away from the road. Whyn’t you stay where he put you? Better chance of getting help out there than in here. When this all take place, anyway?”
Minton was unsure of the concept of time as it might be seen here. “Long...time.”
“Like, last night? This morning? Yesterday some time?”
“Uh...last night, I think. Maybe the night before.” How long would it take a man to find help in this part of Earth if he’d been dumped on the side of the road? He knew he couldn’t tell this man about the other solo translations he vaguely recalled having made, or how long he suspected it had been since his Octad had broken contact. “Maybe...longer,” he said.
Another chill gust of breeze pushed against Minton. He wrapped his arms around himself, as closely as the too-tight garment across his shoulders would permit.
The man gave his head a hard shake and reached up onto the machine, bringing down a jacket, similar to the one he wore, but heavier, longer. “Better put this on,” he said, tossing it to Minton. “Then climb on up there.” He stepped on a metal stair that lifted him easily aloft. He stepped off it, took his seat behind the controls, and the step sank back down. Minton clutched the side of the machine as he swayed with sudden weakness.
“Hey! You gonna pass out on me?” The man looked sharply at Minton. “You sick? Hurt?”
Minton steadied himself. “Hungry,” he said.
“Well, come on,” the man said with an impatient bark of laughter. “That’s something can be dealt with easy enough, but I haven’t got all day. Get on up here. I’ll take you back to the house. My wife will feed you.” He grinned. “And she won’t even debit your chip.”
Chip...that was something he should know about, but what, exactly, escaped Minton at the moment.
“We can call the cops and get a line on your rig. What was it, anyway?” the man asked, as Minton allowed the step to lift him to the operator’s platform. There was only one seat, so he stood, clinging to the clear shield in front.
“What was...what?” he asked, pulling the man’s jacket more tightly around him. Its warmth was welcome. Already he felt stronger, but only slightly less confused.
“What kind of rig you drive?”
Again he grabbed at a stray thought. “A...reefer. Taking Alberta beef to New York.”
“Yeah. That’s what I figured. Price of beef nowadays, only politicians and the like can afford it. It’s worth anybody’s while to highjack a rig. Anybody ever tell you picking up a hitchhiker’s not smart? You shoulda just stayed on the main glideway all the way across the country.”
He gave Minton a piercing look. “How come you left it in the first place? Got friends or family hereabouts?”
Minton shook his head. “No. I just wanted to see some of the countryside.” That much, at least, was true. This, his first trip off Aazonia. It was also what he was supposed to say in such situations.
The man laughed. “Not a hell of a lot to see, is there? Just fields and sky. Lots of that. In my old man’s day, there were telephone poles, too, and electrical lines. Not now, though.” He pulled up between two large buildings, one of which had a series of windows sweeping across its façade and a long stage, about shoulder-height, accessed by stairs. On that, visible through a clear barrier beneath a railing, Minton saw chairs and a table, both of which he recognized from the images experienced Earth-visitors had fed him, Jon, and the others during the few hours leading up to the abortive translation. People on Earth ate sitting on chairs, with their bowls on tables before them, not, as was the custom on Aazonia, reclining comfortably, sharing in a civilized manner.
Much good all that information had done him. He was as lost as he would have been without the bits of useless knowledge he had garnered.
He knew that he was going to have to come up with a better, more believable explanation for being found in the man’s field before
Minton was unsure of the concept of time as it might be seen here. “Long...time.”
“Like, last night? This morning? Yesterday some time?”
“Uh...last night, I think. Maybe the night before.” How long would it take a man to find help in this part of Earth if he’d been dumped on the side of the road? He knew he couldn’t tell this man about the other solo translations he vaguely recalled having made, or how long he suspected it had been since his Octad had broken contact. “Maybe...longer,” he said.
Another chill gust of breeze pushed against Minton. He wrapped his arms around himself, as closely as the too-tight garment across his shoulders would permit.
The man gave his head a hard shake and reached up onto the machine, bringing down a jacket, similar to the one he wore, but heavier, longer. “Better put this on,” he said, tossing it to Minton. “Then climb on up there.” He stepped on a metal stair that lifted him easily aloft. He stepped off it, took his seat behind the controls, and the step sank back down. Minton clutched the side of the machine as he swayed with sudden weakness.
“Hey! You gonna pass out on me?” The man looked sharply at Minton. “You sick? Hurt?”
Minton steadied himself. “Hungry,” he said.
“Well, come on,” the man said with an impatient bark of laughter. “That’s something can be dealt with easy enough, but I haven’t got all day. Get on up here. I’ll take you back to the house. My wife will feed you.” He grinned. “And she won’t even debit your chip.”
Chip...that was something he should know about, but what, exactly, escaped Minton at the moment.
“We can call the cops and get a line on your rig. What was it, anyway?” the man asked, as Minton allowed the step to lift him to the operator’s platform. There was only one seat, so he stood, clinging to the clear shield in front.
“What was...what?” he asked, pulling the man’s jacket more tightly around him. Its warmth was welcome. Already he felt stronger, but only slightly less confused.
“What kind of rig you drive?”
Again he grabbed at a stray thought. “A...reefer. Taking Alberta beef to New York.”
“Yeah. That’s what I figured. Price of beef nowadays, only politicians and the like can afford it. It’s worth anybody’s while to highjack a rig. Anybody ever tell you picking up a hitchhiker’s not smart? You shoulda just stayed on the main glideway all the way across the country.”
He gave Minton a piercing look. “How come you left it in the first place? Got friends or family hereabouts?”
Minton shook his head. “No. I just wanted to see some of the countryside.” That much, at least, was true. This, his first trip off Aazonia. It was also what he was supposed to say in such situations.
The man laughed. “Not a hell of a lot to see, is there? Just fields and sky. Lots of that. In my old man’s day, there were telephone poles, too, and electrical lines. Not now, though.” He pulled up between two large buildings, one of which had a series of windows sweeping across its façade and a long stage, about shoulder-height, accessed by stairs. On that, visible through a clear barrier beneath a railing, Minton saw chairs and a table, both of which he recognized from the images experienced Earth-visitors had fed him, Jon, and the others during the few hours leading up to the abortive translation. People on Earth ate sitting on chairs, with their bowls on tables before them, not, as was the custom on Aazonia, reclining comfortably, sharing in a civilized manner.
Much good all that information had done him. He was as lost as he would have been without the bits of useless knowledge he had garnered.
He knew that he was going to have to come up with a better, more believable explanation for being found in the man’s field before
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