Glory Lane

  “Right, buddy boy. You just believe that.” Seeth sat up. “Hey, sweetcakes, how about ringing up the men’s department for a while?”

  “Okay. I don’t like this outfit anyway.” The holo­graphic duplicate of the platinum dress rejoined its wall-bound brethern.

  Seeth hopped off the bed and walked over to stand next to her. “Leather. I want the leather department. Or what­ever you call it around here. And studs. Lots of studs, and make ‘em, if it’s not too expensive, gold. Yeah, gold studs.”

  “Yes sir,” said the communicator. Static filled the wall. Kerwin muttered something under his breath.

  “Hey, man, why don’t you trade in those old jeans?”

  “These old jeans are perfectly satisfactory,” Kerwin shot back. He walked over to the communicator and helped himself to one of the syrup containers. It chilled instantly.

  It was absurd, of course. Shopping was not the most important thing in the universe. He stood there pondering this inanity until something like a cross between a tuxedo and Robin Hood’s jerkin appeared on the wall. At that point something went blotto inside his brain. The destruc­tion was localized enough for him to turn and speak coherently.

  “Wait a minute. Let’s see if they’ve got that in my size.”

  7

  Hours later Kerwin still wasn’t ready to credit shopping with being the most important activity one could indulge in, but it made for a nice diversion. It was pleasant for all three travelers to be functioning on the same wavelength for the first time since they’d been thrown together, to feel a part of the same thing even if it was nothing more than catalog sales. It didn’t quite link them on a serious emo­tional level, but it did show that they had something in common besides age, language, and species.

  Nor was the communicator restricted to clothing. They were able to order up ample food and drink, all of it synthesized as it had been on Rail’s ship, and all of it equally delicious and satisfying. Kerwin was even able to solicit a mild compliment or two from Miranda because of his skill in explaining those nutritional requirements that the communicator couldn’t quite translate. They even tried a few alien dishes, daily specials compatible with their physiology. Some of the consequent taste sensations were exhilarating.

  When Miranda finally decided it was time to stop shop­ping and try on some of the clothing she’d actually purchased, Kerwin and Seeth discovered that the holowall could be entertaining as well as useful, a real mixed-media entertainment center—though some of the media was so mixed as to be unrecognizable. Eventually Kerwin found watching Miranda more absorbing. This left Seeth free to play with the unit until he found he could order up musical instruments as easily as clothes.

  He gleefully ran through a seemingly endless catalog of devices, from synthesizers no bigger than a harmonica to drums the size of an earthmover.

  “I’m gonna forget the band, man. With a couple of these gadgets I can be my own band.”

  “Don’t get carried away.” Kerwin indicated the com­municator. “Don’t you think it’s about time we started trying to use this for some serious purposes? For instance, we’re in the middle of a transgalactic war. Maybe it’s time we tried to learn something about it, like how it got started and how long its been going on. Maybe we can make a difference, somehow. Technically, we’re neu­trals. What do you say?”

  Miranda shook her head. “Can’t do that. At least, not now. Something more important to take care of first.”

  Kerwin looked back at her. “Like what?”

  “Oh, come on. You mean you can’t see it?” She indicated the small mountain of packages. “I mean, shoes. Like, I’m short half a dozen pairs for the outfits I’ve bought and there’s no way, I mean no way, I can wear them without the right shoes.”

  “Right,” said Kerwin tersely. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. I give up, I quit.” He walked over to the big bowl of exotic candy that the communicator had produced and dug in angrily. He was munching what tasted like a cross between chocolate cream and raspberry trifle when the door appeared in the front wall to admit someone from the hall beyond.

  It wasn’t Rail. The human-sized rodent had an ex­tremely long tail ending in a furry pad that the owner used to stroke his head and pat his shoulders. It was dressed in a stiff brown suit decorated with isolated gold stars. The face was flat and oddly humanoid, buck teeth and whiskers and projecting ears notwithstanding.

  He glanced quickly around the room, not missing the piles of food and clothing.

  “Geez, don’t you people ever knock?” muttered Seeth.

