The Rendezvous
In the span of a breath, everything changed. Oswald Stamper had intended to drop in at his usual watering hole, a crowded spaceport tavern known as the Dingy Duckling. He had an old friend there, a salty sea dog of a captain named Marian, and he had meant to ask her what she knew about the whereabouts of the Orb of the Whangdoodle. But when he rounded the corner and saw Marian being dragged into a police cruiser (all the while squawking about her rights and loudly insisting that she’d never teleported under the influence), Oswald decided that he should try more respectable sources of information. So he turned right back again, went home, and pulled out his old Corps uniform. He hated the thing, and its memories, but one didn’t simply walk into the Lady Amber Club without proper dress.
At seven that evening, Mr. Stamper presented himself at the doors of the Lady Amber, his green uniform in tip top shape, glistening in medals. The head waiter bowed politely, confirmed his reservation, and ushered him to a seat in a small alcove, where he and his guest would not be visible to the majority of the restaurant’s guests. A second member of the wait staff appeared, and gurgled respectably at him while producing a wine list. By coincidence, her name was Sarah May Raxenpaxerflirk, older sister to Melinda, and she had taken the job at the Lady Amber as a way to put herself through medical school. Mr. Stamper made his selection (Centauri ’47, a very good year), and Sarah May withdrew.
Moments later, the being he had been waiting for drifted into the seat opposite him. It was a highly evolved and intelligent cloud of gas, which had developed the ability to project thought outward so it could communicate with others. Greetings, it projected politely. Have you been waiting long?
“Not really,” said Mr. Stamper. He could observe social rules when circumstances required, and so he made agreeable small talk about the weather, the dinner, and the cloud’s health. Meanwhile, Sarah May had arrived with the ordered bottle. She uncorked it carefully with her tentacle, and poured Mr. Stamper’s drink. Then she hesitated. How did one pour a drink for a sentient cloud of gas? Did it even drink? Should she ignore it, or would that be unforgivably rude? Sarah May reminded herself of medical school, gathered her courage, and poured an appropriate amount into its glass. The gas cloud flickered warmly red at her; she hoped that meant it was gratified. She then retreated decorously, as the conversation continued.
As the gas cloud condensed slowly over its drink, Mr. Stamper decided the time for small talk had ended. “I need your help,” he began. “I’m looking for the Orb.”
Which one? There are, you know, quite a few.
“The Orb of the Wha-“
You should not say that! interrupted the gas cloud, aghast. No one may speak the name of the Orb That Should Not Be Named!
“I got that,” said Mr. Stamper. “Fine. So where is it?”
The gas cloud looked a little piqued. It had expected to be asked about clues, and be given dark assurances that the Orb must not fall into the wrong hands. It liked the mystery of these things. Mr. Stamper always tried to take the fun out of things. The Orb is buried underneath the old tree, in the shadow of Charlotte’s Moon.
“Good enough. Thanks,” the space otter said. Then he paused. “Which moon?”
Charlotte’s.
“Yes, you said that, but which moon is Charlotte’s Moon?”
Hers is, obviously.
Mr. Stamper sighed. The cloud just had to be cryptic. “You wouldn’t happen to have star coordinates, maybe the location of a nearby hyperspace lane, that sort of thing?”
That, projected the gas cloud smugly, is all I know. The old tree in the shadow of Charlotte’s Moon. There you will find the Orb.
The space otter knew he would get nothing else useful. He motioned at Sarah May and requested the bill. Mr. Stamper left a reasonably generous tip, which delighted Sarah May. As he and the gas cloud left, Sarah May gurgled her cheeriest, “Thank you for your visit, and do see us again!” Little did she know that she never would.
