Burroughs. Still lying on the bench, he focused inwards upon his musculature, locking himself into the proper form. It was amazing to have such control over one’s body.
An Arab boy began vigorously shaking Alan’s foot. No doubt the urchin had searched his pockets for cash while he was sleeping. Alan was glad for the human attention, and glad for his hidden kangaroo pouch.
“Take to me to the harbor, and I’ll tip you,” Alan told the lad, sitting up. “You speak English, yes?”
“Breakfast first?” said the boy, rapidly miming an eating gesture.
“And then you’ll find me an outbound ship for America,” said Alan agreeably.
Alan ordered some raisin buns and white coffee from the bus station canteen. A low-class Englishwoman was at the counter, a ruddy virago with a hoarse voice like a jeering crowd. She cocked her head to watch as Alan reached under his shirt for some money—he only hoped she couldn’t see his fingers sliding into his flesh. It was unsettling to be in an outpost of the Queen’s empire.
Outside, the sun shone, with people taking walks and visiting each other, many of them carrying gifts. It was the second day of Christmas, what the English call Boxing Day. The sphinx-like Gibraltar Rock rose over the town, and the wild local apes scrounged garbage in alleys, chattering and baring their teeth.
A man in a black suit had collapsed in one of these cul-de-sacs. A few locals were leaning over him. The man looked floppy, practically boneless. For whatever reason, the skug within Alan wanted him to stop and help the fellow. But he had no time. The young guide was running ahead, leading the way to the steamers’ docks.
In short order the boy had brought Alan to the gangplank of a Portuguese liner, claimed his tip and hurried on his way.
Alan studied his really rather slender sheaf of bills, totting up his holdings.
“Welcome aboard,” said a man loitering near the gangplank, a roughly dressed fellow with a blue chin. “You going where, Senhor ? We have one free cabin. Very commodious. Top side.”
“I’m, ah, looking for passage to America,” said Alan.
“We gladly take you,” said the man, smoothly whirling his hand. “I am the ship’s purser. She is the Santa Maria , top luxury, with ten ports of call, including Canary Islands and Venezuela.”
“And how much to the United States?”
The man named a figure more than triple what Alan had on hand. Reading Alan’s expression, the purser gestured the more expansively. “You pay me now for reserve, we bill the balance. Is no problems. I welcome you aboard. We go fetch luggage, yes?”
“I—I’d prefer something simpler,” said Alan, uneasily glancing along the wharves that dwindled into the distance like an exercise in perspective. He wondered if this man really was the ship’s purser. “Is there a chance of finding a freighter?”
“You want to travel like a pig iron, like a bale of ox-hide, like a sack of cement?” said the blue-chinned man. “No eat lobster, no dance big band?” He shrugged and pointed to the farthest end of the wharves, towards some smudgy ships like grains of rice. “You go down there, Senhor . A Greek ship called Phos .”
“Thank you.”
The apron of the wharves was cobbled and sunny. Nobody seemed to be watching Alan, so he went ahead and ran a mile to the end, unlimbering his Burroughs-shaped limbs, shaking out the kinks, reinvigorating his lungs with the cool, salty air.
While he ran, he imagined that his inner skug was conversing with him, not so much in words, but rather with flashes of color in his eyes, hissing sounds in his ears, twinges in his stomach and a tingling on his skin. Was the parasite urging Alan to spread the contagion? Or were these thoughts Alan’s alone?
“We’ll work all this out once I’ve got my cabin,” said Alan, speaking aloud. “But don’t expect me to go inoculating strangers.” No answer. Perhaps he was going insane.
Looking at the less savory
An Arab boy began vigorously shaking Alan’s foot. No doubt the urchin had searched his pockets for cash while he was sleeping. Alan was glad for the human attention, and glad for his hidden kangaroo pouch.
“Take to me to the harbor, and I’ll tip you,” Alan told the lad, sitting up. “You speak English, yes?”
“Breakfast first?” said the boy, rapidly miming an eating gesture.
“And then you’ll find me an outbound ship for America,” said Alan agreeably.
Alan ordered some raisin buns and white coffee from the bus station canteen. A low-class Englishwoman was at the counter, a ruddy virago with a hoarse voice like a jeering crowd. She cocked her head to watch as Alan reached under his shirt for some money—he only hoped she couldn’t see his fingers sliding into his flesh. It was unsettling to be in an outpost of the Queen’s empire.
Outside, the sun shone, with people taking walks and visiting each other, many of them carrying gifts. It was the second day of Christmas, what the English call Boxing Day. The sphinx-like Gibraltar Rock rose over the town, and the wild local apes scrounged garbage in alleys, chattering and baring their teeth.
A man in a black suit had collapsed in one of these cul-de-sacs. A few locals were leaning over him. The man looked floppy, practically boneless. For whatever reason, the skug within Alan wanted him to stop and help the fellow. But he had no time. The young guide was running ahead, leading the way to the steamers’ docks.
In short order the boy had brought Alan to the gangplank of a Portuguese liner, claimed his tip and hurried on his way.
Alan studied his really rather slender sheaf of bills, totting up his holdings.
“Welcome aboard,” said a man loitering near the gangplank, a roughly dressed fellow with a blue chin. “You going where, Senhor ? We have one free cabin. Very commodious. Top side.”
“I’m, ah, looking for passage to America,” said Alan.
“We gladly take you,” said the man, smoothly whirling his hand. “I am the ship’s purser. She is the Santa Maria , top luxury, with ten ports of call, including Canary Islands and Venezuela.”
“And how much to the United States?”
The man named a figure more than triple what Alan had on hand. Reading Alan’s expression, the purser gestured the more expansively. “You pay me now for reserve, we bill the balance. Is no problems. I welcome you aboard. We go fetch luggage, yes?”
“I—I’d prefer something simpler,” said Alan, uneasily glancing along the wharves that dwindled into the distance like an exercise in perspective. He wondered if this man really was the ship’s purser. “Is there a chance of finding a freighter?”
“You want to travel like a pig iron, like a bale of ox-hide, like a sack of cement?” said the blue-chinned man. “No eat lobster, no dance big band?” He shrugged and pointed to the farthest end of the wharves, towards some smudgy ships like grains of rice. “You go down there, Senhor . A Greek ship called Phos .”
“Thank you.”
The apron of the wharves was cobbled and sunny. Nobody seemed to be watching Alan, so he went ahead and ran a mile to the end, unlimbering his Burroughs-shaped limbs, shaking out the kinks, reinvigorating his lungs with the cool, salty air.
While he ran, he imagined that his inner skug was conversing with him, not so much in words, but rather with flashes of color in his eyes, hissing sounds in his ears, twinges in his stomach and a tingling on his skin. Was the parasite urging Alan to spread the contagion? Or were these thoughts Alan’s alone?
“We’ll work all this out once I’ve got my cabin,” said Alan, speaking aloud. “But don’t expect me to go inoculating strangers.” No answer. Perhaps he was going insane.
Looking at the less savory
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