Page 69 of Mongrels United
“Huh. I’ve never seen you coming and going before. Thought I knew everyone living in the Palatine.”
“I’m usually up much later than this,” Nash admitted. “You work days only, right?”
“Crack of ship’s dawn, to noon,” the man said, sounding happy about it. “I got regulars who look for me, you see.”
Nash did see. It was clear the driver was gregarious and liked people. That would make him popular among people who liked to chat. “Doesn’t doing the same thing every single day drive you crazy?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” The driver grinned over his shoulder. “But there’s a nice natural rhythm to routines. Someone like you probably wouldn’t get to know that.”
Nash thought of the way that Grady’s return to his apartment every night had become a highly anticipated habit. “I maybe can see it,” he admitted. “Don’t you get bored?”
“Nope.” The man didn’t sound upset in the slightest. “You might think that it would be boring, but then you’re not allowing for time. Time is the great magic of the universe, let me tell you.”
Nash grinned at the man’s back. He had an amateur philosopher for a driver. But Nash doubted this man’s philosophy would twist his brain on its stalk with its elegance and profound simplicity, the way Avan Tesarik’s essays did. “Why is time the great magic?” Nash asked, because the driver was clearly waiting for him to ask.
“Well, now, lemme explain.” The driver touched his controls, and the boat began its slow descent down toward the Meadow, which lay beneath them like a green blanket. “I’ve been doing this for thirty-five years, like I said. And in that time—see, time?” He gave a soft laugh, almost to himself. “In that time, I’ve seen kids grow up and move out of the Palatine. My regulars have changed jobs, found love, moved houses, even moved out of the Palatine. I’ve watched people grow old. And some of them don’t come back. Time makes everything interesting. Time explains life to you, if you’re patient.”
Nash rested his arm along the side of the boat and his ankle on his knee. “Does it bother you when your regulars don’t come back?”
“Always,” the driver said flatly. Then he gave a small shrug. “But that’s the way it goes. Then there’s the other side of that. Kids and folk who don’t know how to be civil. They don’t like taking an extra few minutes, and some conversation, for half the price, and head over to the autoboats.” His look over his shoulder this time was wise. “Guessing you’d be one of them.”
Nash just smiled, not committing himself one way or the other.
The boat grounded on the concrete pad Nash had paid to have installed just for the taxiboats, so they wouldn’t grind the grass into the earth. Unlike the auto-boats, this time the grounding was the lightest kiss.
Nash got to his feet and pulled up his sleeve to reveal the patch of skin over his inner wrist where the chip was buried.
The driver picked up his processor unit.
“Add a bit for yourself,” Nash said.
“Well, thank you, I will.” The driver waved the processor over Nash’s wrist, then checked the readout to see the transaction had gone through properly.
He frowned at the screen.
“What’s up? Did it misfire?” Nash asked.
“Nash Hyson,” the driver said.
“That’s me.”
The driver looked up at him. His sunny expression had shuttered over. “You’d be the son of Nason Wheelock, then?”
Nash drew in a deep breath. “Yes,” he said flatly.
The driver let the processor hang from his hand, forgotten. “I knew your father. Couldn’t say I knew him well. But he was one of my regulars, for eighteen years.” He grimaced, which made the wrinkles around his eyes and throat all creased. “He’s one of the ones who never came back.”
Nash realized he was sitting on the side of the boat, and couldn’t remember sinking down onto the edge, or making the decision to sit. He gripped the edges with his hands.
“Nason is dead,” he said, trying to use the same gentle tone that Grady used when imparting what she thought was bad news.
“Aye, I learned that eventually,” the driver said. “When he didn’t show up for a couple of weeks, I looked him up on the Forum. Learned it there.”
“I’m sorry,” Nash said. He actuallywassorry. “I would have found a way to let you know if I’d known you knew him that well. Nason didn’t have many friends.”
“Can’t say I’d call myself one, either,” the driver said. “I’m Peter, by the way. Pete Petchell.”
“Hello, Pete Petchell.”
