The Adventures of Deacon Coombs (18 page)

Quobit was concerned. “Schlegar informed me of the others before you. Their fates are unknown. They may have suffered death.”

“I realize that, Quobit. Gem, Jim, what do you know of others before me? Did you and Jim travel with them?”

“No, sire.” Gem spoke confidently. “We have no knowledge of the identities of the other investigators. You must understand that we are sworn to perform our duty only to you, so we will not allow you to meet Travers alone.”

Deacon took charge. “There is another alternative. I have an idea to deceive Travers and allow you to carry out your mission. Gem, are there any Owlers similar to you in Glagn?”

“Yes, they are in the employ of the Alliance police. Jim and I also observed one such Owler in Inglesiss.”

“Then contact I’obo for his assistance. Ask him to find an exact replacement for you and secure it for our team, Gem. Have it arrive soon in identical garb to yours. When Travers or his henchmen arrive to escort me to their hideout, they will see Jim and your identical replacement. They are also unaware of Quobit.”

“Deacon, I can ride with Gem and track you using the voice recorder. It has long-range finding capabilities, does it not?”

Deacon nodded to Quobit as Jim piped up. “Perhaps I shall follow too. I will travel behind Gem and Quobit as backup.”

“No, Jim. You must remain here with the duplicate Gem to contact I’obo if one of the three of us goes missing, so I’obo can launch rescue operations. This will also give the impression to Travers’s men that I have traveled alone.” Deacon demanded loyalty to his plan as Jim resisted, so finally he ordered Jim to obey. Gem departed to contact I’obo to secure the replacement and initiate the plan. Then the waiting game began.

Just as Deacon’s metabolism fell into a lull the next morning, an Aralian, who could have passed for any Aralian with sloppy hair and naked foot bones, appeared at the doorstep of their cabin. Insisting on a consultation with Coombs, he said, “You and you alone must travel with me. The Owlers stay here under guard to signify your faith in Travers.”

Deacon affirmed. The Aralian’s comment confirmed that they did not know about Quobit or Gem’s replacement.

In the hills of Glagn

When the time came, Deacon descended the stairs into the primitive vehicle, a quiver in his guts and anxiousness in his manner. Meanwhile, Gem, occupying a power sled with Quobit on board, was ready to follow. Deacon knew the risk. In the cruel weather of Aralia, few Owlers navigated, for they were prone to freezing and ruining their batteries should the sled become disabled and the heater disengaged.

Inside his power vehicle, the two Aralians sat in front while he felt jailed in the back. There was no way to determine if these were the same two Aralians that had followed him in Inglesiss. They both required haircuts; he could not see the eyes of either through the drooping hair. It was too late to turn back. They sped to Travers.

The rubbery black pontoon glided on a cushion of air. It wasn’t long before Deacon had lost all sense of direction. He tried to probe the minds of these Aralians but found no energy to receive. Eventually they left the flat-lying lowlands to enter a winter wonderland of high-relief elevations. Here in the alpine terrain, he noticed factories with disgusting black and yellow chemical emanations—the first factories he had seen on Aralia. This gave him a good excuse to look out the back for Gem and Quobit’s sled and inquire of his escorts what products were manufactured there. Although he tried to perpetuate a conversation, the Aralians ignored him, but he persisted with questions to keep contact with Gem open. Snow flew up from the back of the craft. No sign of any followers. The probability of Gem capturing his voice diminished as the Aralian silence pervaded.

They soared over hills and gullies for hours, Deacon poorly adjusting to the rolling motion of the craft, praying for a rest stop to relieve his pangs of nausea. Instead the Aralians administered some gum to him to relieve his ill effects. He continued to attempt to make idle chat to provide Quobit with a reasonable chance to follow. The craft decelerated as it approached the mouth of a narrow ravine leading to an escarpment. Then it powered its way up the slope, Deacon being jostled about in the tiny quarters. As the sled accelerated, Deacon became aware of the constant drone inside as he reclined to lessen the jostling. The driver switched into an even higher gear as they passed through a veil of foggy snow. The computer issued a warning just as the sled bumped, and bumped again.

