Migration (19 page)

Like his wife, Cat, Russell was a fixture on Little Misty. The couple had operated their store and guided canoe trips into the various connected waterways for over seventy years. A little weathered by time, like cedar grayed by the sun, but Mac had no doubt both could still outpaddle, outhike, and outlast any incoming camper, including herself.

Gracious, gentle people. Friendly, with a quiet reserve.

Mac finished cleaning her knee and glanced at Russell suspiciously.
Not to mention insatiable gossips with a wicked sense of humor
. It wouldn’t be long before the man’s embarrassment faded and the night’s little exposé was thoroughly embellished—and shared all over the lake.

“It’s okay, Russ,” Mac gave in. “What can I do for you?” Her eyes slid to the two sitting together on the biggest couch and she automatically switched from English to Instella, the common language of the IU. “What can I do for all of you? My name is—” she hesitated, well aware cultural norms varied.
Then again, this was her family’s cabin
. “—Mac.”

The alien to the right gave a deep bow, its trisegmented torso letting it fold a disturbing amount while seated. It wore a beautifully embroidered caftanlike garment in shades of browns and golds, large and billowy enough to reupholster the couch.
It did a great job of concealing anatomy,
Mac thought curiously. Shorter of the two, the fabric-covered alien possessed a broad face, wider than it was high—Mac supposed she could call it a face, though there were no features showing through the mass of shaggy gray hair that covered head, neck, and shoulders. A pair of jointed eyestalks protruded from the hair on either side of the head, a purple beadlike eye at each tip. The upper eyes on both sides were looking at Mac. The lower “eyes” were lidded and to all appearances taking a nap.

Its voice was a smooth, immaculate tenor. “We are pleased to make your acquaintance. We are Mr. Kay and Mr. Arslithissiangee Yip, respectively. And how are you today, Mr. Mac?”

Before Mac could do more than blink, the other alien belched and announced loudly: “Fourteenth. You never introduce me properly. It’s Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth.” This alien was close enough to humanoid norm to be wearing a Little Misty Lake General Store cap and sweatshirt, extra large, complete with leering moose on the chest. Close, but not that close. The alien’s eyes were side by side, but too small, almost embedded in folds of sallow skin. The nose stuck out a little too far, and had a hard shiny surface. The mouth, however, had full lips, shaped like a Human ideal of sensual beauty.
Well,
thought Mac,
they would have been the Human ideal except for their color
. They were either naturally beige or the alien had made an unfortunate choice in cosmetics, given they parted over four yellowed teeth and a forked white tongue.

Mr. Kay produced a pair of gloved hands from within the voluminous caftan outfit he wore and proceed to groom the hair down the front of his “face” in an agitated manner. “Having a number as part of your name is ridiculous. Mr. Mac does not. I do not. Mr. Lister does not. Mr. Carlson does not. Mr.—”

“Irrelevant. Irrelevant! IRRELEVANT!”

Mac and Russell exchanged looks as the aliens bickered. He shook his head and shrugged. She sniffed as a pungent odor that had nothing to do with pine trees, chili, or cleaning fluids began filling the room, then glared at the aliens. One of them, Mac decided, had released something.

“Excuse me.”

The two ignored her. “Fourteen!” “Do you require I give out your ident number too?” “Idiot!” “You’re the idiot!”

Mac tightened the towel across her chest and stood up. “QUIET!”

The one who’d called itself Kay managed to look smug despite the hair.

“My name is Mac, with no ‘mister,’ ” Mac told them. “I’ve got your names, including the number,” she added quickly when Arslithissiangee Yip the Fourteenth opened its mouth. “Now, I’d like to know why you’re here.” Her look of inquiry included Russell Lister, whose fault this most likely was.

Sure enough, he was the one who answered. “These gentlemen booked a trip with us.”

“Gentlemen” either answered the gender question,
Mac thought, or Russell was guessing.

“So?”

“Five days and four nights. We’re portaging into Crow Lake then taking the Sagani River over to that fabulous stand of—” Russell stopped as Mac frowned at him. “It was a last minute booking. They’ve arrived too early. We can’t head in until Friday morning, so—”

“Oh, no,” Mac interrupted, aghast. “Don’t you even—”

“It’s only two nights, Mac. We don’t have room at the store and you have all these beds. Cat sent you supplies . . .” This last was delivered with a pleading look.

Two purple eyeballs on stalks and two beady ones did their best to copy it.

Mac gripped her towel and eased her weight off the leg with the throbbing and skinned kneecap.

“The place looks great,” Russell added. “You’ve really cleaned it up.”

A hairy head and a becapped one nodded.

If only there wasn’t a standing tradition on Little Misty of sending overflow guests to the bunkhouse-style cabin of the Connor family. If only locals like Russell, lonesome after the winter, comprehended that not everyone wanted company.

If only she didn’t owe Cat a few dozen favors, including an apology for her abrupt departure . . .

“Fine,” Mac growled. “Two days.”

“Our thanks, Mac.” Mr. Kay reached into his caftan and pulled out a small box, holding it up triumphantly. “And look! I obtained a game of cards from the store in anticipation of our time together.”

The second alien gave a hum that sounded downright blissful. “There are numbers.”

Okay,
Mac thought, scowling at Russell, who was trying—and failing—to keep a straight face.

