On the Wing (17 page)

“What are you looking at?” asked Frieda.

“I—”

“You're looking at my breasts, aren't you?”

“Yes,” I said with the frankness of an adventurer.

She gave me a swat and a smile and said, “I can't blame you for that; they really are quite magnificent. Do you want some dinner?”

“Yes,” I said. “What have you got?”

“We've got dinner. You'll take what you get. It will be good. Sit down and wait. Be patient.”

I sat. I waited. Frieda resumed her bustling in and out of the room, pursuing many little errands, none of which was the bringing of my dinner. I attempted to strike up a conversation with her, tossing out intriguing bits of information whenever she bustled in.

“I wasn't planning to stop here,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” she replied, not quite intrigued.

“I was going to hike up to the castle.”

“What castle?”

“The castle at the top of this mountain. The one that's veiled in mist and twilight.”

“Pfff,” she said. “That's ridiculous.”

“Maybe you're right,” I said. “It's getting dark, and a hike like that could be dangerous in the dark. Still, I thought it would be an adventure, so I intended to make the attempt, but when I saw this little inn I realized that I was tired and hungry.”

“Mm,” she said, possibly just a bit more intrigued.

“I wonder if coming upon an inn at twilight has that effect on all travelers—makes them realize that they're tired and hungry—or maybe even makes them feel tired and hungry when they really aren't—through the power of suggestion. What do you think?”

“Happens all the time. Everybody knows that.”

“Really?”

“Sure. That's how we get most of our business.”

“Oh.”

“It's not very interesting.”

“It's interesting to me.”

“If you want me to show you my breasts, you'll have to do better than that.”

“Okay—I—well—what about the remarkable way that height distorts the perception of distance?”

“I never really thought about it.”

“Here's the idea: we see something in the distance, and we make an estimate of the distance from us to it. More often than not, we make a simple straight-line estimate, without taking into account the likelihood that the way will be winding. We expect to go as the crow flies, but when we make an as-the-crow-flies estimate, we do not take into account the fact that we cannot fly. Over time, experience teaches us that we can't fly and that the way usually does wind, so we learn to correct our straight-line estimates—but only on level ground. When we look at something that is vertically distant—like a castle on a mountaintop—we forget that the way to it is likely not only to wind but to rise and fall, and that its ups and downs will make the way longer—and when experience teaches us that, then we really wish that we could fly, that we could go as the crow flies.”

Here I paused. I thought of telling her about
Spirit.
When I say that I thought of telling her about
Spirit,
I mean that I thought of telling her everything about
Spirit,
from the inspiration to build her to the moment when I stopped her engine and left her in the turnaround down the trail, below the inn where I was pausing. That seemed like more of a story than I should be required to tell in order to see her breasts, so instead of telling it I said, hopefully, “That's pretty intriguing, don't you think?”

She stared at me for a long moment and then said, “I'll get your dinner.” She bustled off. In a moment she bustled back and put a large bowl of stew in front of me. It smelled just wonderful, rich and hearty. She handed me a spoon. I tried a bite.

“Hooo!” I said.

“Not good?” she asked.

“Hot!” I exhaled.

“Oh,” she said, and she leaned across the table and began blowing on the stew, allowing me another good look down the front of her dress. Was this the view she had suggested I might earn? Might I earn more?

“Unlike the crow,” I continued, since I was at least as eager for a full view of her breasts as the next young aviator, “we foot travelers are going to have to hike up and down a rugged path, but we estimate the distance as the distance we see on a line of sight. Nor do we take into account the lets and hindrances that make the way seem longer, make it take longer to traverse than our simple estimate of distance would lead us to expect.”

“I guess you're right,” she said, but not in a way that suggested she was about to start unbuttoning the top of her dress.

“It's one of the habits of thought that make people think that life will be easier than it is,” I said. “That's what my grandparents' neighbor, Mr. Beaker, used to tell me, back in Babbington. He was—”

“Eat your stew now,” she said, as if I were her little brother.

“Okay,” I said. I was hungry. Her breasts would have to wait. I fell to. Frieda stood there, across the table from me, with her arms akimbo, watching with satisfaction.

“Say, Frieda,” I said, after I had eaten about half of the stew in the bowl, “do you suppose I could stay here for the night?”

“Of course you could,” she said. “This is an inn, you know.”

“I know—”

“We're always putting people up for the night.”

“Of course—”

“You could say that it's our purpose in life, the means by which we justify our existence.”

“That's great.”

“I think we've got four rooms available. How much did you want to spend?”

“Ah,” I said. “That's an embarrassing question. You see, I'm on my way to New Mexico—”

“You told me that already. You tried to make me believe that you were flying.”

Chuckling like a kid who's been caught in a lie, I said, “Yes, I did.”

“Then you went on and on with that business about crows climbing mountains—”

“Yeah. Well, I thought you would find that intriguing, but my point is that New Mexico is still a very long way from here, and I've got to watch my expenses. I have to buy food—and gas—and I'm on a pretty tight budget.”

“Well then, I won't ask you how much you want to spend. I'll ask you how much you can afford to spend.”

“Nothing.”

“I think you're telling me how much you want to spend.”

“Both.”

She began a hearty laugh, as if I had delivered the punch line of a joke, but she suddenly stopped laughing and became perplexed. “I don't know what to do,” she confessed. “I'll have to ask my father.”

She left the room. I returned to my dinner, eating quickly. If I was going to be thrown out into the night, I'd like to be thrown out with a full belly.

A big man arrived. He might have been cut from a single block of granite. Everything about him said that he was not amused.

“You asked for a room,” he said.