One of the occupants leaned back to Deacon to say, “Avalanche. They are frequent in these hills at this time of year. We must hurry or be buried alive.”

Quobit!
Gem!
he thought. Deacon strained in consternation to see any signs, but outside was a furious white hell. Although his companion was only an Owler, Deacon could not help but fear for Gem’s safety. The network of steel and wires and logic had become his closest link to sanity. He had actually developed a fondness for the Owler twosome.
Funny,
is
this
what
my
life
has
come
to?
To
having
genuine,
strong
feelings
for
Owlers?
Is
this
evolution?
An
excellent
question
to
answer
in
a
future
dissertation
of
my
memoirs.
And he cared for Quobit. He silently prayed for their safety.

The computer pilot thrust the carriage in sharp angled turns to the left, then the right, avoiding debris. The seatbelts cut into his stomach and shoulders, momentarily scraping against his neck wound. Higher and higher they climbed, the inclination of the vehicle growing steep, until finally a magnificent view of the scenery was served over a sea of gray and white clouds below as they leveled off.

The sled sped at incredible speeds toward the apex. Then, with no warning, they veered right into thick woods, the first forest that Deacon had seen on this planet. The vegetation consisted largely of contorted trees with spindly branches reaching into the heavens, resembling the pines of Orchardy. The snow was covered with beds of green needles. After more hours of silence, the craft halted in front of an ominous gaping hole in the side of a sheer cliff. Deacon stumbled as he exited, motioning away any assistance for help. But the twosome pushed him forward toward the entrance. Inside the adit, a warm buffer of air hit him. The breeze carried a fragrance that smelled like fresh strawberries. A narrow tunnel led into a massive central cavern with a series of smaller caves around the perimeter. Here hundreds of Aralians gathered to stare at him, a few other alien types in the background. His entrance triggered a silence. He was wobbly after the backbreaking ride, feeling much like a spy among guerrillas as he eyed many of the troops, marching forward step by step into danger. One rather hefty-looking fellow strode forward to greet him. He carried more weight than Deacon had seen on any other Aralian, with a huge gut hanging over his belt.
“Villya
,
Deacon Coombs. So honored that you accepted our invitation.”

“What invitation?” Deacon said. He added a reluctant “Villya.”

“I am Chebby Eaves, called Chubby by your Earthling trader friends for obvious reasons.”

Deacon questioned his decision to come but decided to play it all business. “Thank you. I only came because I was told that I would have a meeting with Travers.”

“Yes, you shall, but let us converse first.”

As he offered a rebuttal, the portly, pigeon-toed man turned and led Deacon through the crowd of Aralians. It seemed as though he and Eaves were parting a sea, as the onlookers all stood back to let them pass. They entered into another large cavern filled with the odors of food. From here Deacon was escorted to a small, cramped, low-ceilinged cave with only enough seating for six comfortably. There he and Chubby quietly sipped tea. The lighting was dim, provided by a small fire in the middle of the room. A small fan directed the smoke out of the cave.

Travers

In a skittery voice, Chubby said, “Travers is here. He will join us shortly. First I must warn you that his health fails him. We do everything we can to keep him alive.”

“How can I be sure that this is really Travers?”

“There is no need to keep a voice scanner secret from us. If you have one, use it! We wish you to be certain that this is Travers before he recounts his tale as truth.”

Deacon unzipped his parka and extracted the small device and connected it to his handheld. As he did so, a small, withered, silver-haired Aralian entered. Where the being’s skin was exposed it was severely wrinkled, as on the multiple-digited hands and on the top of the head and torso. The eyes were a deep red, protruding abnormally out of their sockets just as Temisori’s did. While other Aralians spoke in crisp tones, this one’s words were slurred.

“Yourrrr quest for me has ended.”

Deacon turned the voice scanner on. He examined this being for the scar on the thigh and found it; a finger was stunted, as Schlegar had described. The chip in his foot was obvious. Deacon initiated the conversation. “It seems that you have the best of me, Travers, since I struggled to find you while you sat back and waited for your moment of contact. Your spy network is very efficient.”

