The Adventures of Deacon Coombs (16 page)

I’obo continued to expand on the customs of Aralians in his high-pitched voice, providing Deacon with customary tips for tourists. He stated his firm opinion on the three best leads as to Travers’s whereabouts. “Lastly, the hills of Glagn, covered in deep snow at this time of year, make access next to impossible even in sleds unless you have a specific safe destination. The last reports indicated blinding snowstorms in the area, but Travers has been rumored to be there too. Perhaps he just moves about.”

A thin, gangly black Owler appeared with food. The colorful synthetic nourishment was tasty, although Deacon found the slimy texture quite repulsive. Deacon forced each gulp down, followed by a swig of spicy liquid. After feeding, they sat, legs bent, on brown fur rugs on the floor, as other furniture was scarce in the room.

I’obo then elaborated on Aralian customs. “Aralians place little value on worldly possessions; instead, our passion is outdoor recreation, which our bodies are naturally built for. We spend money on extracurricular events, either as a spectator or as a participant.” He described to Deacon an array of events ranging from an intellectual form of chess on ice to something resembling soccer with fifty players on the field at a time. But skiing on their bare-boned feet was the prime activity, whether downhill, freestyle, or cross-country. “Furthermore, Aralians love their outdoor habitats, so they shop at stores only by physically venturing there. Thus, stores are always crowded.

“I promise help to you should you require it, should you locate Travers. I vow to contact your Owler immediately if there are any additional sightings of the man. Aralian loyalties lie in history, and Travers’s family tree is rich in admirable deeds.” After some queries by Jim on local police procedures, they exchanged “
Washa-washa
s” and departed in the dark.

Meanwhile, in Inglesiss, Gem had secured lodgings. Other investigations by Gem into Travers’s whereabouts proved fruitless, and after Gem’s report, Jim said, “I shall prowl the streets tomorrow and show you how it is done, Gem!”

Deacon replied, “Too bad your human engrams don’t include humility.”

Jim snapped his slim form to attention. “Humility. The state of being humble; the absence of pride or self-assertion.”

Deacon laughed. “Yes, yes, we know. I am surprised that you do.”

The following day, the Owlers made plentiful stops in the morning. The range of the voice detector had limited ability to penetrate dwellings they passed in targeted neighborhoods. In addition, they stopped at inns, recreational slopes, and taverns that I’obo had suggested. With the voice probe on, nothing came close to Travers’s profile. That afternoon, while Jim assessed other leads, Deacon remained with Gem throughout in local police libraries until exhaustion overwhelmed him. Back at the inn, he felt bone-weary after forcing down two days’ worth of soggy, slithery Aralian fish and undercooked plants. He wasn’t even sure what constituted the accompanying white mush always served with the fish. Since the Owlers had no cure for vomiting, he suffered the hard way and was forced to remain at the inn while they continued the search. Deacon had already concluded that I’obo’s leads were long shots; finding Travers might have to take a twist. “Have Travers find us,” he said.

On the next day, when he arose, the Owlers had departed. It was very difficult for him to venture outside in the slippery streets, but twice he interrupted his readings to go out in the cool, invigorating air. Both times he was cognizant of Aralians standing across the street, examining him. His imagination smothered him as he convinced himself that these could be Travers’s spies and the search had already been turned against him. His stomach failed him, so he reached for a refuse container. The long days of forty-two Earth hours were also taking attacking his stamina.

Gem and Jim returned by midday. Important information was gathered by the Owlers on the individuals controlling the traders’ union. They checked many local places to hide, but with no encouraging results. Some of the more distant leads were checked by regional authorities with negative results. On the fourth day, Deacon sat inside to read the trial pages while Jim and Gem went on their rounds to verify what they described as a credible lead to locate Travers. After the Owlers departed, Deacon hatched a plan to force the issue of the two Aralians who were possibly sentries keeping vigil on him from across the street. If they were employees of Travers, he intended to verify it.

