“Oy — I’ve only mentioned what happened to a few close associates — don’t worry, I didn’t exaggerate!” He grinned, “Gotta make sure they get their stories straight, whatever those North-Routers might be saying about certain folks!”
“Supper’s done!” called Maria, “You’re in luck; you two showed up at just in time. Now get back here, and serve yourselves!”
“What?” shouted Vince, “We’re having a conversation in here!”
“Not if you want your duck warm, you’re not!”
The next couple hours were warm and domestic. Raxx eased into the situation, but Wentworth was tense; he wasn’t a fan of having his name tossed around, and besides that the dinner felt like too much generosity. But gradually the mix of Maria’s high spirits and Vince’s bluster set him at ease. Half way through the meal he was surprised to discover an idiotic grin plastered across his face. Maria proved to have a sharp wit as well as a sweet demeanour, and by the time they finished the second bottle of wine they were all laughing. They stayed away from heavy topics, chatting about local gossip instead. The evening, containing nothing of depth, touched something deep inside of him.
As the night came to a close Maria gathered the dishes. She refused Raxx and Wentworth’s offers of help, and scolded Vince when he stood up. “You broke my best pitcher last time,
“I’ve been working on things with the cattle; took me a while to find enough buyers; crashing this many head onto the market means we ain’t going to get the best price, but from what I can figure, the difference would be cancelled out by our travel costs if we tried to drive them any further. Besides, I’m a tech merchant, not a cattle herder — and after last week I figure you lads feel the same. So here’s what I got:”
The figure was split three ways, along with a piece for Billy and Verizon’s families. They both nodded and let it sink in.
“Man, that’s… not too bad.” said Raxx.
“Yeah, that’s a good deal. I think you did right by all of us.” added Wentworth.
Vince shrugged modestly, “It’ll take a couple weeks to sort out and get all the cattle sold, it ain’t gonna happen overnight, but I wanted to make sure you guys were happy with it ‘fore I shook any hands.”
They finished their coffees and left. Maria gave the both kisses on the cheek, standing on tiptoes to reach Raxx, and Vince shook their hands goodbye.
As they walked off into the night the scent of roast duck dogged their heels.
Chapter 15
He’d overindulged.
The full dinner had left him logy. Combined with last night’s humid air, and the light from the stars, last night’s walk had been enough to make the naked earth seem reposeful. Struggling against sleep, they’d returned to the inn, and up to their room. Slipping out of his jacket and boots, he’d fallen into a deep slumber.
His dreams had been snarled and fleeting.
When he awoke the air had turned muggy, greyish light filtered through the cloud cover. The fowl still sat heavily in his gut, leaving him drained. Forcing himself up, he noticed Raxx stirring on the other side of the room. Once the Mechanic was fully roused they went downstairs for breakfast.
He ate little; oatmeal, tomato juice, a bit of fruit. He went light on the coffee, sipping a single cup slowly. He stared at the toast on his plate. It was cold, and soggy with butter.
The money — it was bothering him.
It was too much, gratuitous. Any romance he might have been feeling had left during the night. He was left questioning just what he was supposed to do with it — and why he, of all people, should be the one holding the purse.
Sitting across from him, Raxx was inscrutable; his furrowed brows gave nothing away. Presumably he was thinking his own thoughts on the same topic, but whatever they were, the lonely slices of cantaloupe on his plate suggested that he shared Wentworth’s feelings on the dinner.
As if to confirm this, he put his fork down across his plate. “I think I’m gonna go for a walk. I want to stop into that machine shop we walked by the other day. See what sorta tech they got.”
“Thinking of picking something up?”
“Nah. Call it professional interest. I just want to see what they’re working on. Plus, I know one of the guys.”
Wentworth grunted his farewell as Raxx left. He downed the tepid remains of his coffee and went back up to his room. The money would sort itself out. For now he’d had enough of dealing with other people’s problems and just wanted to get his mind off it all. He rummaged through his kit for the book Raxx had bought him the day before.
While browsing through the market they’d come across a stall full of prewar junk. The merchant was even selling a few books that had survived the years. Raxx had started flipping through them, staring hard to decipher the titles on their torn and faded covers. One of them had made his eyebrows stand up. He’d handed it to Wentworth and insisted on buying it for him.
It was a book of ‘philosophy,’ he said.
It didn’t come close to resembling any of the laminated or electronic publications that Wentworth was familiar with, and the name on the cover wasn’t one he recognized; but Raxx’s enthusiasm was such that he’d decided to give it a chance.
He cracked it open now, positioning his chair so that it was facing the door. He’d never figured out what others saw in the philosophers’ ancient writings; they never lived up to their reputations. On an intellectual level he’d been able to admire the richness of the Greek’s logic, but at the end of the day they’d been wrong; any justification of their work smelled like an overextended metaphor. They were historically significant — if that even mattered anymore — but meaningful?
The Enlightenment was even worse. By then they no longer had the Greek’s excuse of ignorance to justify their navel gazing. Their writings were more passionate, even stirring at times, but they’d done nothing but add to his cynicism. It didn’t matter, Hobbes or Rousseau; whomever you subscribed to, you could find ‘proof’ for their rival premises. They were little more than tautologies; filters that distorted perceptions so that only confirmations could be perceived.
The idea of basing laws, actions,
He’d expected Raxx’s book to be the much the same, only worse. A faltering attempt by a second rate mind, whom the uneducated Mechanic couldn’t be blamed for admiring. But the first couple pages were surprisingly lucid, and after a few more he’d forgotten his doubts. Instead of a dry, rambling, train-of-thought, the author switched back and forth between narrative and dissertation, constantly finding new threads. It was presumptuous, and yet it wasn’t claiming the truth from on high — it was entirely unlike anything else he’d read—
But it was definitely philosophy.
The day began to brighten. Twin shafts of light traced down on either side of him, outlining a thousand motes of dust. As the morning wore on the beams turned clockwise, and shrank back towards the window, fading as the clouds returned. He’d picked up the scent of the book’s core idea. Its threads were myriad, and interwoven, but they were coming together to form a larger tapestry. The sun was nearing its zenith when a sharp rap at the door broke his concentration.
His features creased in annoyance. Putting the book down on the dresser, and his hand on his gun, he opened the door. The self-important little man standing there allowed him to relax, but didn’t improve his mood.
“Who are you?”
The man gaped, taken aback by Wentworth’s abruptness. His sky blue clothes draped elegantly over his dark skin, and his hair was slicked back with some kind of grease. He had almost no chin to speak of. “I’m Jared Macomb,” he declared once he’d regained his composure, “Assistant to the Mayor. I’m looking for an ‘I. Wentworth’