Travers chuckled while Chubby roared with laughter. Chubby grinned, his shiny white teeth exposed through fur, and he answered Deacon as he shook the mop on his head. “Quite accidental, my dear fellow. We wish our spy network to be so efficient, but we discovered you quite by accident. You see, Deacon Coombs, it was not you that our comrades recognized at the port of entry in Froora, but rather your traveling companions, the two Owlers. This model of Owler is well known throughout the universe as the ultimate form of security on Earth, the top of the line in quality. They are purchased even by other races, including Aralians. So, naturally, our curiosity was piqued.”

Chubby was animated, gesturing with his arms. “Why, their companion must be someone of importance. Who are they guarding? Who is this innocuous-looking little man? Our records showed that the innocent being we unmasked was Bothwen. But why should two Owlers of such weighty credentials accompany an administrator? Imagine our surprise when sources on Earth informed us that Bothwen had only a neoteric history, entered into logs recently. Our investigation into this matter continued. It was the night when you followed our spies that we found you out to be Deacon Coombs. Up to that point, we thought you to be Bothwen and we planned to capture you to obtain your true identity. So you see, it was quite by accident that we discovered that you are no other than the detective of universal fame Deacon Coombs.” Chubby and Travers snorted wildly.

“Then, once we had your true persona, Travers and I assumed whom you are searching for. So you see, we found you quite by accident with some loose deductions.”

A great relief fell over Deacon, for if this was the case, he surmised they might not know of his visit to Brebouillis, or of Quobit’s presence. Deacon was blunt. “I have been commissioned by the High Council to interrogate Travers with respect to the recent deaths of Como and Geor, and the mishap of the
Sleigher
.”

“Ah, can there be no rest for me?” Travers sobbed as he sat down, crossed his legs, and motioned Deacon to sit beside him.

“Let me be honest with you, Travers,” Deacon said. “The Alliance has good reason to suspect you of wrongdoings, since Geor was preparing your retrial and Como publicly blasphemed you, and you commanded the
Sleigher
.” Deacon addressed him with the firm mandate of the Alliance behind him.

“Not g-g-g… guilty!” Travers replied sharply.

Chubby intervened. “The people of Aralia have always respected Travers. He has served as the head of the Union of Space Traders with dignity. He is innocent of all these manufactured charges; he does not support the blaggards who scar the reputation of the union. Travers is bred from a long line of distinguished members of his family.”

Chubby moved closer to Deacon. “We traders are a rough lot. You have to be to spend that much time in space battling bad weather, unsavory types, and ruthless traders. We Aralians are a particularly tough breed because the rest of the Alliance depends on us. The union was not designed for weak stomachs and bleeding hearts. We are all a crusty lot. Travers is no exception from his days in travel. But the governing board of the traders’ union has never sanctioned killing, smuggling, theft, arms sales, and abetting insurgents. The traders who carry out these acts are in our disfavor, and Travers and I fight this element within. To further accuse Travers of the murders of Como and Geor—this is ludicrous.”

“And how will you convince me of this?”

“You are a deee… detective. You shall have your proooooof.” He paused for effect before adding, “If you d-d-d-d… dare.” Travers petrified Deacon with the last three words as he raised his head and gazed directly into Deacon’s eyes. Deacon used the voice decoder again to confirm Travers’s identity.

Chubby spoke with respect. “Travers’s speech has been impaired since his last voyage on the
Sleigher
, but the mind is sharp. His health could be better, but he has stamina. He has aged beyond his years because of the trauma of the
Sleigher
’s voyage, but Travers will not die until he has proven his innocence.”

“What did Travers mean when he said, ‘if you dare’?”

Chubby grinned and then whispered in Deacon’s ear. “The devil has materialized in our world. Yes, Coombs, the devil. An alien so powerful that we hide here in Glagn in fear from him. However, Travers has seen him and has a plan to free himself of the charges and smoke the devil out of his wretched hiding place.” Deacon’s eyes were wide as he looked back at Chubby. Chubby smirked. “Yes, yes, I say the truth; he has seen the devil himself. And Deacon Coombs, I know this is ironic, considering your mission, but we desperately require your help.”