“Naw, couldn’t be them,” insisted someone else. “I hear they’re all from California.” More laughter lifted above the general chatter.

“Well, that fits those outfits they wear!” another cracked.

As he went with the flow Ross Ed occasionally glanced in Jed’s direction for inspiration. Lines and aphorisms seemed to pop easily into his head just when he needed them. He’d never thought of himself as a particularly funny guy, but the customers seemed to find his quips and responses hilarious. As long as that was the case, he saw no harm in keeping it going.

Meanwhile, his initially amateurish voice throwing continued to improve. He’d heard that some folks had undiscovered natural talents that manifested themselves at odd and unexpected times and places. Perhaps ventriloquism was one of his. Just so long, he thought, as no one asked him to spell it. Certainly it was the perfect cover for Jed.

Hide in plain sight, he reminded himself again.

FIVE

That Friday night would’ve been the end of it except that Noddy Raskin, head of the hotel’s restaurant division, happened to have slipped into the bar while Ross Ed was performing. He’d come for a few moments, stayed for an hour, and made it a point to corner his new bartender subsequent to closing time.

“I caught some of your act tonight, Ross. You’re pretty good with that funny-looking dummy. You could be the world’s tallest ventriloquist.”

“I’m a bartender, Mr. Raskin. I don’t have an act. I was just playing around to keep the customers happy.”

“And you did that, you sure did.” Raskin was short, over-weight, and fiftyish, but with a kindly demeanor that endeared him to most of the employees. “Look, I know you’re only here on a temporary basis. You made that clear on your job app. We get people in and out of here all the time. Trying to keep good help is a never-ending battle.” He put a friendly hand on the big Texan’s arm.

“I just wanted you to know that there’s always a position for you here. Meanwhile, as long as you’re comfortable doing it, keep up the patter. You’re right: it is good for business.”

Ross Ed considered. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Raskin. I really don’t want to attract a lot of attention.”

The manager didn’t hesitate. “I’ll give you a five-dollar-an-hour raise.”

It was a significant offer, one that would help to ensure he’d be able to sate the thirsty Caddy. Another couple of weeks’ work at that rate and he’d be able to go straight through to California and back without having to worry about funds.

“You’ve got a deal, sir. But remember, I’m not a professional. I tend bar.”

“Very well, too.” Raskin’s right hand fluttered in the other man’s direction. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Amuse yourself and you’ll amuse the customers. Don’t worry about it. You’re doing swell.”

Before Ross could think of another objection, the manager had turned and headed for the main kitchen.

So Ross allowed the quips and comments to flow. Sometimes he declaimed in terms whose meaning utterly escaped him. Stuff he must have unintentionally absorbed from reading and from watching TV, or bits and pieces of long-forgotten schoolwork. Information stuck in distant recesses of his brain which circumstances and situations unexpectedly brought forth.

Raskin was right. It didn’t matter what he said so long as it kept the customers laughing. Customers who laugh feel good, and customers who feel good tend to drink more.

His technique improved without conscious effort, until it seemed he was throwing his voice via Jed without half trying. This ventriloquist stuff wasn’t too bad, he told himself. The dummy could get away with saying things that would have precipitated open warfare had they been perceived as issuing from “his” mouth.

Following the manager’s advice, he soon stopped worrying about his success. Lots of folks had natural talents. Why shouldn’t he have one? Wasn’t that only fair? He was reminded of the twelfth grade and Julie Heckerd, who could do math problems in her head that stumped Ross Ed even when he made use of a calculator. Or Evyard Brooks, who could twist his body to make it backward over the high-jump bar. His senior year he’d jumped high enough to finish second in state in his division. Natural talent. Ingrained ability.

Ross Ed had excelled at football and basketball, but only as a consequence of sheer size, not any special skill. Throwing your voice, now, that was something different. Unique. He began to take pride in his ability to bring smiles to the faces of people who arrived drawn and downcast after a hard day’s work. His ability, and Jed’s, of course.

It was two weeks later or (by another calculation) the second Friday night since the flight of the call girl that things got a little weirder than usual.

An unkempt patron with hair mussed and tie undone was, as so many had done before him, carefully scrutinizing the inhuman shape sequestered behind the bar.

“Hey, if you’re an alien, I’ll bet you’ve got a green card!”

Ross responded by throwing his voice with the ease and efficiency of long practice, so that the reply seemed to come directly from the alien.

“No, but I’ve got green blood.”

