asked.
“Sometime early tomorrow,” she replied.
I felt the rush of blood drumming in my ears once more and excused myself to go in search of Professor Hikita so that I might execute the drawing of Dr. Lizardo, never dreaming that out of this boiling confusion would soon crystallize a thousand-year-web of sanguinary encounters between Lizardo’s occupant Whorfin and the space voyeurs above us. I departed with something of anticipation, however.
16
S ince welding my modest physical and intellectual resources to those of B. Banzai, I have traveled the world over, from horizon to distant horizon, in every mode of conveyance known to man. I have seen parts of the globe that remain veritable mysteries, places where—tired as it sounds—few men have ever set foot. Engendered by a hunger for discovery and adventure, I have surveyed the inertness of the desert, the teeming life of the sea, and the two poles, as well as the loftiest heights and loneliest valleys of this planet; but none of that prepared me sufficiently for the sight that greeted us upon our arrival at the police station where Buckaroo Banzai was to meet Penny Priddy face-to-face, and we were to collect a new recruit.
Standing outside the building—sitting actually, although he appeared to be standing (such was his height)—wearing such a collision of colors that his face appeared animated even when it was not, was the splendid figure of Sidney Zwibel, Buckaroo’s self-doubting medical school colleague. Scarcely within the limits of the probable, he was, as they say, “decked out” like a cowboy in red shirt and bandana, tight-fitting black pantaloons and pinto chaps, and a sublime ten-gallon hat of the sort featured in early Hollywood Westerns. I am tempted to add, Where else?, because I am certain that such an outfit until that moment had never been worn anywhere in the real world. Add a pair of four-inch-high ruby-red cowboy boots, and you will understand why our bus nearly tipped over from the shifting weight of our collective troupe endeavouring to swipe a look at him. I do not stray far from the truth when I say that when he inevitably stood to stretch and rose higher and higher, his luster challenged the permanent brilliance of the sun. Thus did we lay eyes upon our “new recruit.”
He did have pluck; I had to give him that. It required more courage than I possess to wear such garb on a public street, and he did it with an undeniable style. What else could be said about a man who in addition to the items of wardrobe I have already mentioned carried a large stereophonic portable radio and wore a wampum belt around his middle. Clearly, events in his life had led him to a fork in the road, and he, like the rest of us, had chosen the diverging path.
At the very least, he gave us all a needed respite. Buckaroo peered out my window and flinched at his friend’s gross breach of good taste, ordering our driver Louie and the rest of us not to open the door, so that when Sidney took several steps toward the bus it quickly became apparent that no one was going to step out to meet him. For an awkward second, Sidney’s long shadow seemed to quiver, unsure whether to go forward or retreat in this humiliating condition. It was, I suspect, both a joke and a little test, for B. Banzai has a way of getting the whole sum out of his men. In all events, Sidney responded gallantly, overcoming whatever misgivings he must have had and knocking on the bus door. Needless to say, this time Buckaroo ordered it opened, and we all shared a laugh.
“Fellows, this is Sid Zwibel,” said Buckaroo. “He’ll be riding with us as an observer for a few days, so give him the treatment.”
“Don’t worry. We will,” said Tommy.
“The treatment?” asked Sid, quailing.
“Where do you hail from, Doc?” I asked.
“Fort Lee,” he said. “New Jersey.” And from that moment he was “New Jersey” to us. “You’d be Pecos,” he said, extending a hand toward me.
“Sometime early tomorrow,” she replied.
I felt the rush of blood drumming in my ears once more and excused myself to go in search of Professor Hikita so that I might execute the drawing of Dr. Lizardo, never dreaming that out of this boiling confusion would soon crystallize a thousand-year-web of sanguinary encounters between Lizardo’s occupant Whorfin and the space voyeurs above us. I departed with something of anticipation, however.
16
S ince welding my modest physical and intellectual resources to those of B. Banzai, I have traveled the world over, from horizon to distant horizon, in every mode of conveyance known to man. I have seen parts of the globe that remain veritable mysteries, places where—tired as it sounds—few men have ever set foot. Engendered by a hunger for discovery and adventure, I have surveyed the inertness of the desert, the teeming life of the sea, and the two poles, as well as the loftiest heights and loneliest valleys of this planet; but none of that prepared me sufficiently for the sight that greeted us upon our arrival at the police station where Buckaroo Banzai was to meet Penny Priddy face-to-face, and we were to collect a new recruit.
Standing outside the building—sitting actually, although he appeared to be standing (such was his height)—wearing such a collision of colors that his face appeared animated even when it was not, was the splendid figure of Sidney Zwibel, Buckaroo’s self-doubting medical school colleague. Scarcely within the limits of the probable, he was, as they say, “decked out” like a cowboy in red shirt and bandana, tight-fitting black pantaloons and pinto chaps, and a sublime ten-gallon hat of the sort featured in early Hollywood Westerns. I am tempted to add, Where else?, because I am certain that such an outfit until that moment had never been worn anywhere in the real world. Add a pair of four-inch-high ruby-red cowboy boots, and you will understand why our bus nearly tipped over from the shifting weight of our collective troupe endeavouring to swipe a look at him. I do not stray far from the truth when I say that when he inevitably stood to stretch and rose higher and higher, his luster challenged the permanent brilliance of the sun. Thus did we lay eyes upon our “new recruit.”
He did have pluck; I had to give him that. It required more courage than I possess to wear such garb on a public street, and he did it with an undeniable style. What else could be said about a man who in addition to the items of wardrobe I have already mentioned carried a large stereophonic portable radio and wore a wampum belt around his middle. Clearly, events in his life had led him to a fork in the road, and he, like the rest of us, had chosen the diverging path.
At the very least, he gave us all a needed respite. Buckaroo peered out my window and flinched at his friend’s gross breach of good taste, ordering our driver Louie and the rest of us not to open the door, so that when Sidney took several steps toward the bus it quickly became apparent that no one was going to step out to meet him. For an awkward second, Sidney’s long shadow seemed to quiver, unsure whether to go forward or retreat in this humiliating condition. It was, I suspect, both a joke and a little test, for B. Banzai has a way of getting the whole sum out of his men. In all events, Sidney responded gallantly, overcoming whatever misgivings he must have had and knocking on the bus door. Needless to say, this time Buckaroo ordered it opened, and we all shared a laugh.
“Fellows, this is Sid Zwibel,” said Buckaroo. “He’ll be riding with us as an observer for a few days, so give him the treatment.”
“Don’t worry. We will,” said Tommy.
“The treatment?” asked Sid, quailing.
“Where do you hail from, Doc?” I asked.
“Fort Lee,” he said. “New Jersey.” And from that moment he was “New Jersey” to us. “You’d be Pecos,” he said, extending a hand toward me.
Similar Books
The Best of Galaxy’s Edge 2013-2014
Larry Niven, Nancy Kress, Mercedes Lackey, Ken Liu, Brad R. Torgersen, C. L. Moore, Tina Gower