A dangerous jaunt

Deacon donned his boots and heavy snow gear, wrapping his scarf tightly to fight the biting cold of this gusty day. He was relegated to using the stifling, slow, noisy mechanical lift, as the stairwells were like the toboggan runs he knew from back home. As he laced up his mittens in the lobby, he satisfied a curiosity by conversing with the elderly, husky innkeeper, who smoked a pipe. “Villya, excuse me, sir, but I notice the empty picture frame with the Aralian flag draped over it. Does it have some significance?”

The innkeeper was gruff. Without the flinch of an eyelid or eye-to-eye contact, he retorted. “
Washa-washa
. Each Aralian is asked to remember the departed Como in his own accord. My fondest memories are from when he was not in power as our leader. Como did little for our economy and my business. Thus my flag sits on an empty frame to signify the glory days before Como took political power.”

Deacon was stunned. This Aralian had spoiled the image that he had formulated of Como. Deacon had come to believe that all Aralians mourned the loss of Como. And what about hospitality?
Villya
was the recognized universal greeting of respected friendship, but the innkeeper had snapped a
Washa-washa
to greet him instead. Was this rude?

“So you were not fond of Como?”

“Earthman, Aralians do not discuss our sacred politics with outsiders. Your question will not be answered. I speak for many Aralians when I speak of Como’s unpopularity.” He slammed a ledger shut and exited the lobby area, leaving Deacon alone and uncomfortable. Where was that omnipresent Aralian hospitality he had heard about?
Is
the
innkeeper’s
opinion
really
shared
by
other
Aralians
as
he
stated?
First
the
realization
of
Aralian
dishonesty
to
try
Travers,
and
now
this.

Deacon paused to take a deep breath before exiting the inn. Pushing the lightweight door open, he descended three steps to street level, where dirty, greasy mush spilled over the tops of his boots. His cheeks stung immediately from the crisp, dry air. It was late in the day, only a few hours of daylight left. Knowing that he should not prolong the exposure of his bare skin to the atmosphere, he paced briskly down the street and into a busy marketplace. A cluster of crude structures selling metal wares provided a brief interlude from the forceful wind gusts. His Earthling frame was taller than those of most of the natives, so he drew sharp glances.

The streets were narrow and slippery, all the dome-like buildings glittering with the last rays of sunlight. Windows were scarce, although the larger department stores each had one window display of goods to lure customers inside. Doorways were tight alcoves to minimize heat loss, so lines were common both outside and inside upon entry and departure. Erected on stone foundations, these structures rose five hundred feet into the sky. The oceans that brought moisture to Inglesiss were more than one thousand miles distant, so the air here was anhydrous.

Deacon looked down the street. It had been patted down smoothly from the intense traffic of Aralians skiing effortlessly by at high velocities. He immediately thought about how fortunate they were as a result of their lack of pollution from fuel-dependent vehicles. For an alien, it was difficult to find footing that would sustain balance, so he hugged the handclasps that were provided at the side of the street for foreigners. The spacing of the clips was inconvenient, and he found himself having to propel himself from clip to clip.

Inside his left mitten he carried a small mirror. Exposing it at eye level, he caught a glimpse of two Aralians walking twenty yards behind him. His heart raced. He feigned an interest in the skin coats in a window, and then, ambling as a tourist, he entered the shop. Inside the upside-down bowl, cherry-red heaters dangled and pumped waves of cool, refreshing air into the hemisphere, obviously an addition for tourists. He raised the mirror again, needing only a second to spy the twosome entering the store behind him.

In his excited state, his mind suddenly became bombarded with unfamiliar thoughts from the Aralians in proximity. He inhaled deeply, relaxed his mind, and set out to find a less crowded counter. A stabbing thought of Como pierced him from an approaching Aralian. He twirled around and saw a group of chatting Aralians heading his way, so he moved to an isolated corner, where he fondled fur balls, a favorite tourist buy of small stuffed animals, available in various colors. His legs ached; his mind was stimulated by incessant incomprehensible thoughts. Another non-Aralian started toward him, so he turned and scurried elsewhere. Over his shoulder was an exit. He shuffled toward it, but it proved to be no less challenging, as another bustling street confronted him. Twice he slipped; twice he calmly arose and spied the duo still in pursuit. Or was it them? All Aralians suddenly seemed to look alike in this congregation. Now his confidence was whipped. Same duo or not? He decided to make a confirming move.