  “Don’t have to knock.” The rodent adjusted the headset he wore. Portable translator, Kerwin decided immediately. “I am Taumun, floor manager for this section of the hotel, and I have something for you. Compliments of the management.”

  “Great, another present.” Seeth sat on the edge of the bed. “What is it?”

  By way of reply, their visitor held up a long strip of what looked like Scotch Tape. As it twisted slightly in the air conditioning, Kerwin thought he could see what might be some kind of writing imbedded in the otherwise trans­parent material.

  “Your bill, people.” Taumun’s attitude was nothing if not correctly formal. “You have gone way over your credit limit and the hotel therefore is within its rights in requesting that you bring it up to date before additional sums may be charged to your room account.”

  Seeth looked over at Kerwin, who shrugged, then back to the rodent. “I don’t understand, whiskers. I thought our credit rating had been established.”

  “So it was, but,” and Taumun flipped the tape so that it rolled itself into a coil, “you have long since exceeded that rating with your multiple orders to the kitchen, the confectionery, the bar, and various outside shops.”

  “Not much leeway, is there?” Kerwin was desperately trying to stall for time.

  “That’s your business, people. Now, which of yous would like to bring this account up to time of moment? Whence done I will depart and leave you to your enjoy­ment. Well?”

  Kerwin continued praying for the help that was not forthcoming. “I don’t understand. See, the guy you need to talk to is Mr. Rail.”

  Rodent eyes narrowed. “Whom?”

  “Rail, Arthwit Rail. The Prufillian who brought us here. It’s his credit rating you’re calling into question.”

  The manager’s whiskers twitched and his muzzle re­tracted slightly. “No Arthwit Rail is registered to this room or this entire hotel.”

  “That’s impossible. Who established the credit rating we’ve been using?”

  “The level was automatically registered when you took possession of this room. I assume it was yous who did so.”

  “No, no, there’s some confusion here,” Kerwin went on worriedly. “See, this fellow Arthwit Rail, he set us up here in this room and told us he’d be establishing credit for us to make purchases with. I’m sure he’ll be back any minute and we can clear this up. By tonight, at least.”

  “Is already tonight,” said Taumun primly. “Deadline for ordering your account has been several hours passed already.”

  “So what’s a few hours?” Kerwin told him lamely. “What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal,” replied the manager, as the translator demonstrated its facility with colloquialisms, “is the tab you’ve run up. Expensive clothing, candies, drinks, all manner of luxuries. This matter needs be settled now or there will follow consequences.”

  “I’m sure Rail will be back soon.”

  The rodent’s muzzle contracted. “Who is the Rail you keep referring to? If any of you would care to bring your account into balance, I will retire happily. If not...”

  “Wait, wait a minute.” Kerwin walked over and dragged his wallet from his pocket. It took him a minute to find his Visa card. “How about this?”

  Taumun took it in one furry hand, examined both sides and, before Kerwin could stop him, took a bite out of the plastic. He passed it back with a corner missing, sound
ed thoughtful. “Tasty, but not very nutritional, I’m afraid. You cannot bribe me with a cookie.”

  “What can we bribe you with, ratso?” asked Seeth casually.

  “You are impertinent. Which fact I will overlook, if you pay up.”

  “We don’t have any money,” said Miranda. “I mean, I’ve got my American Express but I guess that won’t be any better, huh?”

  “Maybe it’d taste better,” Seeth suggested.

  “Thank you, but I am not hungry,” the manager said primly.

  “What do you guys use for money here, anyway?” Seeth asked him.

  “There are any number of recognized credit chips and lines. I don’t suppose you have contacts with the Ferrif of Placon?”

  “Hang on, I’ll check.” Seeth strolled over to whisper to Kerwin. “Come on, you’re supposed to be the bright boy here. Think of something.”

  Kerwin glared at him, looked back at the manager. “What about using our belongings as security?”

  Taumun looked dubious. “What sort of belongings?”

  “Our clothes, I guess.”

