The Lord of Opium

They went to the hovercraft port, but the energy signal on all the stirabouts was flat. Happy Man hadn’t bothered to recharge them. Matt, Listen, and Cienfuegos would have to walk, and the way was long, treeless, and hot. It quickly became clear that Listen would need frequent rest stops. Cienfuegos himself was uneasy about traveling without cover in daylight. “I wish I’d thought to bring water,” he said.

He broke into one of the small, abandoned observatories on the way. A mesquite tree had grown up in front of the door, and his hands got gouged by thorns when he cleared its branches. “Sometimes I forget that everything in this desert is out to get you,” he said, sucking blood from his fingers. “The cactuses, the trees, the bullhead vines. If you lift a board, you find a rattlesnake. If you take a nap, the conenose beetles crawl into bed and suck your blood. Dark corners are the happy homes of black widows and brown recluse spiders and these suckers—!” He squashed a bark scorpion running for cover.

“Still, it’s all part of the ecosystem,” he said, patting the single bed inside and releasing clouds of dust. “Just as I am part of the ecosystem, along with my venomous brothers and sisters.” Once he was satisfied that the bed was safe, he told Listen to lie down.

The air was cool and shadowed. Ancient photographs of star systems covered the walls, and a desk with a bookcase stood against a wall. A small kitchen with dishes and a sink was attached to the building, but of course nothing came out of the faucet except a centipede.

“Let me look outside,” said Cienfuegos. They heard him pulling away bushes and cursing. They heard banging and clanking, and the jefe eventually returned soaking wet. “Water,” he announced. He had discovered a hand pump and by pounding it with rocks had worked the rusty handle until he got a stream of reddish-brown liquid. Matt and he filled pans and bowls.

“At least it’s wet,” conceded Cienfuegos.

“Looks like mud,” said Listen.

“Give it a few minutes. The sediment will sink, and you can pour off the top.”

They rested, waiting for dusk, when it would be safer to travel. “Whoever owned the place walked out one day and never came back,” observed Matt. A leather-bound book lay open on the desk next to a pair of wire-rim glasses. He recognized these from old TV shows. No one wore glasses anymore.

“Be careful with the books,” said Cienfuegos. “I’ll take them to the Mushroom Master. He’ll know how to preserve them.”

Listen pointed at a photograph. “That’s an African,” she said. Matt blew gently to dislodge the dust and saw a man in an astronaut’s uniform. The symbol on his sleeve was of the old American empire, and he stood next to an antique escape pod.

“Who was he?” said Matt. But they found nothing about him in the papers scattered on the desk.

They exchanged news of what each had been doing during their separation. Cienfuegos revealed that he’d been responsible for the dead soldier outside the operating room. “Then I had to run,” he said. “There were too many of Glass Eye’s troops on the ground. I realized that the border was open and went to the holoport, but you’d already closed it. That’s when I found the Bug.”

“How was he?” asked Matt.

“Buggy,” the jefe said. “Half the time he screamed and the other half threatened. I was seriously tempted to leave him, but . . . ”

“You felt sorry for him.”

“Not really. He was making a racket, and I didn’t want Glass Eye’s troops to show up. I carried him to Malverde’s chapel. Sor Artemesia is looking after him, and good luck on that job. I’d rather take care of a rabid skunk.” Cienfuegos got up and poured clear upper water into another basin.

“There’s a dead mosquito in it,” complained Listen.

“Yum,” said Cienfuegos, picking it out and eating it. It was difficult to gross out the jefe.

Matt revealed what had happened just before Cienfuegos arrived in Glass Eye’s hospital room, and the man was impressed. “You killed Dr. Rivas?” he asked Listen.

“I guess I did. I made Glass Eye mad,” the little girl said uncomfortably. “But Dr. Rivas killed my best buddy. He promised not to, but he did it. He did.” The energy went out of her and she bent over, grieving silently.

“Well, I think you’re crotting marvelous. If I’m ever elected head of the UN, I’ll issue you a Hero Medal.”

“You said a curse word,” she said.

“It’s okay when I do it. Did you really hear Dr. Rivas and his son and daughter talk about the room at the bottom of the solar telescope?”