let's get the kid out of the sun. Besides, I
have to go to the bathroom."
"We can go back in the plane . . . Oops, no. Sorry, I forgot."
Tusk patted his wife's stomach again. "You're as big as a cruise
liner. I don't remember you being this big with John. Here, we can go
to the clubhouse. Get a beer."
"You can have a beer." Nola sighed. "Water for me."
They walked across the baking hot tarmac, heading for the small
prefab hut that was known semi-sarcastically as the clubhouse. Tusk
and Link kept the plane in a private spaceport lo-cated on the
distant outskirts of Mareksville, one of the planet's larger and more
prosperous cities. The spacesport was run-down, its tarmac cracked
and broken. It had no hangars—not that Tusk and Link could have
afforded the luxury of a hangar anyway— and no lights. Since
most of those who utilized this runway didn't care to be seen, this
last was not an inconvenience.
No government claimed the land on which the spaceport stood, so it
was outside any government regulations. Occasionally it would occur
to some newly elected official that it might be a good idea if the
spaceport were shut down, but the people of Vangelis—having
only recently overthrown a tyrannical oligarchy—were strong in
the belief that a good government— like good children—should
be seen and not heard.
This time of day, the clubhouse—which consisted of a soft-drink
machine, a beer machine, one human WC, one alien WC, numerous wooden
tables and wobbly-legged chairs, and several ancient pinball
machines—was empty. The beer was cold, the place was moderately
clean and moderately air-conditioned. At least it was cooler inside
than out. But then, as Tusk said, an oven would be cooler inside than
out.
Nola went to the bathroom. Tusk got himself a beer, his wife a bottle
of water, and the kid fruit juice that would mostly end up on his
shirt. John toddled happily among the chairs that were like a jungle
to him, pushing them under the tables and pulling them out, returning
to his parents whenever in need of a drink.
"So what did the doctor say?" Tusk was beginning to get
worried.
Nola sat down, placed her sunburned freckled brown hand over her
husband's smooth-skinned black hand, and looked him in the eye.
"Twins."
Tusk's jaw dropped.
" 'Fraid so, darling," Nola said briskly. "They run in
your family. Your mother told me so, last time she came to visit. So
it's all your fault."
"Twins," repeated Tusk dazedly.
Nola's expression softened. She stroked his hand. "I'm sorry,
dear."
Tusk forced a smile. "Hell, like you said, it's my fault—"
"No, I don't mean about that. I'm sorry for having this baby.
These babies. Now, of all times." "We both agreed,
remember? And I was there during the proceedings. A major
participant." Tusk kissed his wife, took hold of her hand,
squeezed it tightly. "I'm thrilled, honey. I really am."
"Things were looking so good, back then—"
"Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll make it. We'll be fine." He
thought about the medical insurance—or lack of it. "We'll
be fine," he said again. "We've been in worse situations
than this."
"Yes, but usually people were shooting at us," Nola said,
teasing.
Tusk didn't laugh, however. He was staring at the half-full beer
bottle, moving it back and forth restlessly on the tabletop. Nola
knew the signs.
"Tusk—" she began, but at that moment son John came
over, demanding orange juice.
Nola gave the child a drink, then caught hold of him as he was about
to toddle off, examined him closely.
"Tusk, you've been feeding him cookies! And you know what sweets
can do to his teeth!"
"No, I haven't!" Tusk protested.
"Well, someone has," said Nola severely. She turned the boy
around for exhibition. "Look at this. Cookie crumbs all down the
front of his shirt. And here's half of a cookie stuffed into his
pants."
"It wasn't me," said Tusk, surveying the incriminating
evidence. "Maybe it was Nan at
have to go to the bathroom."
"We can go back in the plane . . . Oops, no. Sorry, I forgot."
Tusk patted his wife's stomach again. "You're as big as a cruise
liner. I don't remember you being this big with John. Here, we can go
to the clubhouse. Get a beer."
"You can have a beer." Nola sighed. "Water for me."
They walked across the baking hot tarmac, heading for the small
prefab hut that was known semi-sarcastically as the clubhouse. Tusk
and Link kept the plane in a private spaceport lo-cated on the
distant outskirts of Mareksville, one of the planet's larger and more
prosperous cities. The spacesport was run-down, its tarmac cracked
and broken. It had no hangars—not that Tusk and Link could have
afforded the luxury of a hangar anyway— and no lights. Since
most of those who utilized this runway didn't care to be seen, this
last was not an inconvenience.
No government claimed the land on which the spaceport stood, so it
was outside any government regulations. Occasionally it would occur
to some newly elected official that it might be a good idea if the
spaceport were shut down, but the people of Vangelis—having
only recently overthrown a tyrannical oligarchy—were strong in
the belief that a good government— like good children—should
be seen and not heard.
This time of day, the clubhouse—which consisted of a soft-drink
machine, a beer machine, one human WC, one alien WC, numerous wooden
tables and wobbly-legged chairs, and several ancient pinball
machines—was empty. The beer was cold, the place was moderately
clean and moderately air-conditioned. At least it was cooler inside
than out. But then, as Tusk said, an oven would be cooler inside than
out.
Nola went to the bathroom. Tusk got himself a beer, his wife a bottle
of water, and the kid fruit juice that would mostly end up on his
shirt. John toddled happily among the chairs that were like a jungle
to him, pushing them under the tables and pulling them out, returning
to his parents whenever in need of a drink.
"So what did the doctor say?" Tusk was beginning to get
worried.
Nola sat down, placed her sunburned freckled brown hand over her
husband's smooth-skinned black hand, and looked him in the eye.
"Twins."
Tusk's jaw dropped.
" 'Fraid so, darling," Nola said briskly. "They run in
your family. Your mother told me so, last time she came to visit. So
it's all your fault."
"Twins," repeated Tusk dazedly.
Nola's expression softened. She stroked his hand. "I'm sorry,
dear."
Tusk forced a smile. "Hell, like you said, it's my fault—"
"No, I don't mean about that. I'm sorry for having this baby.
These babies. Now, of all times." "We both agreed,
remember? And I was there during the proceedings. A major
participant." Tusk kissed his wife, took hold of her hand,
squeezed it tightly. "I'm thrilled, honey. I really am."
"Things were looking so good, back then—"
"Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll make it. We'll be fine." He
thought about the medical insurance—or lack of it. "We'll
be fine," he said again. "We've been in worse situations
than this."
"Yes, but usually people were shooting at us," Nola said,
teasing.
Tusk didn't laugh, however. He was staring at the half-full beer
bottle, moving it back and forth restlessly on the tabletop. Nola
knew the signs.
"Tusk—" she began, but at that moment son John came
over, demanding orange juice.
Nola gave the child a drink, then caught hold of him as he was about
to toddle off, examined him closely.
"Tusk, you've been feeding him cookies! And you know what sweets
can do to his teeth!"
"No, I haven't!" Tusk protested.
"Well, someone has," said Nola severely. She turned the boy
around for exhibition. "Look at this. Cookie crumbs all down the
front of his shirt. And here's half of a cookie stuffed into his
pants."
"It wasn't me," said Tusk, surveying the incriminating
evidence. "Maybe it was Nan at