A Borrowed Man (16 page)

But I was about half starved. I had not had to use any of the money I had taken from Colette's shaping bag, but the other was nearly gone. Only I was hungry like I said, and I figured she would want me to use her money to bust her lose. Besides, she had checked me out and fed me while I was with her, so no harm. I got a bunnyburger and a big bag of air-fried peppers, two things I had heard a lot about but never eaten myself.

When you are as hungry as I was, everything tastes good, and after a while I decided bunnyburgers really were about half as good as people said they were, which was plenty. Various people had told me various things about air-fried peppers, some good, some bad. I had just decided I liked them when I happened to notice the woman sitting behind me. Her mouth was moving, then she licked her lips. Actually, I had not turned to look back at her. What I really saw was her reflection in a panel of notint that separated me from the driver.

Anyway, I turned halfway around in my seat and held out my bag of peppers. She smiled thanks and took a little handful, and the man with her said, “Thank you. May I have some, too?”

I said sure, so he took some. He was middle-sized and middle-aged, and looked kind of big without looking fat.

“You must excuse Mahala. She would thank you if she could. Unfortunately, she is mute.”

“But grateful, as I saw.” I really had not known what to say, but that came out. Things like that happen to me sometimes; I want to talk like everybody, but it comes out stiff and oh so formal. I try to pretend it is from being in the library all the time. Anyway, I was trying to look at the two of them without looking like I was doing it—you know what I mean.

“She understands everything we say, however. She is not unintelligent.”

I asked, “Can she write notes?”

“Yes.” He smiled, and his smile made me feel about as sorry for him as I ever have for anybody. “She can indeed, but we haven't got a pen now, or paper. She used to have a tablet.…” He let that one trail away.

It seemed to me there had to be something we could do, but by then the bus was pulling out. I said, “I'm not sure what they carry in these stations, but I'll try to get something for her.”

“And a few more peppers?” Smiling, he offered her the ones I had just given him; she took one and pushed the rest back.

“As I understand it, we've got another stop before New Delphi.” I was thinking, and thinking hard.

He nodded. “Hapigarden. Mahala and I have never been there.”

“I haven't either,” I said. “Is that where you're going?”

He shook his head. “My name's Fevre, by the way. Georges Fevre.” He spelled it. “The
s
really shouldn't be pronounced. Just call me George.”

“Ern A. Smithe, and you can call me anything you want to. I'd shake hands, but mine's greasy.”

“Mine, too.” Georges ate a pepper. “For which I thank you from the bottom of my stomach.”

We talked a little more after that, and I got Georges to spell Mahala's name for me. Only I am not going to give all that.

When it was over, I just turned around, watching the scenery and reminding myself to grab napkins next time if they had any. The reason I turned was that I wanted to ask Georges about a hundred questions, only it would not be polite. On top of that, he would feel like he could ask me a bunch of questions, too. Like where are you going? And why do you want to go there? And what happened to your face, Mr. Smithe?

Besides, I had the feeling that pretty soon he was going to figure out I was a reclone. They do not make us wear striped pants or orange shirts, or tattoo it across our foreheads; nothing like that. Only pretty soon most people seem to know.

So did I, for that matter.

When I first got to the Spice Grove Library I never had any trouble telling the librarians, the patrons, and the reclones apart. I just knew. And I had seen and heard enough of Georges to know that even if he was broke he was not dumb.

So I just looked out the window and kept my mouth shut. I would guess it took us another two hours, maybe a little less, to get to Hapigarden. Same drill as before: we would be there about fifteen minutes and you could get off if you wanted to. So I got off there; and so did Georges and Mahala, I think just to use the toilets. I looked around at the souvenir stuff they had in the station and found a little notepad and a pencil. I bought them, and a lady who worked there showed me where I could sharpen the pencil. It was smaller and a lot faster than the sharpeners I remembered but the same basic idea.

When I got back on the bus, the guy with the beat-up face was sitting in my seat. My feeling has always been that it is best to start off polite. You can always get mean later if that is what it takes, but it is hard to go the other way. So I said, “Excuse me, but I was sitting there.”