  “If you refer to the attire currently in use, that would not secure a drink of water in this establishment. If you refer to the items already purchased, those will be held until such time as your hotel bill has been paid.”

  “Hey, you mean I spent all that time shopping and I don’t even get to keep anything?”

  “Life’s a bitch, sugarlips,” Seeth said.

  “Besides which,” Taumun continued, “we are in the hotel business, not retail sales. I can only accept recog­nized credit.”

  Kerwin sat down on one of the beds. “We’re all just going to have to wait until Arthwit Rail returns.”

  “Au contraire, sir. I have no proof that your mysterious Mr. Rail even exists. I am very much afraid I am going to have to ask you to vacate these premises.”

  “Leave?” What had begun as confusing had suddenly turned serious. “We’ve no place to go. We’re strangers here and we don’t have any money. If we did, we’d give it to you.”

  “Your personal difficulties are not my concern.”

  “Just a few hours. I’m sure Rail’ll be back by then.”

  “Hang tight, I’ve got an idea.” Seeth turned toward the back of the room. “Hey, Izmir, come on over!”

  The Astarach had been hugging the ceiling. Now it spread itself wide like an ambulatory parasol and drifted toward them. Seeth put a comradely arm around the near­est portion of the fluttering mass.

  “This here’s Izmir the Astarach, the most valuable—“

  “Seeth!” Kerwin said warningly. “We can’t...”

  The smaller man glared at him. “We can’t what, man? This Rail dude whips us halfway across the galaxy, dumps us here, disappears, and when we’re about to get kicked out in the street he ain’t nowhere to be found. So, screw him.” He looked back at Taumun and smiled. “This Izmir’s maybe the most valuable thing in the whole uni­verse, see? How’s that for security?”

  The rodent twirled a whisker and glanced sideways at the suspended enigma. “He doesn’t look particularly valu­able. The levitation trick is neatly done but hardly unique.”

  “Tell you what,” Seeth continued, “you keep him as security on this room until our old buddy Rail gets back.”

  “I am sorry. Personally I should like to help you out, but as I said, we are not in the barter business.”

  Seeth removed his arm from Izmir, who promptly drifted back up to the ceiling. He hovered there, surveying the goings-on below out of his blue eye, as Seeth leaned back onto the other bed.

  “Tell you what, then, bignose. We’re just going to stay here, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. So you might as well go back to your nest, or whatever it is, and we’ll all keep calm until Rail returns.”

  “I must ask that you leave now.”

  “Leave? You mean, like, get out?” Miranda asked him.

  Taumun frowned at his translator headset. “I thought that was what I said.”

  “Sorry, cheese-eater, we ain’t movin’.” Seeth crossed his arms and leaned back, luxuriating in the softness of the suspension field.

  Five minutes later they were standing on one of the mall-like boulevards fronting the hotel, watching morosely as well-dressed guests moved freely through the entrance. Seeth would have gladly given Taumun a fight, but the manager had unsportingly called upon the assistance of a couple of ursine types just small enough to squeeze through the hallways—provided they advanced one at a time, in single file. This pair of intelligent mammoths had gently deposited them outside the hotel, though not before quietly assuring them that next time they wouldn’t be handled quite so politely.

  The Terran trio were left with the clothes on their backs and the few small articles they’d been able to hastily cram into their pockets prior to their summary ejection. Seeth lamented the fact that they’d been removed before he had a chance to swipe one of the hotel towels—assuming there were any towels to swipe.

  Kerwin wished now that, instead of letting himself be drawn into the flurry of useless shopping, he’d taken the time to shower and brush his teeth. Feeling dirty as well as discouraged, he sat down on the smooth, almost slick pavement. It looked like pink foam. Seeth leaned back against the wall, balancing himself on one foot while regarding the passing crowd.

  Miranda crossed her arms. “Well I don’t think it’s very nice of them, not very nice at all. What a way to treat people! Back in Houston they wouldn’t rate a single star.”

  “I’m sure the entire company is trembling in their col­lective shoes,” Kerwin muttered.

