Читать книгу The Alien's Secret Volume 3 - Robert M. Doroghazi - Страница 6

Hoken glanced at his watch, it was almost 6:40 AM local time. The little fracas with the punks was over in barely a minute; he hadn’t even broken a sweat. He was still on schedule and would be at the boarding house in less than ten minutes.

He was walking east on Colorado with Kessler Park on his left. More cars were on the street all the time. A long yellow school bus, driven by a man rolling a cigarette, cruised by on its way to pick up its first student.

Finally: North Beckley—Hoken’s destination. The boarding house was on the other side of the street, so he crossed Beckley—looking carefully both ways—to walk south on that side.

Thirteen hundred north. Hoken always stayed focused on the mission but was, nonetheless, also very hungry. When he got to the middle of the block he noticed the Dobb’s House Bar and Restaurant on the other side. They advertised The Best Breakfast in Town. Even from across the street Hoken could smell what he would soon find out was bacon frying. It actually made his stomach growl. He quickly decided that after he finished his business at the boarding house he would have his first meal on Earth at the Dobb’s House Restaurant. He noted the address—1221 North Beckley.

There it was—1026. Hoken recognized the building even before he saw the address. The holographic pictures created by the ship’s computer were perfect: trees on both sides of the front yard, the patchy half-crabgrass, half brown and green grass in the front yard, the two-tiered hedges with some ground cover and a few flowers in front of the house, and the red shingle roof with exposed white gables.

He walked up the concrete walk, passed the “Bedroom for Rent” sign just off to the right, keeping his eyes glued to the ground so as not to trip over the uneven sections, to the front of the house and up the two steps to the porch that ran the entire front length of the building. He tried to look inside. Any information he could get about anything before having to enter was useful. The curtains were pulled on the windows of the rooms to the right side of the door, but they were open on windows to the dining room on the left. Hoken saw at least four people at the table and two others standing up.

By the time he got to the door, he had taken off his backpack and had it tucked underneath his left arm, close to his body, to make it look as inconspicuous as possible. Because this was a boarding house with people constantly coming and going, Hoken knew he didn’t need to knock or ring the doorbell or in any other way signal his desire to enter. He opened the screen door—one of those where the metal seemed lighter and flimsier than the screen, that seemed to buckle just from opening it—and took one step to stand at the threshold. He let the screen door rest against his back, opened the inner wooden door (barely more substantial than the screen door), and stepped inside, delighted that the doors didn’t fall off their hinges as he passed through.

Hoken always tried to look like he was in control, that he belonged there, that he knew what he was doing. The quickest way to draw attention would be to just gawk and look stupid like he was lost, so he just walked straight down the hallway like he owned the place.

On the wall on his right were two small framed pictures, one of the Statue of Liberty holding her flame high to the world, and the other he recognized as a smiling President Franklin Roosevelt with his signature cigarette holder clamped firmly between his teeth. The only thing on the left—the only piece of furniture in the entire hallway—was a tiny table, flat on one side, that fit snuggly against the wall. He didn’t recognize the somewhat elderly man in the nine by twelve framed hand-tinted picture on the table, but the woman was Gladys Johnson, the owner of the boarding house.

As he walked down the hallway, he glanced to his right into the living room. There was a young man sitting on the couch, reading a newspaper, and having a cup of coffee. Overall, the furnishings seemed sparse for such a large room. This was obviously a place for people of a lower socioeconomic class, thought Hoken.

The dining room was on his left. Five young men were at the table being served by two women in aprons, one middle-aged, one more elderly, both wearing nets to keep their graying hair in place. Breakfast seemed ample. There were scrambled eggs, cold cereal, bread or toast with butter and jelly, and milk and coffee, and plenty of salt and pepper.

As Hoken walked past, he heard one of the young men ask the others: “Okay, guys, what do you call an armadillo lying on the side of the road?” After waiting a few seconds with no response, the young man said, “Possum on the half-shell.”

From the laughter, Hoken presumed it was a joke, but had no idea of the context. He could tell from the looks on the faces of the two ladies that they were not as amused as the young men.

The hallway was about another ten meters long. The room of #1 was second to the last on the right, far enough away from the living room and dining room that Hoken knew their conversation wouldn’t be overheard. As he walked up to the room, he noted one more picture on the wall: a framed Time Magazine cover featuring Cardinal great Stan “The Man” Musial.

