“He means he doesn’t need them,” Caroline explained to the boy. She continued to whisper periodically to the troop leader, keeping his thoughts focused on getting them out of the canyon as fast as possible and away from what she and her companion might have been doing down there. She succeeded in this to the extent that he virtually ignored his younger companions.
With their powerful lights to illuminate the way, they soon intersected the main Bright Angel trail. Climbing became simpler, though no less exhausting. Ross Ed was glad they were doing it at night instead of during the heat of the day. That was something else their pursuers from Indiana would have to cope with, provided they were in any kind of shape to follow. Occasional glances back down the trail revealed no sign of movement. Neither the Larkspurs not anyone else was tracking the troop.
The boys were full of questions, laughing and chuckling delightedly as they analyzed the “alien’s” responses.
“Cool voice you’ve given him, mister.” The teen loped along effortlessly just in front of Ross Ed. “Can he do anything else?”
“Sorry.” Ross told him. “I’ve got to save my breath. Throwing your voice can be pretty tiring when you’re trying to hike out of a place like this.”
“Aw, come on.” The youth brightened. “Make him talk alien.”
“He is talking,” Ross Ed replied.
“No, you’re having him talk English. Make him talk alien. You know: his own language.”
“I don’t know …” Ross Ed considered, then shrugged. Why not give it a try? The results would be amusing, and he could hardly be criticized for inaccuracy.
What emanated from his mouth when he next parted his lips was a spew of sound so extraordinary that even those no longer interested in the dummy looked around sharply, Caroline included. No one was more surprised than Ross Ed himself.
“Wow.” The teen regarded Ross with new respect. “What did that mean?”
Ross was wondering much the same thing himself. How had he produced such sounds? “Hey, how should I know? It’s alien, after all.”
“What kind of alien?” another boy asked.
Ross looked down at him. “If you don’t know where the Grand Succession of the Three Worlds lies, and the depth of its phenomenological development, it wouldn’t mean anything to you. So don’t sweat it, kid.” He blinked. “You can see it from here, though.”
“Oh yeah? Where?”
Tilting back his head, Ross Ed selected seemingly at random a cluster of bright stars that decorated the canvas of night almost directly overhead. “Right there. See? Just to the left of the Banded Nebula.”
Another boy sounded uncertain. “I don’t see any nebula.”
“Well, it’s there. Use your imagination. A very nice place it is, too. The Grand Procession is actually one world orbited by a moon the size of your Earth and another moon which circles the first.”
“A moon circling a moon circling a world. That’s pretty neat.” One of the older boys came closer. “If there are oceans on the worlds, how does having two moons affect the tides?”
Ross Ed found himself explaining without knowing quite what he was saying, but it seemed to satisfy his youthful and scientifically inclined interrogator. Other questions followed, including one about faster-than-light travel. His answer set several of the scouts to arguing among themselves, allowing him to give his throat a rest.
Questions helped pass the time as they surmounted the Devil’s Corkscrew, passed Indian Gardens with its sleeping campers, and started in on the final miles. Throughout, the trail behind them remained clear. He was beginning to feel hopeful that they’d really lost their tormentors.
“What’s he made out of, mister?” That was a question that hadn’t come up yet.
“Oh, you know,” Ross replied disingenuously. ‘be usual stuff. Wood, plastic, paint, glass.”
The boy looked dubious. “Doesn’t look like plastic to me.” Before Ross Ed could intercept him, he’d reached up and touched the alien faceplate.
An intense, fuzzy blue glow immediately sprang from the faceplate, spreading out in waves from the center. It washed across the boy’s fingers until it enveloped his entire hand, stopping at the wrist. With a yelp of surprise, the kid drew back his arm. The glow continued to cling to his fingers like a live thing.
Holding his wrist with his other hand, he stared at the gently pulsating azure while his companions crowded close.
“Hey, check it out!”
“Is it hot?”
“Does it hurt?”
The boy held his luminous palm up to his face. “No, it doesn’t hurt. It’s kinda cool-like. Like my dad’s aftershave.” Bringing the glow nearer, he sniffed. “It smells like my dad’s aftershave.”
One of the other youths turned to Ross Ed, his attention focussed on the alien body. “Can I?”
Ross shrugged. The first boy was suffering no ill effects. Anything for a break from their constant questioning. “Sure, why not?”
The second youth touched the faceplate. Streaks of dark blue lightning instantly swarmed his fingers and palm. Drawing back his hand, he eyed the blueness wonderingly.
“Awesome!”
Swinging his arm in a wide arc, he created a fiery blue pinwheel. Excepting their leader, the rest of the troop crowded their tall guest, each clamoring for his dose of azure.
Shortly thereafter, luminous blue hands helped flashlights show the way up Bright Angel Canyon.
“What makes it do that, mister?” one of the boys finally thought to ask.
Ross replied with a stream of what sounded to him like perfect gobbledygook but which appeared to satisfy the older boys. They in turn attempted to explain it to their younger comrades. It was full of references to things like segregated ionized gas fields and pocket auroras, none of which made any sense to Ross Ed.
One of the scouts discovered that by fringing his hand sharply skyward he could send miniature bolts of blue lightning flying from his fingertips. The consequences were inevitable. Devoid of the necessary equipment for a water-balloon fight, the boys eagerly entered into a vigorous and noisy light fight, tossing harmless blue streaks at one another accompanied by much laughter and good-natured juvenile cursing. More than a little taken with Caroline’s company, their leader did not intervene.
Within half an hour the glow began to fade from the boys’ hands. Touching Jed’s faceplate failed to recharge their dimming fingers. No one complained, choosing to flick their last bits of azure fire at rocks and plants instead of each other.
