I opened a channel on Sam's key, an oblong orange plastic box that was a radio, among other things. "Okay, Sam, I guess we're staying here overnight. You be all right?"
"Sure, have fun. And call me every so often. Leave the beeper on."
"Right. I'll patch you through when we go in to eat and lift a few cold ones. We'll have a lot to talk over."
"Good."
I closed the key. Susan was beside me, clucking and shaking her head.
"Poor Sam," she said.
"He always has to stay behind, doesn't he? It's sad."
I reopened the key. "Hear that, Sam? Suzie thinks you've got nothing to do all by your lonesome. She's all worried."
"Hm? Oh, hell, don't worry about me."
Susan reddened. "I didn't… I meant―"
"I got a stack of crotch magazines I haven't looked at yet, and let's see, there's that model ship I'm putting together… have to write thank-you notes for the shower gifts… should wash my hair… and I can always wank off."
Susan scrunched up her face in pain. "Oh, you two are terrible!" She ran off, laughing.
"Welcome to Talltree!"
"Thanks," I told the big-boned, flannel-skirted man at the desk. "Good name."
His eyes twinkled. "We stayed up all night to think of it."
I looked around the lobby. It was big, fully two stories high with an open-beam ceiling. The rugs were sewn animal hides; the furniture looked handmade. The appointments were rustic yet tasteful. "Quite a place you have here," I said.
He swelled visibly, and his grin was broad. "Thank you! It's my pride and joy. Built most of it with my bare hands." He winked. "And a little help."
"Well, you did a good job. I was expecting something more primitive on a planet like this."
"This is one of the most sophisticated log structures on Talltree," he informed me. He pointed upward. "I designed those cantilever trusses myself. You can do a lot with the local wood, though. Strong as iron―high tensile strength."
"Interesting."
The lobby was filled with people, young men mostly, joking, hooting, jostling each other. They drank from pewter mugs, sloshing beer onto the floorboards. The crowd appeared to be the overflow from the bar, called the Vorpal Blade.
"I hear a lot of English being spoken," I said.
"Mostly English speakers here," he said. "English, Canadian, Aussie, lots of Irish, a few other breeds. You American stock?"
"Yes, but it's been a long time since I thought of myself as American."
He nodded. "Time marches on. One day we'll all be sabra." He turned the registration book around. "Anyway, I do hope you enjoy your stay here at the Bandersnatch―if you'll sign right here. You all together?"
I signed. "Yes. What's the local industry around here?"
His eyes twinkled again. "Would it surprise you if I said logging?"
"Not a bit." I looked back at the crowd of burly young men. Everyone seemed cast to type.
He gave me our room keys. They were made of hand-wrought iron. Only two; Winnie and the women in one room, the men in the other. It was my idea. Talltree was part of the Outworlds, and my leftover Consolidation Gold Certificates were still good, but I wanted to economize. I had only a limited amount of gold to trade. The nightly room rates were fairly cheap, though.
"Any way of getting a bite to eat?" I asked.
"It's a little early for the dining room, sir. Our cook's building a flume this week. But the Blade has a separate kitchen and plenty of food. Most of the guests take breakfast and lunch in there. However, you might find it a bit crowded now."
"What's this?" I asked above the noise. "A luncheon party?"
"No, today's a holiday. Feast of St. Charles Dodgson." He gave me a knowing wink. "The celebration got started early. Like three days ago."
"Feast of St. Charles…" John began, then broke out laughing. We all did. On the multiple nationality-ethnic-religious worlds of the Skyway, nobody could agree on what holidays to celebrate. Back in Terran Maze, those officially proclaimed by the Colonial Authority were scoffingly ignored, except by bureaucrats, who took off work. A tradition had arisen to celebrate spurious ones, silly ones, just for fun. People need excuses to goof off, though the thinnest will serve.
"Soon as you freshen up," the clerk continued, "you can join the festivities, if you
I was looking at the merrymakers, then turned back to the clerk. He was staring at the registry book, into which I had just signed my name.
He looked up at me. "Is that really your name?"
"The alias I use most." When he didn't laugh, I said, "Just kidding. Sure, it's my name."
"You're Jake McGraw? The Jake McGraw?"
Again, my inexplicable fame had checked in before I had. "I'm the only one I know of."
"You have an onboard computer named Sam?"
"Yup."
"I see," he said, nodding thoughtfully. He turned away, but kept eyeing me askance, as if he weren't sure about something.
That was his problem. But what he would finally believe might be mine.
Chapter 3
Our rooms on the second floor were primitive, but again there was antique charm in the rough wall paneling, the quaint lamps, the handmade furniture―beds, nightlamps, armoires, and chairs. The beds were especially nice, with simple floral carvings on the headboards. However, Susan didn't like hers.
"Lumpy as hell," she griped, "and the sheets are gray."
"Be patient, Princess," Roland teased. "We'll get the pea out from under the mattress later."
"Everyone I know is a comedian. Let's go eat."
They all went downstairs. There was a mirror behind the door to the room, and I paused to look myself over. I was wearing what is for me formal dress: my maroon starrigger's jacket with its jazzy piping, rakish cut, and little pockets with zippers all over the place. Usually, my attire is medium-slovenly, but all my casual clothes had been left behind on various planets. This jacket and the fatigue pants were about all I had left, except for shorts and things I wear when lounging about the rig. The jacket made me feel faintly ridiculous. I looked like a goddamn space cadet.
I went down the narrow stairs to the lobby, where the gang was waiting for me. We started for the Vorpal Blade. There were even more people in the lobby now, trying vainly to get in. Just as we hit the edge of the crowd, the desk clerk intercepted us.
"We have a table for you and your party, Mr. McGraw. If you'll follow me."
"A table?" I said incredulously. "In there?"
"Yes, sir, right this way."
I turned to my companions, but they weren't at all surprised. So we followed him as he made a swath for us through the clot of people pressing around the entrance to the bar. He seemed to know just about everyone he either politely brushed by or summarily shoved out of the way, none too gently, when
the parties concerned weren't immediately cooperative. His size, even when compared to these beefy loggers, gave him all the authority he needed, if he didn't own the place to boot.
The Vorpal Blade was dark, smoky, and noisy, redolent of spilled beer and cooking grease. A huge bar took up one side of the room. The walls were of barkless log, milled flat on the inside, and the ceiling joists were squared-off and planed. There were plenty of tables and chairs, but too many damn people, loggers mostly. The decor was apropos―walls hung with odd varieties of saws, axes, cutting tools of every sort, pairs of spiked climbing boots, ropes, and such. It was a sweaty, muscular, pewter-and-leather kind of place, awash with good fellowship and camaraderie. Everybody was singing, including the bartenders, and they were busy.