Hoken stepped to the door. On Oria, doors contained sensors to determine who wished to enter. The home computer would then announce them to the occupants. This had obvious advantages, including convenience and safety. There was, of course, nothing like this on Earth.

Hoken was amazed the door was still on the hinges. Small strips of laminated wood were missing in several spots. In the middle of the door, just above eye level, were innumerable small holes. In fact, there were still three thumb tacks, two with a gray steel head and one with a white head, in the door. Below the green doorknob was a big keyhole that fit one of those old, large, straight keys, the ones with just a few teeth at the end, which usually required three or four turns and a lot of jiggling to open the lock.

Hoken stood still for a second and listened. He heard nothing behind the door—no music, no radio or television, no talk, no laughter. The keyhole looked big enough to offer a peep inside, but he really wouldn’t gain anything by bending over to try to look in; if he was seen, it would just look too suspicious.

Hoken took a deep breath. He already knew exactly what he was going to say and do. This was it, something he had come trillions of kilometers to do. He knocked on the door—three sharp wraps—loud enough to be heard inside, but not loud enough to be heard in the living or dining room.

Nothing.

Not good, thought Hoken. If #1 had already left for work, it would be a disaster.

He waited a second or two. Still nothing. He looked right and left—no one was in the hallway. So he knocked again three times.

Hoken heard the sound a chair makes when it is pushed backwards along the floor so someone can stand up. There were exactly five leisurely footsteps and the door opened.

Staring at Hoken, glaring may have been a more accurate description, was Human #1. Over the last week, Hoken had studied every available detail of this man’s existence. Exactly what he looked like, if there were any warts or bumps on his face, how he combed his hair, his family, his service record, he knew his Social Security number and military number by heart, his work habits, his likes (few) and his dislikes (seemingly endless and continuously increasing). Human #1 was exactly as Hoken imagined. He was of average height and a slight, wiry physique—nothing compared to the heavily-muscled Hoken. He was unattractive and just looked stupid, but at the same time paradoxically arrogant. There was that pursed-lip smirk that Hoken had already mastered. Human #1 stood motionless and displayed no emotion. He said nothing as he looked Hoken up and down with a stare that would rip the hide off a gevaudan. Hoken had the impression that if he didn’t say something immediately, if not sooner, something that grabbed the man’s attention, that the door would be shut in his face.

Hoken’s English was perfect. “Hello, Mister Lee.”

The human said nothing, the smirk/frown still glued to his face. But he didn’t close the door, either.

“I have been sent by Mister Vincent T. Lee—.”

Amazing! Absolutely amazing! That did it. The man’s face lit up. In an instant the smirk turned to a real, honest-to-goodness, genuine smile, as if Hoken was the only long-lost friend he ever had.

Before Hoken could finish, “—of the F. P. C...”

The man interrupted. “Finally,” #1 said triumphantly, almost as if he were going to beat his chest. ‘“Finally,” as if the disappointment of a lifetime had been suddenly lifted from his easily-tormented soul, “someone has been reading my letters.”

He looked Hoken in the eye, and was suddenly as animated as he was deep-freeze cold just moments before. “All the work that I’ve done, and all at my own expense. It’s about time, as you say, that I get some recognition. Come in,” he said turning on the schmooze, with a look of true friendship and sincerity. #1 stepped back and out of the way, opening the door with his right hand and motioning with his left for Hoken to enter.

Hoken took a quick look down the hallway. There were no prying, maybe suspicious, eyes to see him enter the room. He walked in and made sure the door was closed behind him. It was imperative no one see what was about to happen.

Hoken took two steps to stand in the middle of the room. The first thing he noted was the smell. It wasn’t a mere odor; it wasn’t putrid, it didn’t smell like something rotten, it wasn’t urine or mold, it wasn’t a smell that would make you sneeze or cough or vomit. How do you describe a smell anyway? No one can describe in absolute terms how a lilac smells. You just say it smells like a lilac. If anyone has smelled it, they know what you are talking about. If they haven’t, the description is irrelevant. Hoken was just glad his room never smelled like this.

He looked around. Even an extraterrestrial from more than twenty light years away could tell this was a pretty meager place to live: barely two meters by six meters—just enough to exist and no more—and there could hardly be much less.