  “All those beautiful clothes.” She sighed. “You’d think we weren’t going to pay, or something. I’ve never been so insulted in all my life.”

  “I just want to see our buddy again.” Seeth was repeat­edly, methodically slamming a fist into an open palm. “Our friend Arthwit Rail. Our good neighbor. Our rescuer. I’m going to smash his funny little teeth down his funny little throat.”

  “Save it,” Kerwin snapped at him.

  Izmir the Astarach had twisted himself into a crude parody of Seeth. He likewise leaned up against the wall, long blue legs extending from a black body. He was slam­ming a blue fist into a blue palm while yellow lines of force climbed up and down his limbs. Each time quasi-fist met pseudo-palm, lightning flared at the contact point and miniature thunder rumbled along the wall, disorienting the occasional hotel guest.

  “He’ll be back,” Kerwin reminded his companions. “Izmir’s with us, remember?”

  The Astarach glanced over at him at the mention of his name. Folding arms and legs up into his body he assumed a pyramidal form, turned upside down and began spinning like a giant top.

  “Man, are you dumb.”

  Kerwin looked up in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

  “Dumb. D-u-m-b. Read my lips, college boy. What if he ain’t coming back? So we got Izmir here. What if our good buddy Rail’s decided Izmir’s not good for anything after all? Remember, we don’t know how much of what we’ve been told is for real and how much was invented inside of golf-course-head’s brain. We’ve got only his word for everything we’ve heard. Maybe he made it all up to save his own skinny neck. Maybe Izmir’s like nothing more than a religious token or something.

  “Maybe they can track this Izmir after all. He can put out a lot of energy when he wants to. These Oomemian guys have been tracking him somehow. All those little rings and lines of energy exploding out of him all the time. Think about what this Rail’s done: gone and brought us to this Nedsplen place where you can’t talk anybody else’s jive without a machine to translate, stuck us here broke where nobody even knows where Earth is, and put this Izmir thing onto our necks.

  “For all we know he’s halfway back to Prufillia by now, laughing all the way because the Oomemians are going to come down hard on us instead of him. Tell me, Jack, what happens when those Oomemians find us, huh? You think they’re gonna want
to listen to the explanation and excuses of a bunch of us primate primitives? They didn’t stop to listen back in Albuquerque, they sure as hell aren’t going to be patient here. So I’ll tell you what they’re gonna do. They’re gonna blow us away and take this idiot whatsis back with them to dear old Oomemia and get medals pinned all over whatever it is they use for chests, while the last mention of us on this plane of existence is going to consist of a couple of lines in the morning paper. ‘New Mexico Students and Brilliant Local Musician Vanish in Mountains Overnight.”

  “What about Brock’s story?”

  Seeth made a rude noise. “You kidding? If he’s stopped running he might tell somebody we stole his van. I don’t think he’ll mention the bit about the Oomemians or good ol’ Arthhalfwit. The cops’ll assume we went joyriding and trashed it or crashed it or sold it to buy drugs or some­thing. Hell.” He kicked at the pink foam underfoot, was unable to scratch it. “A budding career in music nipped in the bud.”

  “What musical career?” Kerwin had tired of the punk’s rantings.

  “Mine, Jack. I’m good. On keyboards and percussion, and I can handle bass guitar when I have to.”

  “Now who’s jiving who? I’ve heard you play. You can’t do two choruses of ‘row, row, row your boat’ with­out a numbered key chart.”

  “Hey, so I’m just getting started. Everybody improves with practice. Great rockers aren’t born, they’re made.”

  “I’m hungry,” Miranda said prosaically. “Let me have a piece of that candy you swiped.”

  “Sure thing, sweetcakes.” Seeth handed her a foil-wrapped square. She touched the top of the package and it responded to her body heat by unwrapping itself. Looking glum, she bit the square in half and chewed slowly.

  Since the busy pedestrians continued to ignore them, Kerwin mused, maybe the local cops would also. And there were plenty of local cops. That much of Rail’s tale they could believe. It was starting to get dark as the artificial illumination above the street dimmed.