“You weren’t the only one, boychik. That nasty green light laid me right out.”
We sat there for a few moments, just holding each other and absorbing the fact that we were still alive.
“Hey. It just hit me. We saved the world.”
“Oy, don’t go exaggerating. Just part of the country. Not even the most important part. Manhattan wouldn’t have been touched.”
I laughed. “Okay, yeah, but . . . in a way, it might not be exaggerating. A big enough disaster to the USA . . . I’m sure the rest of the world economy wouldn’t like it either.”
“They’d get by. Hey, are you saying it’s not enough?”
“Heck no. It’s just a lot more impressive to say ‘I saved the world’ than ‘I saved Kentucky, Tennessee, Missouri, southern Illinois, and chunks here and there of a few other states in the area.’ ”
Jodi thought about it. “Especially where I come from. Most New Yorkers think Kentucky and Tennessee—forget Missouri—are just suburbs of Hoboken.”
* * *
Over the next few days, Jodi and I got better. Finally we felt like ourselves again and Mamma threw a heck of a party, which Rokhaset attended, wearing his sunglasses and bringing two of his court along—Tordamilatakituranavasaiko and Mesh’atarasamthimajistolath, whose names were promptly shortened in our Tennathada way to Tordamil and Meshatar.
The new arrivals were the first of their people given a connection to the expanded makatdireskovi so as to be able to talk with us. It was nice to hear new voices; Meshatar sounded like Lauren Bacall, which certainly helped us remember she was female, as there weren’t any clear visible indications of sex among the Nomes. Tordamil had evidently selected Richard Dean Anderson as his voice model, making it occasionally sound as though MacGyver had come to dinner.
The Nomes brought their own food with them, to the family’s great interest. Though Mamma realized that making Nowëthada dinners would probably be impossible for any of us, she still ended up talking to Tordamil after dinner, trying to understand just what it was that the Nomes did when they “cooked.” As Tordamil turned out to be Rokhaset’s head sirakster H’ista, which apparently meant something between “master chef” and “head shaman or alchemist,” he was definitely the one to ask about these things. He was just as interested in our methods of cooking—or at least convincingly faked an interest in it—so the two were kept happily occupied for a long time.
We went out to look around the grounds with Rokhaset after dinner.
“Man, it’s nice to be outside again.”
“I like caves, but after that long trek, okay, yeah, I’m glad to be aboveground again too.”
“I will admit, Clinton Slade, that there are enjoyable aspects to Tennatu. You will forgive me, I trust, if I still prefer Nowëtu.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything else, Rokhaset. A man should always love his home best, no matter what sights there are to see elsewhere.” I glanced at him. “Speakin’ of sights, I thought you people were damn near blind here in the Hollow?”
“We are indeed matturan to some extent whenever we are here, Clinton Slade. But other senses can be used to appreciate the world; and it is, I think, not entirely a bad thing for myself and my people to accustom themselves to this, in case they must deal with your people.”
“Can’t hurt to be ready to deal with it, I guess. But we ain’t planning to spread the word about your people around.”
Rokhaset nodded emphatically. “As individuals your people have proven to be, as you would say, decent folk. I am however very much afraid that were your country as a whole to become aware of us—and especially of the Lisharithada—that it would become a matter for politicians of your sort . . . and eventually for warriors, once they realized what the Lisharithada were capable of.”
“Oy, no doubt about that one, Rokhaset. They’d be dragging half of you to the labs and declaring war on the other half. Clint may be a backwoods boy, but he’s pretty enlightened. There’s plenty of other people that’d be perfectly willing to ignore the fact you can talk and just call you monsters.”