Kings of Infinite Space: A Novel by James Hynes

Rick’s chair, but his pale fingers were unusually long, clutching the armrests.
    “Professor, meet Stanley Tulendij,” said the Colonel, “the man who made the TxDoGS fleet what it is today.”
    The old man swiveled slowly towards Paul, an unexpectedly chilling sight, since Paul doubted that the man’s feet reached the floor. How did he do that? Stanley Tulendij had a prominent jaw and a wide, lipless mouth, and he pointed his chin and his sparkling eyes at Paul and said in a hollow voice, “Is this the young fella?”
    “Paul is our tech writer on the outsourcing project,” said Bob Wier, his voice trembling. “Paul, Stanley was TxDoGS’s fleet manager for twenty-five years.”
    “The original TexDog,” said the Colonel.
    “This man’s a fucking legend,” said J.J., looking uncharacteristically reverent.
    “Now son,” whispered Stanley Tulendij, “that kinda language—”
    “I’m sorry!” gasped J.J. To Paul’s astonishment, J.J. actually blushed, and his eyes burned as if he might start to cry. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot.”
    “No harm done.” The man behind the desk made a benedictory gesture, and he swiveled his bright gaze at Paul again. “Come shake my hand, young man.” His hand, skeletal and pale, levitated out of his roomy cuff as if on the end of a broomstick. The other men nodded at Paul, urging him on, and he reached across the desk. Who is this guy? he thought. Why is he sitting in Rick’s chair?
    Stanley Tulendij had a loose grip; his hand was very cool and dry, all papery skin and knobbly knuckles. His fingers reached nearly all the way around Paul’s hand. He may be the palest person I’ve ever seen, thought Paul. In direct sunlight, I’ll bet you could see the outline of the old guy’s bones. Why, he’s as pale as that homeless guy yesterday.
    “Stanley Tulendij,” said the old man. “A privilege.”
    “Paul Trilby.” He gave a wince of a smile. “All mine.”
    Paul tried to let go, but the old man leaned forward in the seat and grasped Paul’s wrist with his other hand. The light in his eyes brightened, and he looked past Paul to the men around the table. “Oh, he’s
good,”
said Stanley Tulendij. “I
like
this young fella.”
    “Might could be he’s one of us,” said the Colonel, behind Paul. “Don’t you think so, boys?”
    “Absolutely!” declared Bob Wier. “Praise Jesus!” He smiled broadly, but his eyes were anxious. He looked as if he were about to break into a sweat.
    “I suppose,” said J.J., glowering at Paul.
    Paul tugged his hand free. The old man winked at Paul, and Paul felt the temperature drop in the room, the way it sometimes did when Charlotte was present.
    “Hey!” chirped Rick, coming in with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “I see y’all have made your own introductions.” He leaned past Paul and gingerly set the cup in front of Stanley Tulendij. Then he clapped Paul on the shoulder, putting Paul between him and the man behind the desk. “This man is a titanin fleet management, Paul,” he said. “I’m honored just to be in his presence.”
    “Pah!” Stanley Tulendij flapped his pale hand. “Just did my job is all.” He put his hands on the armrests and pushed himself up out of the chair in a smooth, swift motion—so swift, in fact, that Paul took a step back, afraid that the old man was going to float right over the desk at him.
    “You’re not leaving?” said Rick, sounding relieved. “I thought you might sit in.” The Colonel, J.J., and Bob Wier all glanced at each other, Paul noted, while Rick maneuvered to keep Paul between himself and the old man. Stanley Tulendij was taller than he’d looked sitting down; he had long legs and a short torso, like a man walking on stilts. This disproportion, and his preternatural paleness, gave him a rather spiderish look as he glided around the end of Rick’s desk. As he passed, his jacket gave off a strong whiff of thrift store disinfectant—an odor Paul knew well—and