Read Online Callahan's Place 07 - Callahan's Legacy (v5.0) by Spider Robinson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Spider Robinson
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took a good long look at Ralph, and thought about things, and what he finally replied was, “Well, you won’t get an argument out of me, cousin.”
Ralph grinned. (Unlike most of his breed, Ralph can grin without drooling. A side-effect of the surgery that made it possible for him to speak.) “You react wery well to surprisess, friend Acayib.”
“What’s so surprising about a German accent?” Acayib asked. “You’re a German shepherd, aren’t you?” And he took a long sip of God’s Blessing.
Ralph—well, barked with laughter. And so did all within earshot. Acayib tried to keep a straight face…and failed.
“I should have warned you, Acayib,” I said. “Some of my clientele are a little out of the ordinary. As Tom Waits once said of his band, ‘They all come from good families…just over the years, they got some ways about ’em that just ain’t right.’ Take Ernie Shea over there, the fellow who tossed that paper airplane that set you alight when you walked in here…we call him ‘The Lucky Duck,’ or ‘Duck’ for short, because stuff like that only happens to him on days that end in ‘y.’ Ernie’s half Pooka, on his mother’s side: if he tosses a coin it’s liable to land balanced on edge. Or fail to come down. And then there’s Naggeneen the cluricaune—sort of an Irish combination of Bacchus and Pan. Hey, Nagganeen, where are you?” Not a question one often had to ask, cluricaunes having the personality of an exploding cigar. I finally located him, passed out on one of the (new) rafters, and pointed him out to Acayib. “There he is. He doesn’t usually fold this early.”
Acayib frankly gaped, realizing too late that his brave acceptance of a talking dog had been the equivalent of That Fatal Glass of Beer. A talking dog can be rationalized, if you work at it, slowly—but a three-foot man with four feet of white beard, dressed in crimson cap and forktailed coat, smoking a villainous old pipe while sleeping folded up on a rafter, is something else again.
“Naggeneen’s paranormal power is the ability to teleport himself around—and most particularly, to teleport alcohol directly to his stomach. From anywhere in this building. He’s an easy customer to satisfy—and a jolly old soul, when he’s conscious. Have I exceeded your weirdness quotient, yet?”
He took his time answering. “Jake? Uh, not that I mind, but…we’re through the looking glass here, right?”
“Well, not literally,” I said. “The only one of us to do that was a guy named Bob Trebor…and we busted the glass behind him. Long story. But metaphorically speaking, you’re not far wrong. I think we’re aiming for somewhere more like Oz…or maybe Strawberry Fields.”
He took a deep breath, finished his Irish coffee and took another deep breath. “Okay, go ahead. I dare you: tell me something else astonishing about you folks.”
“Well, we’ve been telepathic. Twice, for short periods. It was so good we’ve been trying to find our way back to it ever since. That’s why we’re here, basically.”
“Uh huh. Anything else?”
“Well, I don’t expect it to come up, but all of us here are bulletproof, and immune to blast forces and hard radiation. We were all in a room with an exploding atom bomb once. It blew us a couple miles, but it didn’t hurt us any.”
He didn’t flinch. “Oh. How did you all come to be immune to shock and radiation, just then?”
“Aw, it’s a long story, probably take me three books to tell you all of it, but basically there was this old friend of ours, a seven-foot-tall alien cyborg named Mickey Finn. Finn saved the human race three times that I know of, and he sure saved our butts that night. See, what happened—”
Acayib held up a hand. “Never mind. I probably don’t need to know…and I think you may indeed have just exceeded my
Ralph grinned. (Unlike most of his breed, Ralph can grin without drooling. A side-effect of the surgery that made it possible for him to speak.) “You react wery well to surprisess, friend Acayib.”
“What’s so surprising about a German accent?” Acayib asked. “You’re a German shepherd, aren’t you?” And he took a long sip of God’s Blessing.
Ralph—well, barked with laughter. And so did all within earshot. Acayib tried to keep a straight face…and failed.
“I should have warned you, Acayib,” I said. “Some of my clientele are a little out of the ordinary. As Tom Waits once said of his band, ‘They all come from good families…just over the years, they got some ways about ’em that just ain’t right.’ Take Ernie Shea over there, the fellow who tossed that paper airplane that set you alight when you walked in here…we call him ‘The Lucky Duck,’ or ‘Duck’ for short, because stuff like that only happens to him on days that end in ‘y.’ Ernie’s half Pooka, on his mother’s side: if he tosses a coin it’s liable to land balanced on edge. Or fail to come down. And then there’s Naggeneen the cluricaune—sort of an Irish combination of Bacchus and Pan. Hey, Nagganeen, where are you?” Not a question one often had to ask, cluricaunes having the personality of an exploding cigar. I finally located him, passed out on one of the (new) rafters, and pointed him out to Acayib. “There he is. He doesn’t usually fold this early.”
Acayib frankly gaped, realizing too late that his brave acceptance of a talking dog had been the equivalent of That Fatal Glass of Beer. A talking dog can be rationalized, if you work at it, slowly—but a three-foot man with four feet of white beard, dressed in crimson cap and forktailed coat, smoking a villainous old pipe while sleeping folded up on a rafter, is something else again.
“Naggeneen’s paranormal power is the ability to teleport himself around—and most particularly, to teleport alcohol directly to his stomach. From anywhere in this building. He’s an easy customer to satisfy—and a jolly old soul, when he’s conscious. Have I exceeded your weirdness quotient, yet?”
He took his time answering. “Jake? Uh, not that I mind, but…we’re through the looking glass here, right?”
“Well, not literally,” I said. “The only one of us to do that was a guy named Bob Trebor…and we busted the glass behind him. Long story. But metaphorically speaking, you’re not far wrong. I think we’re aiming for somewhere more like Oz…or maybe Strawberry Fields.”
He took a deep breath, finished his Irish coffee and took another deep breath. “Okay, go ahead. I dare you: tell me something else astonishing about you folks.”
“Well, we’ve been telepathic. Twice, for short periods. It was so good we’ve been trying to find our way back to it ever since. That’s why we’re here, basically.”
“Uh huh. Anything else?”
“Well, I don’t expect it to come up, but all of us here are bulletproof, and immune to blast forces and hard radiation. We were all in a room with an exploding atom bomb once. It blew us a couple miles, but it didn’t hurt us any.”
He didn’t flinch. “Oh. How did you all come to be immune to shock and radiation, just then?”
“Aw, it’s a long story, probably take me three books to tell you all of it, but basically there was this old friend of ours, a seven-foot-tall alien cyborg named Mickey Finn. Finn saved the human race three times that I know of, and he sure saved our butts that night. See, what happened—”
Acayib held up a hand. “Never mind. I probably don’t need to know…and I think you may indeed have just exceeded my
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