.
For example, Ian had become accustomed to aliens of unfamiliar forms with unusual amounts of limbs wearing what appeared to be garish and outlandish clothing (or, often, no clothing at all). But what he was not prepared for was the sight of a bomb factory with a peace sign on it, or an alien leading a pair of clearly non-domesticated, dangerous-looking beasts through a dense crowd. Or packs of sign-wielding, protesting bicycle-riders that smugly dodged among huge, fast-moving hovercars, cursing the drivers of the behemoth vehicles—who had no way of seeing them from their lofty perches—whenever one of their brethren was crushed or sucked into the engine intake, which (to Ian’s satisfaction), was rather often. While the other things Ian had seen were indescribably alien, to be sure, only in Bez Erkeley were they so perplexing, incongruous, or flat-out insane.
Right then, Ian resolved to leave Bez Erkeley and the entire doomed planet on which he stood. Fortunately for Ian—whose thoughts about the planet turned out to be alarmingly prophetic—he was in fact able to find his way off the planet just before a massive earthquake (or whatever it would be called there) sundered the planet into pieces, totally destroying the cities of El Leigh and Bez Erkeley. In a strange twist of fate, a surprisingly large number of those cities’ residents would survive the apocalypse by having the good fortune to be in the relative safety of a non-moving aircar during the upheaval. However, on the down side, that meant the cataclysmic devastation would do nothing to improve the traffic situation whatsoever.
* * * * *
Part V
Ian resolved to formulate a plan for getting home. He now had a way to make some money, and he felt that he was finally starting to get his bearings in the Universe. (He was, of course, dreadfully wrong.) He figured that if he could survive the bizarreness of Bez Erkeley, he could survive anything. While this train of thought was indeed rather logical, Ian failed to account for the fact that he had only survived because he had the Twiller to protect him.
Nonetheless, Ian was confident as he strode into the shuttle docking station. He had spent the whole day placing Bibles in hotels and his credit chit showed a satisfyingly large number in its display. He walked up to a large display case, which held what appeared to be a three-dimensional map of the star system he was in. Ian figured this out by first noting that the planet in the center of the map had three moons, which he had observed at night. He then reckoned the distance from the system’s star—taking into account that it was a G5V-type yellow dwarf slightly cooler than our sun—and compared that to the temperature range he had encountered on the planet. Finally, he noted the big red arrow directly above the display with glowing neon words that read, “You Are Here.”
Unfortunately for Ian, the map only showed the local star system and a few very nearby stars. The section of the galaxy Ian was looking for was nowhere to be found. On the edges of the map, there was a small note that read “See next map,” with an arrow. Ian followed the arrow and walked a short distance to another map. Apparently, the maps were drawn to scale—the farther apart the star system, the farther away the maps were from each other. Ian dejectedly looked down the corridor, which continued as far as his eye could see in both directions. Even at the maps’ 1,000,000:1 scale, he could walk for his whole life and never even reach the map that included Earth. He looked to the Twiller, who did not appear to have any helpful suggestions. Ian supposed that its specialty was killing ravenous space dragons, not interstellar navigation.
Ian resolved to formulate a plan for getting home. He soon realized that he had already made the decision to formulate a plan at the beginning of the chapter, and now it was time for the actual formulation part, which is way harder.
On the plus side, Ian figured, he was in a spaceport. He also had a friendly twiller to protect him. That just about summed up the positives that Ian could think of.
As he pondered his situation, Ian’s cell phone rang again. He plucked it out of his pocket, no longer disconcerted by the fact that he appeared to get great reception on the other side of the Universe.
“Hello?”
There were a series of buzzes and clicks from the other end of the line. Then, finally, “Mr. Harebungler?”
“Yes,” said Ian.
“Very good. Exactly according to plan. I have to say, Mr. Harebungler, you really are doing quite well, for a civilian.”
“By being myself?”
“Indeed.”
“Who is this?” asked Ian, afraid that he already knew.
“I am afraid that you already know who this is, Mr. Harebungler. But, in any event, I can not tell you who this is, as my identity is classified. All you need to know is that I am with the NETSA.”
“Ah, yes. Colonel Sanders. It’s good to hear from you again.”
The voice on the other end of the line took on a harsher tone. “I thought I had made clear how classified this mission is, Mr. Harebungler.”
Ian held the cell phone up to look at the incoming number. It showed up as “Classified.” Ian shook his head. “I’m sorry, Colonel,” he said. “I haven’t told anyone about the herbs and spices.”
The Colonel’s tone turned downright icy. “This is no time for jokes, Harebungler. The future of humanity may be at stake.”
“Steak? Shouldn’t we all be eating chicken, sir?”
“If you don’t shape up, we may all find ourselves—”
“Deep-fried?”
“Keep it up. Meanwhile, our situation is likely to turn even more grave.”
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire, so to speak?”
“Dammit, man! Is this all a joke to you?”
Ian tried to control his laughter. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Colonel. It’s classified.”
The Colonel took a deep breath. “That’s better. Now, are you ready to get down to business?”
