“Welcome!” Standing in the doorway is a chunky, redhaired guy in his twenties. He’s got a chin beard like the one I’ve slapped on and a smile wide enough to show off two acres of teeth so blindingly white that I’m glad I’ve got my shades on. His eyes are weirdly bright too. He’s wearing an impossibly clean short-sleeved white shirt, tucked into black dress pants that are held up with a belt and suspenders. His right forearm has a big tattoo I can’t quite make out. Pinned above his shirt pocket is a name badge: Dwayne.
Scratch nods and gives him the card. His hand goes back in his gun pocket. “Morning. City Planning and Building Department. Just here for a quick inspection to make sure that the required repairs and upgrades were done as ordered. This is a rental, correct?”
“Shore is!” the guy says, “but CNI is hoping to buy when we take root here. C’mawn in.” It’s not what I’d call a Pianvian accent—unless Pianvia is really in someplace like Idaho.
Dwayne waves us in. We crowd into the little hallway. It smells of baking and fresh paint. In the little front room on the right I glimpse drop sheets, tins and a stepladder. I can see into a kitchen at the end of the hall. A dark-haired girl is at the counter, working away at something in a mixing bowl the way Jer does—except Jer doesn’t wear a blue gingham dress with a white apron on top. Through the doorway on my left I see a man and woman in paintspattered coveralls, putting down more drop sheets. “Welcome!” they call too. I give a little wave back.
“This won’t take long,” Scratch says, moving ahead. “Few things around the place we have to check for. Attic, basement, the usual. Wiring and plumbing refits mostly.”
“Shore,” Dwayne says again. “Hep yourself. Cellar’s through the kitchen. We want everythang to be jes’ right when we go doors open with CNI nex’ week.”
“CNI?” says Scratch.
“Church of Norman Intergalactic. This is our first missionary outreach in a foreign land. When our founder Norman Floog discovered the Book of Norman in the Walmart Dumpster in Boise, one of the first things the Throgs told him was that their mission was intergalactic, but we should start with international. Toronto seemed like a real good place to start.” As he talks, I get a better look at his tattoo. It’s a corncob with rocket tail fins at the bottom, blasting off. Houston, we have a problem.
It doesn’t take long to go through the place. Ten minutes later we’re back on Fifteenth Street. AmberLea has a Book of Norman bound in fake leather, Scratch has a DVD called Alien, Not Alienated, and X-Ray and I each have a stack of pamphlets and some cookies. The top pamphlet says AlphaWays to the Lords. Below is a graphic of the rocket corncob blasting off toward a stack of halos. “Thanks for trying,” I say. “Bun would appreciate it.”
Looking up from her Book of Norman, AmberLea says, “I just realized it couldn’t have been there anyway. The speed-limit sign is facing the wrong way for anyone to read it from the house.”
I groan. She’s right.
“Hey, you win some, you lose some,” Scratch says. “We hear anything about Bunny, we’ll let you know. Good luck. X, if I was you, I wouldn’t eat those cookies.”