He would not look at me. “I'm sitting here now.”

I said, “I know, and I'm asking you to leave and go back to where you were sitting before. Please.”

I had expected him to smart off, but he did not. He just kept his head turned, looking straight ahead.

That gave me a free one at his right ear, and I took it. If notint were not tougher than glass, his head would have broken the window.

He turned around, I guess because he was going to get up; but my right got his nose and drove his head back into the window again. After that I shoved my thumbs into his eyes, but he never even yelled. It was the first time in either life I have ever knocked anybody cold, but that guy was out like a match. After that I pulled him out of my seat and kicked his head half a dozen times just because I felt like it.

When I got tired of kicking, I dragged him to the back of the bus and asked the people there where he had been sitting. Everybody who answered said they did not know; but there was an empty seat back there and I got him up onto it. When I turned around, the driver was standing up front and looking back at me. After a moment or two she decided the fight was over and there was no point in her getting involved. She sat back down in her seat, and the bus said, “Trip one-oh-nine will depart in five minutes. Trip one-oh-nine departing in five minutes sharp.”

When I got back to my seat, I gave the notepad and pencil to Mahala, and she wrote “THANK YOU!” in big letters on the first sheet.

Then Georges said, “We're getting off at New Delphi, Ern. We're going to miss you.”

“Not as soon as you think,” I told him. “I'm getting off there, too.”

“No shit? Why, that's the best news I've had in a week! You live there?”

I just shook my head and turned so I faced forward, wishing the bus would get going. In back of me Mahala was clapping softly.

“We don't either. It's bigger than Spice Grove, or so I'm told.”

I wanted to nod, and to turn around and ask him a few questions. It was hard not to, but I didn't.

Also I wanted to ask the driver at least one question, but there was a sign on the back of her seat warning that anyone who spoke to the driver while the bus was in motion would be put out.

That could have worked in my favor, if I had been quick enough to catch on to it. As it was, I just glimpsed the big Coldbrook house on a hilltop; then, before I caught on that fate had already handed me a way to stop the bus, it was gone.

“Please don't stand up while we're in motion.” That was the driver.

I dropped back into my seat, thinking bitterly about the unfairness of a system that let her talk to me when I was not allowed to talk to her. That got me off on a hundred other things, like the ragged kids in those ruined towns, the old couple, and the guy with the beat-up face who had tried to take my seat; and when I looked up again, rain was pattering on the windshield.

“This is bad,” Georges muttered behind me. I think he must have been looking past Mahala through the window at the rain.

I saw Mahala's reflection nod, and I turned to face them. “For me, too. I don't suppose you know anything about public transportation here.”

“Nothing, really. Although…”

I waited.

“There's a—a place for distressed citizens here, or at least I've been told there is.”

Mahala gripped his arm, squeezing hard.

“We're not going there. We have reasons for that.” Georges stopped and cleared his throat. “I wouldn't mind telling you, but I'd rather not get into them in public.” He was keeping his voice down.

I said, “Don't, in that case.”

“My informant told me that they sometimes send out a van. You have an eephone, don't you?”

I shook my head.

“I thought everybody had them.”

“In that case,” I said, “you've got one yourself. Or you can borrow Mahala's.”

“She couldn't speak into it.”

I shrugged. “She could sign into it, and look things up.”

Georges was quiet for a moment; then he whispered, “How did you know she could sign?”

“I didn't, but she seems intelligent and she can't speak.”

“Keep your voice low, please.”

I nodded.

Georges whispered, “Do you have a place to stay in New Delphi, Ern?”

I guess I'm not really strong on planning ahead. Anyway, I had been thinking how hard it might be to get a hotel room; and when he said that I realized how dumb it would be and dropped the whole idea. For a few seconds there, I was thinking as fast as I ever had in my life. Finally I said, “Can you drive, Georges?”

“Yes.” He got out his wallet and handed it to me with a twisted grin. “Have a look, Ern. While you're doing it, check my license; but if you find any money in there, we'll divide it equally.”