“Yes,” said Ian, in the most serious voice he could muster.
“Very good. Please stay by the phone, and wait for further instructions. Sanders out.”
“I thought your name was classified?”
“Dammit!” The line went dead.
Ian hung up and turned to the Twiller. He began to speak, but stopped. The Twiller was twilling into a tiny cell phone that hovered by its ear. Ian found it rather rude, and made an exaggerated display of checking his watch. Eventually the Twiller hung up. “Twill?” it asked.
“Oh, never mind,” Ian replied. “We had just better get going.”
“Twill?”
“Oh, I don’t know where. I mean, I know where, I just don’t know how to get there.” Just then, Ian had a revelation. “Follow me,” he said to the Twiller.
Ian rushed down the corridor to the nearest counter he could find. It was for Universal Spaceflights.
The cheery alien behind the counter greeted Ian with bright smiles from all seven of its mouths. “Welcome to Universal Spaceflights, the carrier that takes you to every corner of the Universe. Can I help you?” It appeared to be talking into the phone with another of its mouths.
“Hi. I’d like a ticket to Earth, please.”
“Earth? I’ve never heard of such a place. Where is it?”
“I have no idea,” Ian admitted. “I imagine it’s a very long way away.”
The alien started typing on its keyboard. It let out a low whistle from one of its mouths. “Earth? In the Sol System? That’s practically on the other edge of the Universe. No one flies there. There’s no reason to ever go there. But I have a great vacation package to the rings of Alstari VII—”
“No, thank you,” said Ian, and rushed off to the next service counter. After confirming with every counter in sight that no way, no how did anyone actually have any flights to somewhere as backwater and fa
r away as Earth, Ian walked a little ways until he saw a counter staffed by the most smug-looking alien he could find. Ian strode confidently toward it.
“Hello,” he said, “I would like to use my frequent-flier miles, please.”
The alien stiffened up and put on its most affronted face. (To do so, it actually removed the face it was wearing and fished around in a bag for a new one, which it put over its skull.) “Frequent flier miles? I’m sorry, sir … but we have very limited availability on all of our popular flights.”
“Uh-huh,” said Ian. “And I’d like to go … when’s the next major holiday around here?”
“The Festival of the Great Omnipresent Bob, of course,” the alien replied in its smarmiest voice.
“Very good,” said Ian. “I would like to leave the evening before the festival starts and return the morning after it ends. And I’d like a direct flight,” Ian added, just for good measure.
The alien became so affronted that it had to turn to another worker and ask to borrow an even more affronted face from a bag by its feet. “Well, I can almost assure you that all of the frequent-flier seats on the flight to your destination will be sold out. But I can check,” it added, “if you just tell me where you’d like to go.”
Ian tried to cover a small smile that escaped him. “I’m flexible. Why don’t you tell me what destinations are available?”
The alien seemed to grow more confident, thinking that the battle had been won. “Well, I’m afraid your choices are very limited.” It pretended to study a readout on its computer terminal, and frowned thoughtfully at various, well-planned intervals. “I mean, I’m sure the places we have available would not be places you want to—”
“Where?” asked Ian, trying to nonchalantly brush a tuft of white fur from his arm.
Ian caught just the faintest whiff of uncertainty from the alien, but it quickly recovered. “Only the furthest, most backwater—”
“Where?” Ian repeated.
“Earth!” the alien exclaimed in triumph. “In the Sol System. I doubt you’ve even heard of it. No reason that you should have, really. It’s quite far away, and on the side of the galaxy with the worst view, to boot.”
“Excellent,” said Ian. “I’ll take it.” He forked over his Gideon travel voucher for payment.
The alien was dumbfounded. It stuttered uselessly for several seconds. It fished through its bag to find its most dumbfounded face and actually ended up putting on two faces at the same time. It began to sweat a corrosive acid that hissed softly as it spattered on the counter. The Twiller hovered behind Ian for protection.
“Here—here you go,” stammered the alien as it handed Ian a ticket. “Your flight leaves in four days.”
Ian tucked the ticket into his pocket and allowed himself a slight smile. For a moment, he felt that he might miss the strange experiences he had lived through on his travels, and he wondered what he would do with the Twiller. But, at the same time, he remembered how he had left the gas on at home, and he was looking forward to getting home so that he could turn it off, or possibly cash a very large insurance check.
. . . . .
Ian was sitting in the spaceport trying to nap four days away when the Twiller got his attention by ramming into his forehead. It was twilling rather urgently.
“What—what is it? I’m trying to sleep.”
“Twill,” it said, motioning its whole body down the corridor. “Twill twill.”
“Right now?” Ian asked, peripherally surprised that he had understood what the Twiller was saying. “We need to go that way right now?”
The Twiller made one quick, affirmative vertical bob and then headed down the corridor quicker than Ian had ever seen it move. He hurried to catch up, dodging alien travelers with none of the ease of the Twiller. The Twiller stopped abruptly at a set of doors exiting the spaceport, uselessly trying to hover in front of the sensor. Ian walked up and the doors opened. The Twiller zoomed outside.
