“I am Allen Poe Hudgins Pritchert, son of a mess of folks, some of whom I’ve never heard of.” He offered his hand to the alien. “Be pleased if you’d call me Bubba. M’friends all do.”
The Thunt looked at his outstretched hand, then took it carefully in his own—whether to prevent injury or through squeamishness wasn’t clear. “I am honored that you share with me your Name of Equals. My… friends… call me K’tine.”
“Look, K’tine, all this standin’s got my back in a bad mood. Set yourself and we’ll enjoy the park together.”
“Thank you, but I must return to the complex. I have preparations to make.” K’tine moved as if to go.
“Well, pleased to make your acquaintance, anyway. But before you go, you gotta tell me how it is that you got so much English.”
“I learned it for this circumstance. It was necessary, as I translate for the council.” He turned his back to them, but before taking a step said in a low voice, “Do your best tomorrow, Bubba. I would have my son back.” He left the garden without looking back.
Bubba was quiet for a long time.
“Seems nice enough, your father,” he said noncommittally.
Hoss replied in a low voice that shook with emotion. “I have no… no words about my father. I have seen neither of my Primes since my action, have not spoken to them. They are lost to me.” He paused, obviously shaken. “And yet, he came to us. It is unprecedented. He could not see me, speak to me, or touch me lest he share my fate. But he came.”
“Of course he did, you big galoot. You don’t think for a minute that he was talking for my benefit, do you?”
“I don’t understand.”
“And you say you watch our TV and movies. Hmph. Look, he came out here to let you know that he’s no more happy about things than we are. He might not be able to do much, but he wants his boy back as much as any father would.” Bubba pulled a rag out of his pocket and began absently wiping his hands. “Might just be that he’s not the only one of your Progenitors feels that way, old son. I got a feeling that tomorrow’s gonna be, well, interesting—in the Chinese sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t worry about it, Hoss. C’mon, let’s get washed up and see what kind of spread these folks lay on. I’m tired of chili.”
There was a lot of food in the dining hall, enough to feed a dozen or more people, but they were seated alone at a large table. A menu screen set into the table allowed them to ask for anything not already present; Hoss explained that since there was no real contact between him and the kitchen staff, there was no violation. A conveyor system delivered the food within moments—the staff was obviously expert.
There were fruits and vegetables, of course, but most dishes were unfamiliar: bowls of what looked like various kinds of aspic (Hoss explained that these were the by-products of insect colonies. Bubba thought hard about honey and tried some, and found them both indescribable and wonderful); several meats—raw, roasted and baked in ornate clay shells; six different breads; a tray of condiments including sweet, sour and hot sauces; cold milk, chilled wine, and a hot tea made of native herbs. What Bubba took to be the centerpiece but which turned out to be a delicacy—Hoss’s favorite, in fact: a tower of blue-white ice spires, filled with some sort of thick-stemmed flowers and rising out of a bed of spun noodles the consistency of gossamer.
“This is the work of my Eight-Mother, I’m sure,” he said, breaking off a spire and winding noodles around it like cotton candy. Bubba tried some; the flowers added a sweetness to the ice which was balanced by the salty noodles.
They ate in silence. Bubba always read when he ate, unless there was conversation going on, but the richness and variety of the food kept him absorbed.
Finished, both pushed back from the table and belched loud and long.
“What’re the rules around here concerning tobacco?” he asked Hoss.
“If you’re referring to leafy combustibles,” Hoss replied archly, “be my guest. It doesn’t bother me, and in any case there are precipitators in the ceiling.”
Bubba pulled out his old briar, loaded it from a leather pouch, and lit it with a wooden match scratched against the sole of his boot. He puffed out a cloud of aromatic smoke and clasped his hands behind his head.
“All we need now is my mother’s pecan pie. Sweet as a stolen kiss and just as nutritious. Remind me to give you the recipe, Hoss.”
“If it’s anything like the ‘chili,’ I’ll take it.”
“In its own way, I s’pose it is. Not as many peppers, mind you.”
Hoss managed to look disappointed. “What a shame,” he said.
“If you only knew. Say, do you think there might be a bottle or two of steam-brewed beer somewhere about?”
The Thunt smiled. “I will be happy to check.” He consulted the screen.
There wasn’t, but there was plenty of the native beer, tangy and rich, with a slight smoky aftertaste. It was brought to them in a wooden keg set in a frame that let it rotate along its main axis. A hole in the side was sealed with a wax plug, which Hoss ceremoniously cut out with a sharp folding blade he took from his pocket.
“This is called k’rrith,” Hoss said, “although I don’t expect you to be able to say that after the third mug.”
“You trying to say I can’t hold my beer, Augie Doggie?”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we, Doggie Daddy?”
“Oh, dear,” Mike muttered, “two rednecks in a drinking contest. An ‘off’ switch. Why didn’t I ask for an ‘off’ switch?”
“You told me you never liked to be shut off,” Bubba protested.
“I didn’t mean for me!”
Hoss and Bubba spent the rest of the evening laughing and swapping lies about women, cartoons, sports, music, beer, and women; two more of the small kegs were brought in and eventually emptied. Bubba was overjoyed to find a toilet off to one side of the room, and delighted by Hoss’s translation of the more interesting and scatological graffiti. He taught Hoss several songs, ranging from “Johnny, Be Fair” to “The Ballad of Lizzie Borden,” with Mike translating into Thuntish as they went along.
Finally, arms around each other and singing in no-part harmony, they retired to their suite.
Early—far too early—the next day, the door to their chamber chimed. Bubba, still mostly asleep, padded to the door and in a hoarse voice said “Who?”
There was a spate of Thuntish from the other side. “WAIT wait wait…” he said irritably, and fetched Mike to translate.
“The Ceremony is to begin in one hour,” Mike said. “You must both be ready. The cook has sent along a bottle of something that will clear your heads. She says she enjoyed the songs you were singing last night, and would very much like to meet this John the Kidney Wiper’ if you can arrange it.”
Bubba opened the door wide enough to peer blearily out at the female Thunt.
“Tell her if this stuff works I’ll see to it personally.”
The woman snorted laughter, and handed him the bottle with two glasses. Before leaving, she made a brief comment that Mike translated as “If your eyes were open any further, you’d bleed to death.”
“Yeah, and wouldn’t I feel better then.” Bubba mumbled.
Bubba shut the door carefully and collapsed in an overstuffed chair. Hoss emerged from his room after a few minutes, looking no better off than his human friend.
“Mornin’, Hoss. Gee, you look terrific.”
Hoss worked his mouth for a moment, trying to get enough spit to talk. “It tastes as though the entire Thuntish army has been marching across my tongue in their socks.”