To Hoken’s near left was a single bed. The headboard and footboard were barely more than metal bars only partially covered by peeling white paint. There may as well have been a cardboard sign that instead of saying “Wet Paint,” said “Beware—Lead Poisoning—Danger!” taped to the frame. A folded, reddish-pink towel was draped over the footboard. The bed was covered by a thin, pastel-green, almost turquoise, bedspread that just happened to perfectly match the color of the water in the framed landscape picture on the wall just above the headboard.

To Hoken’s far left, to the right of the head of the bed, was a small nightstand with a lamp that had a single fifty-watt bulb that would just be enough to read by at night. Next to the lamp on the nightstand was the August issue of The Worker and a wind-up Big Ben alarm clock that said 6:53. There were two other books on the nightstand, but the spines were turned away; Hoken couldn’t see the titles.

The windows were on the far wall. If it had been nighttime and the curtains had been open, it would have been a fishbowl. But the sun was up, so the blinds were closed. The windows were highlighted by ugly, ugly, thin, fraying, brown curtains.

In the corner, to Hoken’s right, was a plain white dressing table with two drawers on each side and a winged mirror on top. On the left side of the dressing table was an adjustable, two-bulb lamp with tiny red shades. The only other light in the room was a 60-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. The pull chain was within arm’s reach above Hoken’s head. The brownish wall-to-wall carpet was obviously chosen so the dirt wouldn’t show and because it was just as drole as the curtains.

Hoken glanced at the winged mirror and looked himself in the eye. Getting to Earth was Step One of his mission. Step Two would go down right now—he would possess the body of Human #1.

Hoken laid the backpack on the bed. He stepped right in front of #1 and extended his right hand. “Mister Lee. My name is Hoken Rommeler.” And with all sincerity, said, “Sir, I’ve come a very long way to see you.”

The human rubbed his right hand on his pant leg, as if to clean it. He then extended it toward Hoken. “Oh,” he said with a devious smirk, “Lee’s not my real last name. My real name is—.” At that instant their hands met, and Hoken squeezed tight and barked out the command, “Field generator—activate.”

A green glow engulfed them both. Hoken could feel everything, his memories, his very essence, flow into the Earthling. In ten seconds it was complete. Where just moments ago there had been two people, now there was only one: Human #1 on the outside, Major Hoken Rommeler on the inside.

As instructed by the Orian scientists, Hoken immediately laid on the floor. There was an intense spinning and whirling, but worse and different than vertigo, worse than he had been told. Imagine having never smoked or taken a drink. You gulp a double shooter of Jack Daniels, cram as much Red Man as you can in your mouth, chew as fast as you can, then going on the Screamin’ Eagle roller coaster at Six Flags. Then double that.

Hoken was nauseated but couldn’t vomit. He was lying on his back with his arms stretched out, almost gripping the floor with his fingernails to make that blackboard-scratching sound, but it still felt as if the room was moving and he was being violently thrown around. He just kept his eyes closed, tried to think about anything he could, and toughed it out. As Hoken’s brother Yarney liked to say: “He was hanging in there like a hair on a biscuit.”

After what seemed like an hour but was barely a minute, the feeling passed. Hoken got up, grabbed the room key from the dressing table and stepped out into the hallway. He made sure to lock the door and went to the end of the hallway to use the bathroom.

As Hoken was washing his hands he looked into the mirror. Staring back at him was #1, with that pursed-lip smirk firmly in place. Hoken looked his new self in the eye and said in a low voice, “By the Great Rankin, I am ugly.”

But as ugly as he was, worse than if he’d been beaten by an ugly stick—pure butt-ugly—Hoken felt a surge of confidence. Although his spacecraft self-destructed and the re-entry suit vaporized, he was safely on Earth and the possession of the human’s body went perfectly. All of the intelligence data was completely accurate and dependable and with the communicator in his neck he would continue to receive all intelligence updates. The secret of his alien identity was uncompromised even after his scrape with Sergeant Wiggans and the fight with the punks in the alley. Even though he hadn’t made up any time on the trip to Earth, Hoken knew he would kill Rennedee tomorrow, just after noon, at the appointed time and place. The nightmare of the revolution would be over and Oria would be safe. The people on Earth would never know the disaster that Hoken had spared them.