Opposite him, a small shop sold hand carvings made from the soapy rocks of Aralia. Deacon spurted across at a pedestrian crossing for a closer look and entered. Then, as he cast a sideward look toward his examiners heading in his direction, he weaved a path to the back of the shop and exited into a crowded alleyway.

Here, in a mob of strange oxen-like creatures toting wares, he quickly positioned himself behind a shaggy six-legged animal hauling a carriage of goods. The melancholy face of the animal turned toward him, two sorrowful black eyes stabbing from behind a mat of black fur. The long, odiferous coat of the underbelly provided Deacon excellent cover from the Aralians.

The vigil was short-lived, as the two pursuers entered the street and stood in the alley, looking back and forth for him. He had confirmed his suspicions. It was impossible for him to discern male Aralians from females, although Aralians routinely performed this function by smell. Scant cloth covered only the sex organs at the base of the torso, while the more sensitive Aralians wore kerchiefs over the small opening of the respiratory cavity at the neck. These two wore the same black cloth and kerchiefs as the twosome that he had spied previously.

It was time to turn the tables in this case. After long, hard days of receiving no rewards on Aralia, Deacon reluctantly decided that this was worth a chance. Perhaps, one or both would lead him to an accomplice of Travers. Patience was required, as numbing cold penetrated his hands and feet. He jumped up and down behind the bullock to keep warm as the two separated. He checked to make sure he had his signalet in his pocket in case the Owlers required a summons.

A split-second decision had to be made. He chose to follow the slightly smaller of the two, trailing the Aralian cautiously through the dimly lit winding lanes of gummy gray snow. Long shadows began to engulf the sinewy avenues; he was careful to stop and look behind for the other Aralian to ensure that his own plan was not a setup. His heavy, moisture-laden eyelids strained to stay open. Returning to the inn was quickly becoming a problem because of the circuitous series of turns he had captured in his mind.

Voices of passing Aralians squealed curt greetings of “
Washa-washa
” to him, as his bundling could not disguise his true identity as an Earthman. He remained far enough behind the prey to feel secure, though not close enough at each corner. Then panic set in.

As he turned a corner, he found he had lost his quarry. Immediately he retreated into the indented cover of a storefront leading to a closed shop, casting an intense gaze up and down the frozen, deserted, misty purple lane of shop facades. No one appeared ahead; it was eerily silent. Even the incessant squawking of Aralians was absent. With no street lights at this point, the white winter wonderland was suddenly transformed into a ghostly, daunting apparition.

Deacon thought he knew his route back to the inn, so he paused to formulate the series of turns in his mind, bending down to sketch his remembrance in the gritty snow. Then he heard the unmistakable swishing sound of an Aralian’s bare-boned feet on ice; it resonated in his ears. Peeking out into the road, he saw that a bluish hue covered the snow; the sound ceased. Farther down the street, shop owners sealed their places with a succession of thuds. With darkness arriving, he had to return to the inn immediately.

Hurriedly, he stepped along, faster and faster, his body not aware of the extended exposure to the climate. As he breathed heavily in short bursts, he found that the streets were familiar to him, the series of turns he had taken was correct to a corner he decided to stop at. While halting to catch his breath, he blew hot air onto his hands and then cupped his mittens to create a pocket of warm air for his forehead and cheeks. The distinct sound of swishing suddenly came close behind him and filled his senses. He halted, and the sound too came to a sudden stop as a spike of fear raced up his spine.

With a surge of courage, he turned. The street was empty except for a couple chatting about one hundred yards away, moving in the opposite direction. He noticed that the street sloped down to a deserted intersection with a multitude of hiding places, so he dashed for the middle of the avenue and squatted behind an ice sculpture, lying prostrate, peeking around the end of the sculpture to look back down the street from where he had traversed. The cold bit at his forehead, his eyes now squinting, straining to see through the frost buildup around his eyelids.