the authorities were called. What his rescuer believed would not satisfy anyone who probed any deeper into the event. Jon, and the other law-enforcement officers who had helped train him for this mission, as well as more seasoned travelers, had impressed upon him the need for adequate “identification” in this society where mental communication and hence instant knowledge of who each person encountered was sadly lacking.
The chip! It was coming back to him now as warmth and a small sense of security assisted his Kahinya in healing him. The identification used on the planet Earth in this time consisted of a chip that was implanted in a wrist bone of every individual on this planet at birth. It credited and debited its owner’s accounts, activated all manner of devices keyed to that individual—and identified its wearer to proper authorities.
He did not have one. Nor did any of the others. The unexpectedness of the window to here and now had prompted such swift action that there had not been time to counterfeit and imbed such a device in the wrists of the Octad.
“You’re a big fella, I have to say that about you.” The man interrupted Minton’s flying thoughts as Minton descended from the vehicle. “Name’s Harry Jenkins,” he added, shoving a hand out in front of Minton.
Almost at once, Minton remembered this was a greeting, one that needed to be returned in kind. He extended his own hand and the man gripped it, gave it one quick shake, then released it, looking quizzically at Minton. “And you are?” Harry Jenkins prompted.
“Oh! Minton. Minton, uh, Ames,” he said, remembering the man had offered two names for himself. “Ames” he took right out of Harry Jenkin’s mind because when he’d commented on Minton’s size, he’d thought about a family who’d once lived nearby, all big men, by the name of Ames, and wondered if Minton was related to them.
“Well, Mint, come along in, then, and we’ll get some breakfast into you.”
Minton agreed and followed the man inside, where he met Harry’s wife, Trinity, who served both men a huge meal, which Minton enjoyed far more than he’d enjoyed anything since Zenna’s disappearance.
“Now,” Trinity said, setting down her coffee mug, “I guess we’d better get the law informed so our guest can lay his complaint. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down the rig with a satellite search for its chip, but the meat—” She looked at Minton and shook her head sorrowfully. “You know that’ll be long gone, don’t you?”
Minton sought for some sense of what she was talking about. Theft. Theft of foodstuffs. Was there so little to go around that such theft was a frequent occurrence? He dared not ask, could only nod as if he understood.
“Okay, hon,” Harry said. “You take care of that, and of Mint, will you? I’m back to plowing under that rye. One of my fallow fields,” he said to Minton, as if that would explain everything. It explained nothing, because Minton was too focused on what the woman was doing to give Harry much attention. The door slammed as the woman waved the back of her hand in front of a small, infrared dot on the edge of a table.
At once, a holographic image leapt into being, a man with dark hair over the lower half of his face, as if to replace that which he did not have on top of his head. He held his fists linked before him on some kind of structure behind which he sat.
“Jerry, this guy is Minton Ames. He’s got a tale of woe to tell you. Minton? Click your chip in right here, will you?”
Knowing he could do no such thing, Minton gathered himself, narrowed his focus...and left.
As Minton translated out of the sure danger of being found out by the local authorities, he heard distinctly, and felt strongly, Jon’s unmistakable signature behind the ragged sound of his own name: Minton! He fixed his focus on it, tried to home in, but it had come too quickly, broken off almost before he was fully aware of it.
Where? He
The chip! It was coming back to him now as warmth and a small sense of security assisted his Kahinya in healing him. The identification used on the planet Earth in this time consisted of a chip that was implanted in a wrist bone of every individual on this planet at birth. It credited and debited its owner’s accounts, activated all manner of devices keyed to that individual—and identified its wearer to proper authorities.
He did not have one. Nor did any of the others. The unexpectedness of the window to here and now had prompted such swift action that there had not been time to counterfeit and imbed such a device in the wrists of the Octad.
“You’re a big fella, I have to say that about you.” The man interrupted Minton’s flying thoughts as Minton descended from the vehicle. “Name’s Harry Jenkins,” he added, shoving a hand out in front of Minton.
Almost at once, Minton remembered this was a greeting, one that needed to be returned in kind. He extended his own hand and the man gripped it, gave it one quick shake, then released it, looking quizzically at Minton. “And you are?” Harry Jenkins prompted.
“Oh! Minton. Minton, uh, Ames,” he said, remembering the man had offered two names for himself. “Ames” he took right out of Harry Jenkin’s mind because when he’d commented on Minton’s size, he’d thought about a family who’d once lived nearby, all big men, by the name of Ames, and wondered if Minton was related to them.
“Well, Mint, come along in, then, and we’ll get some breakfast into you.”
Minton agreed and followed the man inside, where he met Harry’s wife, Trinity, who served both men a huge meal, which Minton enjoyed far more than he’d enjoyed anything since Zenna’s disappearance.
“Now,” Trinity said, setting down her coffee mug, “I guess we’d better get the law informed so our guest can lay his complaint. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down the rig with a satellite search for its chip, but the meat—” She looked at Minton and shook her head sorrowfully. “You know that’ll be long gone, don’t you?”
Minton sought for some sense of what she was talking about. Theft. Theft of foodstuffs. Was there so little to go around that such theft was a frequent occurrence? He dared not ask, could only nod as if he understood.
“Okay, hon,” Harry said. “You take care of that, and of Mint, will you? I’m back to plowing under that rye. One of my fallow fields,” he said to Minton, as if that would explain everything. It explained nothing, because Minton was too focused on what the woman was doing to give Harry much attention. The door slammed as the woman waved the back of her hand in front of a small, infrared dot on the edge of a table.
At once, a holographic image leapt into being, a man with dark hair over the lower half of his face, as if to replace that which he did not have on top of his head. He held his fists linked before him on some kind of structure behind which he sat.
“Jerry, this guy is Minton Ames. He’s got a tale of woe to tell you. Minton? Click your chip in right here, will you?”
Knowing he could do no such thing, Minton gathered himself, narrowed his focus...and left.
As Minton translated out of the sure danger of being found out by the local authorities, he heard distinctly, and felt strongly, Jon’s unmistakable signature behind the ragged sound of his own name: Minton! He fixed his focus on it, tried to home in, but it had come too quickly, broken off almost before he was fully aware of it.
Where? He
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