Read Online Jack the Bodiless (Galactic Milieu Trilogy) by Julian May - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julian May
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to the air again. A three-meter leap gained him the sanctuary of a high storage shelf, where he settled down to enjoy his purloined lunch among the piles of century-old pulp magazines shrouded in transparent plass.
Marc came in and shut the door behind him.
“Uncle Rogi, wake up!”
As the boy spoke, his powerful redactive faculty performed a drastic therapeutic maneuver, canceling the alcoholic torpor. The sleeping bookseller’s brainwaves jumped into abrupt and highly unwelcome wakefulness. RogatienRemillard snorted and hauled himself up, muttering curses in the Canuckois French of upper New England that was his natal tongue. His eyes snapped fully open when Marc sent a terse telepathic message arrowing into his mind.
“My
help? Batège! What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time? And what are you doing back home so early? Don’t tell me you’ve been thrown out of another school workshop for gross insubordination—”
The old man broke off, coerced firmly into silence. Marc said on the intimate mode: It’s not that at all Uncle Rogi. This is serious business. A family emergency. You’ve got to come home with me right away and for God’s sake put a lid on it while we’re in range of Perdita Manion!… Do you still have your old canoe and camping gear stashed in your garage?
Yes. But—
Good. We’ll be needing them and your groundcar too. Do you have any cash available?
You know damn well I do and I always will until the foutu credit cards conquer the universe. [Suspicion.] How much cash?
Three or four kay.
Grand dieu! What kind of trouble have you—
Get it and let’s go.
Without any further mental exchange, the bookseller rose and put the bottle of whiskey away in a file cabinet. He took a filthy old book-shipping Jiffy bag from the shelves of packing materials, extracted a wad of durofilm bills from it, and stuffed the money into his pants pocket. Then, with the boy following, he went into the front of the store.
“Marc and I will be going out for a while, Perdita. If Professor Dalembert comes for his copy of Murray’s
Mamelons and Ungava
, be sure to point out the cracked hinges. But it’s still a steal at three hundred.”
“You two run along, and I’ll hold the fort,” Perdita said comfortably. “Nothing’s happening at all on a lazy summer afternoon like this.”
Marc’s laugh was strained. “That’s nice to know. Uncle Rogi and I just may take the rest of the day off and go canoeing. Good to see you again, Miz Manion.”
The old man and the boy exited into brazen sunshine. High in the buttermilk sky a single egg-shaped rhocraft soared westward over the Connecticut River Valley, seemingto waft as slowly as a toy balloon even though it must have been traveling at several hundred kilometers per hour. There was no other aerial traffic. A sporty black groundcar drove slowly past the post office, where on twin poles the flags of the United States of America and the Human Polity of the Galactic Milieu hung limp. Across Main Street, at the BP energy station, Wally Van Zandt was squirting the petunias in the bed next to the egg-charging pad with D-water, following the common folkloric belief that it would make the flowers more spectacular. Marc noticed that the cost of j-fuel had risen five pence since he’d gone off-world. The damned energy companies seemed to do that every summer. It was high time the manufacturers converted turbocycles and private groundcars to fusion, just like commercial vehicles and eggs. More expensive in the short run for the power plant, but cheaper in the long for the fuel.
Rogi and Marc went around the corner onto East South Street, to Rogi’s garage. It was nearly three months since the bookseller had last seen his great-grandnephew, and even in that short period of time Marc seemed to have grown. The top of his black curls was above Rogi’s shoulder level now. The young jaw with its deeply cleft chin was more angular, and the profile was
Marc came in and shut the door behind him.
“Uncle Rogi, wake up!”
As the boy spoke, his powerful redactive faculty performed a drastic therapeutic maneuver, canceling the alcoholic torpor. The sleeping bookseller’s brainwaves jumped into abrupt and highly unwelcome wakefulness. RogatienRemillard snorted and hauled himself up, muttering curses in the Canuckois French of upper New England that was his natal tongue. His eyes snapped fully open when Marc sent a terse telepathic message arrowing into his mind.
“My
help? Batège! What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time? And what are you doing back home so early? Don’t tell me you’ve been thrown out of another school workshop for gross insubordination—”
The old man broke off, coerced firmly into silence. Marc said on the intimate mode: It’s not that at all Uncle Rogi. This is serious business. A family emergency. You’ve got to come home with me right away and for God’s sake put a lid on it while we’re in range of Perdita Manion!… Do you still have your old canoe and camping gear stashed in your garage?
Yes. But—
Good. We’ll be needing them and your groundcar too. Do you have any cash available?
You know damn well I do and I always will until the foutu credit cards conquer the universe. [Suspicion.] How much cash?
Three or four kay.
Grand dieu! What kind of trouble have you—
Get it and let’s go.
Without any further mental exchange, the bookseller rose and put the bottle of whiskey away in a file cabinet. He took a filthy old book-shipping Jiffy bag from the shelves of packing materials, extracted a wad of durofilm bills from it, and stuffed the money into his pants pocket. Then, with the boy following, he went into the front of the store.
“Marc and I will be going out for a while, Perdita. If Professor Dalembert comes for his copy of Murray’s
Mamelons and Ungava
, be sure to point out the cracked hinges. But it’s still a steal at three hundred.”
“You two run along, and I’ll hold the fort,” Perdita said comfortably. “Nothing’s happening at all on a lazy summer afternoon like this.”
Marc’s laugh was strained. “That’s nice to know. Uncle Rogi and I just may take the rest of the day off and go canoeing. Good to see you again, Miz Manion.”
The old man and the boy exited into brazen sunshine. High in the buttermilk sky a single egg-shaped rhocraft soared westward over the Connecticut River Valley, seemingto waft as slowly as a toy balloon even though it must have been traveling at several hundred kilometers per hour. There was no other aerial traffic. A sporty black groundcar drove slowly past the post office, where on twin poles the flags of the United States of America and the Human Polity of the Galactic Milieu hung limp. Across Main Street, at the BP energy station, Wally Van Zandt was squirting the petunias in the bed next to the egg-charging pad with D-water, following the common folkloric belief that it would make the flowers more spectacular. Marc noticed that the cost of j-fuel had risen five pence since he’d gone off-world. The damned energy companies seemed to do that every summer. It was high time the manufacturers converted turbocycles and private groundcars to fusion, just like commercial vehicles and eggs. More expensive in the short run for the power plant, but cheaper in the long for the fuel.
Rogi and Marc went around the corner onto East South Street, to Rogi’s garage. It was nearly three months since the bookseller had last seen his great-grandnephew, and even in that short period of time Marc seemed to have grown. The top of his black curls was above Rogi’s shoulder level now. The young jaw with its deeply cleft chin was more angular, and the profile was
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