The Deavys by Alan Dean Foster Page A

head as he took in the immense enclosed space that was the main hall of Grand Central Station. Less concerned about whether any onlookers thought them in charge of themselves or anything else, the girls spread out slightly to marvel at their surroundings. The slight dispersion was enough to remind Simwan of his responsibilities.
    â€œStay together. Amber, get back here!”
    â€œI just want to see!” she called back to him as she dragged her wheeled backpack in the direction of one art-filled corridor.
    Rather than challenge her loudly, Simwan chose to follow her lead, hauling her sisters, his own backpack, and the awkward cat carrier with him. The fact that they had arrived at Grand Central instead of Penn Station did not trouble him. According to what he had read in the guidebook, there were several exits from Grand Central. Since they intended to take a taxi to Uncle Herkimer’s apartment, one way out was pretty much as good as another, just as their place of arrival would make no difference to how they eventually reached their final destination.
    As he and Rose and N/Ice trailed the excitable Amber, they had time to observe that the massive, venerable old station was a meeting place not only for daily commuters of the Ordinary kind, but for all manner of travelers. One would think, for example, that the insurance company workers and office drones and hurrying executives would notice that the large man in the dun-colored overcoat had two heads: a sight unusual even in New York. But the secondary skull was as invisible to the hordes of Ords as a beggar in front of Bergdorf’s.
    At least the two-headed traveler was more or less (more, in this case, Simwan decided) human. The presence of otherworldly creatures indiscernible to Ords but perfectly visible to him and his sisters was enchanting. Chain-clad giants trod the polished stone floor, delighted at having a place to meet that was both safe from the chilly weather yet sufficiently expansive to allow them to move about without having to bend to clear low ceilings. A tour guide led a group of wide-eyed loup-garous across the center of the station, pointing out highlights of the historic architecture as they walked. Or rather, loped, since Simwan knew they were anything but your usual clutch of French package-tour visitors.
    On a coffee break, a clutch of harpies occupied an upper corner of the main hall. Over lattes and laughter, they discussed the latest doings on Wall Street: what aviation stocks were doing well, which airlines were in trouble, the weather back home in Greece and Turkey, who was disemboweling whom—the usual morning tittle-tattle. They wore the latest uptown fashions—though only the upper halves of the perfectly tailored suits and blouses they had purchased, of course.
    Leaving the contrary giants and cappuccino-sipping harpies and curious loup-garous behind, Simwan and his sisters entered one of the access corridors that led to the street outside.
    They spotted a snack shop equipped to serve both ordinary and more knowledgeable visitors. Located in an alcove on one side of the busy access way, it offered cold and hot drinks, sandwiches, sushi boxes (no calamari, Simwan was relieved to see), burgers, and desserts. The girls were immediately drawn to the snakezel bin. Ords ordering from the display cases had access only to the usual giant pretzels. They were unable to see the half-foot long serpents that twisted and coiled around the metal serving spears on which they had been skewered.
    â€œI want a diamondback!” Rose exclaimed, nudging Simwan’s free arm.
    â€œStripes for me.” Amber eyed the bin hungrily. “I think they’re spicier.”
    As he set down the cat carrier and reached for his wallet, Simwan eyed his third sister. “N/Ice, you’re not hungry?”
    â€œNot yet,” she told him. “But I could use a drink.”
    The short-sleeved proprietor, a slight fair-haired immigrant