Across the Spectrum by Pati Nagle, editors Deborah J. Ross Page B

it was just nerves, but Rosemary laughed. Al fled the
house without looking back.
    Although Al had been planning on working his passage on one
of the frequent riverboats, such was his reputation that no captain would hire
him. He was going to have to earn his fare at a floating crap game, but first,
he decided, he really needed a drink. Fortunately, Dave’s Tavern was just
opening for the afternoon. When he sat down at his regular table and began
searching his pockets for small change, Dave hurried over, carrying a glass of
golden Bouzo.
    “Here, kid, have one on me. Betcha need it.”
    “Whatcha mean, Dave?”
    “Well, what with your mother taking that apprentice and all.
Guess you’re getting spun right out of the wire business, huh?”
    “Jeez, what is this? Everyone’s heard already?”
    “Well, the poor woman’s been agonizing over this for days
now, and in a town this size. . .”
    Al blushed scarlet, but he took the drink. He laid his
scrounged change out on the table.
    “Bring me another, Dave. I got this letter to read.”
    Uncle Jake’s letter turned out to be much kinder than Al
considered he deserved. Since Jake was a blacksmith, he was offering to teach
his wayward nephew the metals business from the anvil up, as it were, and then
steer him into machine repair.
    “Jeez, Dave, machines run in my goddamn family, I guess.
Except for me.”
    “Yeah, too bad.” Dave set a nearly-full bottle on the table.
“Here’s something for old times’ sake.”
    As the day stretched itself into twilight, humans came and
went, whispering and laughing when they saw Al cradling his bottle and
stretching each drink. He was out of change, and he certainly wasn’t feeling
intuitive enough to go shoot craps. Just at nightfall, a pair of his friends
appeared, two Squeaker brothers. As they bought their first bunches of parsley,
Al saw Dave whispering to them, spreading the story of his disgrace, most
likely. When the Squeakers joined him, they brought a fresh bottle of Bouzo,
too.
    “Our turn, Al.” The Squeaker known as Freet forced his voice
way down register. “We found some purple stones.”
    “Hey, guys, thanks.” Al in turned squealed; he’d worked out
a falsetto voice easier for his friends to understand. “I mean, jeez. Thanks.”
    They sat down and began nipping off the delicate leaves just
at the end of the fronds.
    “You guys hear the news?” Al said. “I’m leaving town.”
    “Too bad, yeah,” Iffi chirped. “We’ll come see you in your
new place.”
    “That’d be swell. I’m going downriver to Morocco.”
    For a few minutes they sipped or nibbled in a companionable
silence.
    “Know what I wish?” Al said, burping a little. “I wish I
could make things up to my mom. I mean, jeez, a guy’s only got one mom, doesn’t
he? And another thing. This goddamn town, all of them laughing at me, saying I
had it coming. I wish I could do something that’d make them all sit up and take
notice, something real big that’ll make them say, she-it, we were wrong about
Al Dean.”
    “Fat chance,” Iffi mumbled.
    “Shut up,” Freet snapped. “That’s no way to talk to a
troubled friend, little brother.”
    “Ah, it’s okay,” Al said. “I deserve it all, the scorn, the
disdain, the mockery, the infamy, the—”
    “Now you shut up! The Starborn don’t wallow. It’s
undignified.”
    Al poured himself another glass of Bouzo and gulped about
half of it down.
    “Tell me something, Freet, since we maybe won’t never see
each other again and all that stuff. Are you guys really Starborn, or do you
just kind of say that when you’ve chomped enough green?”
    Freet slammed one pair of hands down on the table and
clacked his beak hard.
    “Sorry,” Al said and fast. “Didn’t mean to insult you.”
    “Good! I get so bleching sick of it, you people always
doubting my word.”
    “Yeah, I know. I get sick of the same thing myself. It’s just
that—”
    Freet whistled and slammed the other pair of