“No, sir,” I said with a shiver. “Not exactly.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I asked
about
a room. I wanted to find out if a room was available, and what it would cost, just to see whether it might be possible for me to spend the night here on my limited budget.”

“You had no right.”

“No right to ask about a room? But this is an inn—as Frieda informed me—”

“You had no right to ask for a room if you were not prepared to pay the proper approved rate.”

“I only asked
about
a room, not
for
a room.”

“Don't quibble. You led my daughter to believe that you wanted a room.”

“I did want a room, but I didn't know whether I could afford to pay the—ah—proper approved rate. I didn't know what the proper approved rate was.”

“But Frieda tells me you wanted a room for nothing.”

“If that is the proper approved rate, then I am prepared to pay it.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Just trying to lighten—”

“This is neither the time nor the place for funny business,” he said gravely.

“Yes, sir.”

“As far as I am concerned you entered this inn under false pretenses.”

“No, I didn't,” I said. “Honest.”

“Come to think of it, if you entered this inn with the expectation of securing lodging at a rate below the approved rate, then you arrived here with the prior intention to commit fraud.”

“This is all a misunderstanding,” I said.

“I'm not sure whether to throw you out and send you on your way or call the authorities and have you locked up,” he said. He brought his hand to his chin and wrinkled his brow, contemplating me and considering my fate.

Inspiration struck. “Suppose I pay for my dinner and a room by advertising this inn on a banner that I will tow behind my aerocycle as I fly the rest of the way from here to New Mexico?” I offered.

“Pfwit,” he said. I decided that I didn't like him.

“I've already towed an advertising banner for Kap'n Klam,” I said.

He looked as if he had been struck a blow.

“That is an odd coincidence,” he said. “You have this banner?”

“Part of it,” I said. “It used to say ‘Kap'n Klam is coming! The Home of Happy Diners,' but now the last part just says ‘The Home of Hap.'”

“Who is Hap?”

“Nobody. There is no Hap. The rest of the banner wore away, tore off, got left behind.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I can show you what's left of it, if you want me to,” I added, with the shrug of a boy who hasn't even thought of the possibility that he might seize the opportunity to hop onto his aerocycle and make his escape without paying for dinner.

“I will call the owner,” he said.

“Does he live in the castle?” I asked. “Up on the peak?”

“You saw a castle?”

“It was veiled in mist, but I could pick it out now and then, looming above me in the twilight.”

“Yes, that's where the evil owner lives,” he said thunderously. “He rules us with an iron fist. In ordinary circumstances, I would not call him. He does not like to be disturbed.” He picked up the handset of a telephone on the counter that served as a registration desk and said, “Get me the castle.”

He waited. I waited. Frieda waited. Of the three of us, Frieda looked best while waiting.

“This is the inn,” he said after a long while. “I have a procedural question for Mr. Klam.”

I shot a questioning look at Frieda. She turned aside quickly and began wiping a table with her sleeve. “Mr. Klam?” said her father, with an upward glance, as if he were speaking directly to the castle rather than through the telephone. “Forgive me for bothering you with this, but I have a procedural question.… Yes.… Of course.… I know.… Ordinarily, I wouldn't.… Yes.… No.… You see, here at the inn, there is a boy who has arrived on a small airplane—that is, that's what he claims—it's what he told Frieda—probably lying, of course—on his way to New Mexico.… I don't know why—but he says his budget is limited and he can't afford the proper approved rate for a room—instead, he offers to tow a banner.… What?… Yes—yes—an excellent suggestion, sir.… Yes—certainly—at once—thank you, sir.”

He hung up and turned to me. “We can put you up for the night,” he said. “Get your things.”

“This is all I have,” I said, hefting my knapsack.

“Come with me,” he said.

*   *   *

HE LED ME down a long corridor, turned into another corridor, went down a flight of narrow stairs, passed through a door, went down an even narrower flight of stairs into a dank cellar, and began walking along an uneven floor between walls so close that my shoulders rubbed against them and Frieda's father had to scuttle along sideways. We went up stone stairs. We went down stone stairs. We turned to the right. We turned to the left. At first, I tried to remember every turn we took, in case I might have to retrace my steps, but I soon became too confused to remember the route in such detail. Instead, I tried to retain a general impression. Did we tend to turn right more often than we turned left? Did we descend more often or ascend more often? I decided, after a while, that Frieda's father was leading me through a tunnel that wound slowly up the mountain to the castle. We came to a heavy door that he unlocked with one of the keys on a large ring that hung from his belt. It groaned as he swung it open. “Your room,” he said, and he shoved me inside. I stumbled and fell to the floor. When I got up, he had closed the door. Was I a prisoner?

I went to the door and asked, “Am I a prisoner?”

“A prisoner?” he said from the other side. “Of course not. You are a guest at the inn.”

A guest at the inn? Ha! I wasn't so easily fooled. I almost said so, but just as I was about to speak the thought occurred to me that it might be useful to conceal from him my realization that he had led me to the castle. I decided to feign ignorance, to pretend that I really believed that we were still beneath the inn. “Are all the rooms like this?” I asked.

“This is our most economical room,” he said. “We reserve it for the occasional guest who is traveling on a very limited budget.”

“Could I have my things?”

He opened the door a bit and threw my knapsack in after me. Then he locked the door.

“You didn't give me the key,” I said.

“I'll keep the key,” he said.

“How will I get out?”

“When your bill has been paid, I will let you out.”

“How much does this room cost?”

“How much? Let's see—there will be the basic charge—the charge for cleaning—linen—the straw on your pallet—wear and tear—depreciation—your dinner—water—air—”

“Air?”

“The air you breathe.”

“Is it customary to charge for air?”