There were knowing chuckles from the regulars and appreciative smiles from those newcomers within hearing range.

“Is that a third leg,” observed the well-dressed, middle-aged businesswoman seated three stools down, “or are you just glad to see me?” A mildly shocked expression on her face, the woman seated on the speaker’s right gave her friend a sharp nudge in the ribs.

“I’m not particularly glad to see you,” replied Ross Ed smoothly, “but if I was, I can assure you that you’d never forget the experience.”

Delighted whoops and a few challenges rose from the woman as well as those seated nearby. Shaking his head at the ease with which they could be entertained, Ross moved to mix the next batch of orders. One of these days he’d have to devote some hard thinking to just how he was able to come up with so many facile, quick responses. As usual, he was too busy to do so while on the job.

A party of young soldiers was seated at one of the near tables, their attention more or less fixed on the overhead television. “Hey, alien man!” a corporal called out as he indicated the TV. “Who’s gonna win the game?”

“Who’s playing?” Ross Ed asked via Jed.

“Colorado State and Nebraska.”

“No contest,” insisted one of the corporal’s buddies. “CSU shouldn’t even be playing the Big Red!”

As usual, Ross replied without half thinking. “Colorado State will come within one field goal but fall short,” Jed seemed to say.

“No way!” another soldier insisted disparagingly. “Nebraska’s a three-touchdown favorite.”

“Analysis of the game as played thus far,” Ross Ed heard his own distant voice saying, “suggests that two of Nebraska’s three principal backfield performers are playing hurt. Or perhaps they stayed out late last night. Regardless of the explanation, it is clear they are not playing to capability. As a consequence I would expect fumbles to ensue, certainly by the last quarter.”

“Yeah, right.” The corporal made a good-natured rude gesture which Ross Ed tactfully ignored. With Nebraska up thirty-five to seven, no one minded when the other bartender switched to the much more competitive Oklahoma—Texas A&M game. By tomorrow morning the preceding exchange would be forgotten by all concerned, including Ross. None would remark on Nebraska’s remarkably close victory, pulling out the win in the final minutes by throwing Colorado State’s quarterback for a safety following a tremendous CSU fourth-quarter rally. It was only another football game.

“All right, I got one for you!” One of several businessmen seated at the bar winked knowingly at his assniates. “Even a dumb alien should be able to answer this one.” Addressing himself not to Ross Ed but to the motionless figure seated on the back counter, he inquired with forced seriousness, “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“An existential query.” As always. Ross Ed didn’t wonder at his reply. He just let the words come, it was all that half-forgotten school work, he told himself. As he spoke he added soda to the three drinks lined up neatly before him.

“One would have to begin by assuming that a chicken brain exists that is capable of contemplating such a question. Failing that, it must be inferred that if confronted with such a choice, reaction would be wholly instinctive. Therefore, any actual deeper meanings would be utterly irrelevant from a chicken standpoint. A fowl proposition all around.”

The traveler who’d posed the question sat open mouthed on his stool, gawking at the alien corpse as if it had suddenly turned into one of the finalists in the Miss Hawaiian Tropic competition. Then his mouth closed slightly and laughter bubbled forth. His friends chided him good-naturedly and a fine time was had by

The night wore on, its path smoothed for those in the bar and restaurant by good food and drink. Ross Ed took his break, returned to resume his duties. Another couple of days and he’d be out of there, back on the road again, heading Pacific-ward. He was anxious to get going.

Three seats at the bar were vacated by vacationers, to be snatched up by a trio of men in their thirties. From their haircuts and attitude Ross suspected that they were officers from Fort Bliss, probably middle and junior grade. He was adept at recognizing all ranks of soldiers as well as civilians, certain tribal features readily manifesting themselves to those with experience in such matters.

“Evening, gentlemen.” He offered the usual expectant smile along with the familiar greeting. “What’ll it be?”

They placed their orders and he hustled to fill them, seeing that Mark, the other bartender, was momentarily swamped at his end of the counter. Like everyone else who worked in the bar, Mark didn’t begrudge Ross Ed his raise. The increased business the act brought in meant more tips for everyone while requiring little additional exertion on their part.

After watching and listening for a while, one of the men nodded in Jed’s direction. “Mighty interesting dummy you’ve got there, mister. Where’d you get it?”

Ross replied while drawing a beer. “I don’t think I’ve seen you fellas in here before.”

“We’re usually at the Marshal’s Club,” the man explained. “Or over at the Four corners. Thought we’d try someplace different tonight. How’s the action?”