secret. Now I think we'd better invent one."
"Invent a secret?” repeated Penelope uncomprehendingly.
The Mouse nodded. “We need a secret signal so I'll know if someone wants to harm us."
"Like a secret code!” said Penelope excitedly. “Like the stories I saw on the video!"
"Just like them."
"How about if I do this ?” suggested Penelope, screwing up her face in such a grotesque expression that the Mouse laughed out loud.
"It wouldn't be secret for very long."
"I could pretend to sneeze."
"No,” said the Mouse. “We need something that doesn't draw attention to you. Try scratching your chin."
Penelope made a claw of her left hand and scratched her chin vigorously.
The Mouse shook her head. “Use one finger, and do it very gingerly."
The little girl did as she was instructed.
"That's it. If anyone is going to try to hurt us, that's what I want you to do."
"But what if I'm in another room, or you can't see me?” asked Penelope. “Maybe I should whistle a song."
"It will attract too much attention."
"But if someone wants to kill us, shouldn't we want to attract attention?"
The Mouse grimaced. “I'm not big enough to fight off an attacker; I just want a little warning so we can sneak out before they pounce.” She paused. “Besides, someone has offered an awful lot of money for you. Attract enough attention in a town like Ophir, and four out of every five men who figure out who you are will be more likely to kidnap you than save you."
Penelope fell silent and practiced gently scratching her chin, and the Mouse increased their speed and tried to ignore the constantly increasing heat within the vehicle.
Two hours later they arrived at the tiny outpost of Ophir.
[Back to Table of Contents]
6.
The Mouse walked into the bar, Penelope at her side, and breathed a sigh of gratitude as a wave of cold air swept over her. There were twelve large, well-worn tables made from a local hardwood, all of them empty at midday, and she collapsed into a chair at the closest one. The walls were covered with holographs of military heroes, sports heroes, and plump nude women, none of which particularly impressed her.
The bartender, a short, burly man with a noticeable limp and a sparse mustache that made his upper lip appear dirty rather than hairy, nodded a greeting to them.
"I don't know how anyone lives out here,” said the Mouse. “I've felt cooler ovens."
The bartender grinned. “We don't reach the heat of the day for another couple of hours. You'll get used to it."
"Why would anyone want to?” replied the Mouse. She peered at his stock behind the bar. “What have you got to drink?"
"You name it, we've got it."
"We'll need a room, too."
"It's yours, gratis."
"You don't charge for your rooms?” said the Mouse, puzzled.
"The next room I charge for will be the first,” said the bartender.
"How do you make a living?"
"Oh, I manage,” said the bartender. “By the way, my name's Ryan—Bannister Ryan."
"Bannister?” repeated the Mouse. “That's an unusual name."
Ryan chuckled. “Oh, it's not my real one. They gave it to me the first year I was here."
"Why?"
He leaned forward, resting his large hands on the polished surface of the bar. “Some drunk was causing a disturbance, so I asked him politely to desist. He didn't"—Ryan smiled at the memory—"so I ripped a bannister off the staircase and cracked him over the head with it. I've been Bannister Ryan ever since."
"How long have you been out here?” asked the Mouse.
Ryan paused long enough to do a quick mental computation. “Eighteen years. Bought the place seven years ago."
"The bar?"
"The whole damned town—all three buildings’ worth."
"Well, Bannister, that's an interesting story, but we're still thirsty."
"What'll you have?"
"I'll have a tall, cold beer,” said the Mouse.
"The first one's on the house,” said Ryan.
"You're kidding!"
He shook his head. “One thing I never kid about is money."
"Someday you must tell me
"Invent a secret?” repeated Penelope uncomprehendingly.
The Mouse nodded. “We need a secret signal so I'll know if someone wants to harm us."
"Like a secret code!” said Penelope excitedly. “Like the stories I saw on the video!"
"Just like them."
"How about if I do this ?” suggested Penelope, screwing up her face in such a grotesque expression that the Mouse laughed out loud.
"It wouldn't be secret for very long."
"I could pretend to sneeze."
"No,” said the Mouse. “We need something that doesn't draw attention to you. Try scratching your chin."
Penelope made a claw of her left hand and scratched her chin vigorously.
The Mouse shook her head. “Use one finger, and do it very gingerly."
The little girl did as she was instructed.
"That's it. If anyone is going to try to hurt us, that's what I want you to do."
"But what if I'm in another room, or you can't see me?” asked Penelope. “Maybe I should whistle a song."
"It will attract too much attention."
"But if someone wants to kill us, shouldn't we want to attract attention?"
The Mouse grimaced. “I'm not big enough to fight off an attacker; I just want a little warning so we can sneak out before they pounce.” She paused. “Besides, someone has offered an awful lot of money for you. Attract enough attention in a town like Ophir, and four out of every five men who figure out who you are will be more likely to kidnap you than save you."
Penelope fell silent and practiced gently scratching her chin, and the Mouse increased their speed and tried to ignore the constantly increasing heat within the vehicle.
Two hours later they arrived at the tiny outpost of Ophir.
[Back to Table of Contents]
6.
The Mouse walked into the bar, Penelope at her side, and breathed a sigh of gratitude as a wave of cold air swept over her. There were twelve large, well-worn tables made from a local hardwood, all of them empty at midday, and she collapsed into a chair at the closest one. The walls were covered with holographs of military heroes, sports heroes, and plump nude women, none of which particularly impressed her.
The bartender, a short, burly man with a noticeable limp and a sparse mustache that made his upper lip appear dirty rather than hairy, nodded a greeting to them.
"I don't know how anyone lives out here,” said the Mouse. “I've felt cooler ovens."
The bartender grinned. “We don't reach the heat of the day for another couple of hours. You'll get used to it."
"Why would anyone want to?” replied the Mouse. She peered at his stock behind the bar. “What have you got to drink?"
"You name it, we've got it."
"We'll need a room, too."
"It's yours, gratis."
"You don't charge for your rooms?” said the Mouse, puzzled.
"The next room I charge for will be the first,” said the bartender.
"How do you make a living?"
"Oh, I manage,” said the bartender. “By the way, my name's Ryan—Bannister Ryan."
"Bannister?” repeated the Mouse. “That's an unusual name."
Ryan chuckled. “Oh, it's not my real one. They gave it to me the first year I was here."
"Why?"
He leaned forward, resting his large hands on the polished surface of the bar. “Some drunk was causing a disturbance, so I asked him politely to desist. He didn't"—Ryan smiled at the memory—"so I ripped a bannister off the staircase and cracked him over the head with it. I've been Bannister Ryan ever since."
"How long have you been out here?” asked the Mouse.
Ryan paused long enough to do a quick mental computation. “Eighteen years. Bought the place seven years ago."
"The bar?"
"The whole damned town—all three buildings’ worth."
"Well, Bannister, that's an interesting story, but we're still thirsty."
"What'll you have?"
"I'll have a tall, cold beer,” said the Mouse.
"The first one's on the house,” said Ryan.
"You're kidding!"
He shook his head. “One thing I never kid about is money."
"Someday you must tell me
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