Mac threw her pillow into the air. She’d tried putting it over her head. Hadn’t helped. Was it some kind of rule that aliens had to snore? Loudly, arrhythmically, and with alarming pauses as if one or the other had suddenly died? She should have known better than to put them at opposite ends of the cabin. The two front corners might be the largest, best rooms. It didn’t matter an iota when she was the one inflicted with stereo snoring.

Mac lay on her back and studied the beams meeting overhead. The moon was up and full, bright enough to pull color from the old quilts on the walls. The racket had probably cleared the nearby woods of anything that could run, including moose and bear. The idea had its appeal.

Then a particularly piercing whistle, followed by a moist sputter and rising moan, made her giggle.

Mac covered her mouth with her hands, hoping their hearing wasn’t as good as hers. But it was no use. She gave in, laughing so hard at each new improbable snore that tears poured from her eyes and her heels drummed the mattress.

Finally able to stop, though she still snickered helplessly every so often, Mac got up and sat on the bench under the small window.

What were they?
She’d done her best to learn more nonterrestrial biology, but the number of intelligent species, let alone their spread beyond their original planets, made it impossible to know them all. If only she’d brought her imp, she could have accessed the considerable library she’d amassed.

And if wishes were horses,
Mac nodded to herself. “I’ll ask,” she said aloud, wiping a last tear from one eye. “If it offends them, Em, they can leave. If not . . .”
Oh, she knew that itch—her curiosity was fully engaged
. Mac could no more ignore it than stop aliens snoring.

Then another thought widened her eyes. Mac hugged her knees to her chest and considered it.

She kept her promises
. But was it her fault that no one, Ministry agent or otherwise, had ever asked her to not question a couple of alien campers about what was happening beyond this system? Casual questions, of course.

There was no humor left in Mac’s smile.

For some reason, falling asleep took no more than a return to bed and snuggling under the covers.

When Mac next awoke, it was to the drumming of rain on the roof. A reprieve, of sorts. She knew perfectly well Russell hoped she’d show Kay and Fourteen, as she’d come to think of the other alien, how to paddle a canoe. It wouldn’t be this morning, unless the sky cleared.

She listened as she dressed. No snores, but a promising clatter from the kitchen. Mac pulled an old sweater over her head and fluffed her hair into a semblance of order—as much as the short, curly stuff ever had these days. Times like these she missed her obedient braid, sacrificed in
grathnu
to a Dhryn Progenitor. She’d been so proud of herself that day. Mackenzie Winifred Elizabeth Wright Connor
Sol
.

She’d believed she was close to understanding the Dhryn.

And now, when she least expected it—and hadn’t asked for it—she had a new batch of aliens to attempt to understand.
When was the universe going to remember her field was
salmon
?

“They’d better not want any hair,” Mac grumbled as she went downstairs in search of her guests.

The aliens were, as she’d surmised, busy producing breakfast. The long table, with its top of scarred maple, was set for three at the near end. Fourteen was pouring coffee while Kay stood in front of the stove, stirring something. Mac sniffed cautiously. Despite the condition of the path to the cabin, they’d brought up a considerable amount of baggage, including a crate of ‘their’ food packed in unidentifiable round packages, most of which had gone in the chiller. She’d learned to be wary of extraterrestrial diets.

Another, bolder sniff.
Bacon?

An upper eyestalk bent backward, aiming its purple eye her way. “Good morning, Mac!” Kay greeted without leaving his task. “How are you?” He might not have a visible face, but his voice conveyed friendliness.
Always assuming,
Mac thought as she entered the kitchen,
a concept like friendliness meant the same to them both.

“Fine, thanks. I hope you both slept well?” If there was a certain irony in the question, Mac felt it was deserved.

Fourteen looked up, his small eyes bright. “I hate sleep.” Without his Little Misty River cap, she could see he possessed a fine down of reddish hair in a ring on the top of his head. It made him look more Human, one of those who chose to go bald with maturity. Yesterday, Mac had assumed these were young beings, perhaps adventurous students or wealthy offspring after an Earthly thrill. Now, she wasn’t sure. “Sleep wastes time,” Fourteen informed her. “Coffee?” As Mac nodded, bemused, he snapped at the other alien. “This cooking of yours wastes time, too. I told you to use something ready-to-eat if there wasn’t any
poodle
to be had.”

Mac blinked, then realized it must be a word without an equivalent in Instella. Still, good thing her Great Aunt Roxy, whose house swarmed with dog-type poodles, wasn’t in earshot.

Kay seemed unperturbed by Fourteen’s complaints. He turned with a large skillet in one hand, a spatula in the other. “It’s ready.”

Mac was about to protest she’d make her own, thank you, “poodle” or otherwise, when she saw what was in the pan. Scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, golden-brown potato slices, strips of bacon. They’d all been in the supplies Cat had sent for her, the store owner foolishly optimistic in thinking Mac had finally learned to cook for herself. “Wonderful,” she said weakly, sinking into a chair.

Fourteen finished pouring her coffee, then grabbed a basket of toast from the counter and placed it on the table between them. “Eating wastes time,” he announced firmly, but sat as well.

Mac’s mouth watered as Kay filled her plate. If it wasn’t for the elongated, many-knuckled fingers gripping the spatula, light pink out of their gloves, and the faint, not-unpleasant dried hay smell of the being leaning to serve her, she might have been sitting down to one of her father’s meals. That and the hair, which at this range proved to have fine strands like very tightly wound springs, more metallic than gray in color. It moved more stiffly than Human hair, too, and Mac wondered how it felt.