Of course there was no money at all. His picture and a retina scan were on the license, which would be valid for another twenty weeks. I returned his wallet.

“I'll look for work when we get there,” he told me. “I can drive, so I might drive a cab. They can't all be self-programmed.”

I don't believe I said anything then. I was thinking.

Georges said, “Sometimes people want a driver who can help them with their luggage and so on. Or I could drive a limousine.”

“Wouldn't you need a commercial license?”

“They might be willing to overlook that, or help me get one.”

“You're not going to the shelter.”

He shook his head.

“Where will you spend the night, in that case?”

“In the bus station, if they'll let us.”

I spoke to Mahala. “Can you cook?”

Surprised, she nodded.

We had turned off the high road and onto a broad street lined with office buildings and shops; it was raining harder than ever, beating down on the roof of the bus. “I think I can promise food and a place to sleep,” I said. “I'll do that, and do whatever I can for you both as long as you do what I ask. What do you say?”

“That you're the answer to a prayer.” Georges's smile was real. “I speak for both of us.”

In the terminal, I found a 'bot who didn't seem to be busy. I explained that I needed the van from the shelter, and asked it to make the screen for me.

“From the New Delphi Rest for the Needy? It is coming already, sir. Just go outside and wait under the awning.”

“Someone's already screened it?” I was surprised and I suppose it showed.

The 'bot said, “It meets all the buses, sir. There is always someone.”

Georges and Mahala joined me after I had stood under the awning for five minutes or so. Mahala had written THEY WILL PUT ME AWAY on her pad. I read it and told her I would see to it that they did not.

Georges whispered, “We were hoping you'd stay in the station with us tonight.” His voice was almost lost in the drumming of the rain.

I shook my head. “I promised you both I'd find you a better place to stay and get you some food. I will. Only I'm going to have to talk to the van's driver first. Trust me.”

Georges did not say anything to that; I could see he was wondering whether he should. Mahala printed WE DO on her pad. I nodded and gave her a sick smile, worrying the whole time that the van would be self-programming or the driver would be a 'bot.

He was a human being, and he looked every bit as poor as Georges if not poorer. It was quite a relief. I got in, motioning for Georges and Mahala to stay right where they were. Smiling, I asked the driver, “Does this go to the shelter?”

The driver said, “To the New Delphi Rest for the Needy. Only we're about full up there.” He hesitated. “They might take the lady. I dunno.”

“If they're full, I'm surprised you came.”

“For old people and kids. I'm supposed to bring those.”

“Are you an employee of the Rest?” When he did not answer, I added, “Are you paid?”

“That's none of your business.” The driver sounded tired.

“Actually, it is.” I was reaching into my pocket. “How much do they pay you?”

“Why the hell do you care?”

“Since you won't tell me, I'll have to guess. You live there now, and you offered to drive for them. You have a license, so your offer was accepted. Because you drive for them, they let you stay, feed you, and perhaps supply some clothing.”

For a moment he stared at me. “It's that obvious, huh?”

“It is to me, because I was in a similar situation for several years.” I pulled out Colette's money, which had been folded up in a pants pocket, and peeled off a twenty-five. “This will be yours if you'll take us where we want to go.”

He licked his lips. “Where's that?”

“The Coldbrook residence. I can't tell you how to get there, but I assume this van has guidance.”

The driver nodded and pushed a button. “The Coldbrook house.” He looked at me. “It's a house, not a flat?”

“Correct.” I waved for Georges and Mahala to get in.

On the drive there, I thought hard, trying to make plans. There was nothing to see outside anyway, beyond the road and the rain. Georges would have resented it, I knew, if I had studied him the way I wanted to, or Mahala, or the two of them. Perhaps she would as well. From time to time I looked at them, though, and they were holding hands every time. Once they were looking at each other—staring into each other's eyes. I do not think any of the plans I made ever worked out. I was going to do this and do that; but things changed and changed, and in the end, they did not. Perhaps I ought to have slept. That might have been more productive.