Ascending - James Alan Gardner [3]
“I am not a baby,” I answered. “I am forty-five years old.”
“If you’re Oar, you’re older than that. You should be forty-nine by now. Are you Oar?”
“Who wants to know?”
The creature leaning over me was neither glass nor human. However, it was approximately human-shaped, with two arms, two legs, and a head. The head did not have normal ears; instead, there were two bulgy balls on top of the skull, like puffy mushrooms growing from the scalp. For clothes, the alien wore a white short-sleeved shirt, gray short-legged pants, and tan sandals, all of them stained with spills of unknown origin. The creature’s scaly flesh was not transparent like mine, nor anywhere on the pink-to-brown-to-black spectrum of Earthlings. Instead, the skin was a shade of orange that grew darker as I watched: from tangerine to pumpkin to an extremely burnt ocher.
This struck me as thoroughly foolish—an alien who can change color should endeavor to become clear and beautiful, not more opaque and unattractive. But the universe is full of beings with Different Views Of Life. Often these views are stupid and wrong, but a wise-minded one (such as I) always practices tolerance in the company of irrational persons.
Conversing With A Little Man Whose Sole Amusing Quality Is That He Is Colored Orange
“The name’s Uclodda Unorr,” said the darkening orange creature, “but everybody calls me Uclod. As in, ‘Get off my foot, Uclod!’”
The alien grinned as if it had just told a joke. I decided this creature must be male; only a man could believe I might be charmed by such a feeble witticism. I also concluded he must be a young man—perhaps in his early twenties. An older person would not gaze at me quite so eagerly hoping for approval.
When the alien saw I merely stared at him without amusement, he harrumphed in his throat and went back to his former line of questioning. “So spill it, missy—are you Oar or not? I was told you’d be lying here starkers with an ax cuddled against your wallabies; but I was also told you’d be dead, so there’s obviously something out of whack.”
Clutching my ax, I sat up and glared at this Uclod person. Though I was seated on the floor, he was not so much taller than I. If I stood, his head would only come to the level of my wallabies. (You will notice how quickly I pick up words from foreign languages.) “I am Oar,” I told him frostily. “An oar is an implement used to propel boats.”1
“That’s exactly the phrase I wanted to hear,” Uclod said. “And you’re an acquaintance of Festina Ramos?”
“I am Festina’s dearest friend. We went on a great Adventure recently; she is my Faithful Sidekick.”
“Your adventure wasn’t so recent, toots,” Uclod replied. “It was four Terran years ago. What’ve you been doing with yourself? Just letting your brain go to mush?”
“No,” I told him, “I have been resting to recuperate from grievous wounds.” But it was most disturbing to hear that four whole years had gone by. One less courageous than I might be scared she had let so much time pass in a daze. She might worry most acutely that her brain was getting Tired like the elderly persons around her.
Fortunately, I am not such a one as gets the shivers over a little thing like aging. My brain was not Tired. My brain was just fine.
Proving I Am Just Fine
“Are you all right?” Uclod asked.
“Yes. I am superb.”
To demonstrate, I rose to my feet with fluid grace…and if I chose to lean on my ax, I did not need a crutch, I was merely taking a Sensible Precaution. This was the first time I had roused myself to stand since my calamitous fall; perhaps I would be wobbly or infirm. But I felt no pain or stiffness—my ribs did not ache when I took a breath, and my battered bruised muscles had healed to their usual perfection.
Perhaps I really had been lying in a doze for four whole years—long enough to recover from all my injuries. But the time for dozing was over.
“There,” I said, feeling better now that I was taller than the little orange man