“Wait!” called Ian. “But my flight! I know it’s in four days, but I don’t want to take any chances on missing it. This is hardly the time for a little trip.”
The Twiller, however, was not waiting to listen to Ian. Ian felt, for one hurt moment, that the Twiller had only roused him from his nap and brought him along so that he could trip the sensor and open the doors. Curious, and afraid to be without his only companion, Ian dutifully followed the Twiller away from the spaceport and into a taxi that the Twiller seemed to be a fan of.
“Where to?” asked the driver.
“Twwwiiiillllllllllllllll,” replied the Twiller, drawing out the sound. Ian took this to mean that they should go a long way away, and felt a twinge of dread. He looked to the Twiller, who looked back at him with eyes even wider than normal, which was saying something.
“Please just take us away from here,” Ian said. “Quickly,” he added for good measure.
It was probably the “quickly” that saved Ian’s life.
. . . . .
The aircab sped away from the spaceport, and Ian looked out the back window with a heavy feeling of despondency. Somehow he knew that the Universe had just conspired against him getting home. It was a pretty helpless feeling. Sure, you could fight the Universe, but at last count the Universe had a record of 9,478,987,652,978,261–0, with 9,478,987,652,978,261 knockouts.
“So,” asked the alien driver, casually swiveling one of its heads back to look at Ian while the other remained admirably focused on the text message it was sending, “where are we heading today?”
“Um,” Ian replied, trying to think of somewhere to go. His Twiller friend seemed to be convinced that they needed to get away from the spaceport in particular, and Bez Erkeley in general, and in fact the entire planet even more generally. Ian somehow felt the Twiller convey a sense of impending doom, as if something catastrophic were about to happen to the planet, and Ian, once again, resolved to get as far from it as possible.
“Um?” repeated the driver. “I’ve never heard of it. Is that near El Leigh?”
“NO,” said Ian, more forcefully than necessary. “What I mean is—”
Just then, Ian happened to look out the window and noticed a billboard. Actually, the fact that Ian noticed a billboard was not all that coincidental. After all, billboards dotted every spare inch of space around the route the aircar was traveling, and they each flashed bright, attention-grabbing electronic messages at the viewer. Some of the more audacious billboards actually floated toward the cab and followed it for a while, or even darted right in front of the windshield, obstructing the driver’s view. Of course, the driver hardly seemed to notice. He was pretty engrossed in his cell phone.
What was slightly coincidental was that one of the billboards vying for Ian’s attention was for “Yeehaw Wormhole Junction,” and it promised “Exciting Travel Opportunities for Spontaneous Travelers” and “Relatively Low Chances” of sudden death by emerging in a black hole or the vacuum of space.
That sounded pretty good to Ian. “Yeehaw Wormhole Junction, please,” he asked. “And step on it,” he said, just because it was something he had always wanted to say.
The cab driver obliged, sending the aircab zooming at a speed that hurled Ian back into the seat cushion, and nearly struck one of the more obnoxious billboards in front of the windshield. Within a few minutes, the aircab descended and slowed as they approached their destination. “Here you are, sir,” said the cabbie.
“Thanks very much,” said Ian, handing his credit chit to the driver. For a moment, he thought about giving the cabbie a nice tip, for his courteous service. In a moment of clarity, or perhaps extreme cheapness, he instead decided there was no point in leaving a tip for someone about to be killed as his planet exploded.
“Look,” Ian said as he stepped out of the cab, “I actually have an important tip for you. This planet may have a serious existence problem sometime in the next few minutes.” Ian gathered his robe around him as he looked to the darkening skies.
“A
n existence problem?” asked the cabbie.
“Yeah, like it won’t be for much longer. I’m serious,” he added.
The cabbie thought for a second. “You must be, to be using this place.” He jerked a thumb at Yeehaw Wormhole Junction.
“Well, good luck then,” Ian replied, then turned back. “Say, it’s funny, I had to travel trillions of miles to finally meet a courteous cab driver. Where are you from, anyway?” Ian shivered, his white robe fluttering in the gathering breeze.
“Long Island,” he replied, and sped off.
. . . . .
Ian watched the cab ascend into the billboard jungle, then turned to Yeehaw Wormhole Junction. The place was tiny. On the way over, Ian had seen several dozen billboards for the place, and thought it must be some huge, very popular tourist attraction. He had visions of long lines at the entrance gates and a giant, futuristic wormhole generator that produced a swirling, colorful sci-fi vortex, like he had seen in Babylon 5. Instead, what he saw was a small white trailer, with a cheap vinyl sign that read “Yeehaw Wormhole Junction.” Below it, in only slightly smaller letters, it said, “Clean Restrooms Inside.”
Ian shrugged and walked inside.
The place was deserted. A couple of small shelves of brochures leaned against one wall, almost put there as an afterthought. There was a drink machine that appeared to be out of order. And a small counter against one wall of the small room, behind which sat a listless alien. Just to the left of the counter was a small machine sitting on an old wooden pedestal at about waist height. The machine looked a bit like a small, worn-out video projector.
The Twiller Page 7
