Flesh by Philip José Farmer Page B

was no sidewalk—for ten blocks. Occasionally, they had to step close to the buildings to avoid being run over by men furiously riding deer or driving carriages. The riders were richly dressed and obviously expected the pedestrians to jump out of the way or get trampled. The carriage drivers seemed to be couriers of one type or another.
    Abruptly, the street became shabby.
    The buildings presented a solid front except for alleys here and there. They were evidently government buildings that had been sold to private agents and had become little shops or tenements. Naked children played in front of them.
    These were not nearly as clean as those they had just passed.
    Churchill found the shop he was looking for. With Sarvant at his heels, he entered. The inside of the shop was a small room crowded with clothes of every kind. The store window and the cement floor were dirty; the odor of dog excrement filled the shop. Two dogs of indeterminate breed tried to put their paws on the two men.
    The owner was a short big-paunched double-chinned bald man with two enormous earrings of brass. He looked much like any shopkeeper of his breed of any century, except that he had the cervine stamp of the times on his features.
    “We want to sell our clothes,” Churchill said.
    “Are they worth anything?” said the owner.
    “As clothes, not much,” Churchill replied. “As curios, they may be worth a great deal. We are men from the starship.”
    The owner’s little eyes widened. “Ah, brothers to the Sunhero!”
    Churchill didn’t know all the implications of the exclamation. He knew only that Tom Tobacco had casually mentioned that Captain Stagg had become a Sunhero.
    “I’m sure that you could sell each article of our clothing for quite a sum. These clothes have been to the stars, to places so distant that if you were to walk there without stopping to eat or rest it would take you halfway through eternity. The light of alien suns and the air of exotic worlds are caught in the fibers of these suits. And the shoes still bear the traces of earth where monsters bigger than this building have walked like earthquakes.”
    The shopkeeper was unimpressed. “But has the Sunhero touched these garments?”
    “Many times. Once, he wore this jacket.”
    “Ahhh!”
    The owner must have realized that he was betraying his eagerness. He lowered his eyelids and stiffened his face.
    “This is all very well, but I am a poor man. The sailors who come to this shop do not have much money. By the time they get past the taverns, they are ready to sell their own clothes.”
    “Probably true. But I’m sure you have contacts who can sell these to wealthier patrons.”
    The owner took some coins from the pocket on his kilt.
    “I’ll give you four columbias for the lot.”
    Churchill motioned to Sarvant and started to walk out. Before he reached the door, he found the owner blocking his way.
    “Perhaps I could offer you five columbias.”
    Churchill pointed to a kilt and sandals. “How much are those worth? Or I should say, how much are you charging for them?”
    “Three fish.”
    Churchill considered. A Columbia was roughly equal to a five-dollar bill of his time. A fish was equal to a quarter.
    “You know as well as I do that you’ll be making a thousand-percent-profit off us. I want twenty columbias for these.”
    The owner threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of despair.
    “Come off it,” Churchill said. “I’d go from house to house on Millionaire’s Row and peddle these. But I haven’t the time. Do you want to give us twenty or not? Last offer.”
    “You’re snatching the bread from the mouths of my poor children... but I’ll take your offer.”
    Ten minutes later, the two starmen stepped out of the shop. They wore sandals and kilts and round hats with floppy brims. Their broad leather belts held sheaths with long steel knives, and their pockets contained eight columbias each. They held bags in their hands, and in these bags were