As she changed Jason, she asked Jack a number of questions - ones he had heard often enough in his own world. But here he would have to be careful. He was a stranger, and there might be hidden trapdoors. He heard his father telling Morgan, . . . a real Stranger, if you see what I mean.
Jack sensed that the woman's husband was listening closely. He answered her questions with a careful variation of the Story - not the one he told when he was applying for a job but the one he told when someone who had picked him up thumbing got curious.
He said he had come from the village of All-Hands' - Jason's mother had a vague recollection of hearing of the place, but that was all. Had he really come so far? she wanted to know. Jack told her that he had. And where was he going? He told her (and the silently listening Henry) that he was bound for the village of California. That one she had not heard of, even vaguely, in such stories as the occasional peddler told. Jack was not exactly very surprised . . . but he was grateful that neither of them exclaimed 'California? Whoever heard of a village named California? Who are you trying to shuck and jive, boy?' In the Territories there had to be lots of places - whole areas as well as villages - of which people who lived in their own little areas had never heard. No power poles. No electricity. No movies. No cable TV to tell them how wonderful things were in Malibu or Sarasota. No Territories version of Ma Bell, advertising that a three-minute call to the Outposts after five p.m. cost only $5.83, plus tax, rates may be higher on God-Pounders' Eve and some other holidays. They live in a mystery, he thought. When you live in a mystery, you don't question a village simply because you never heard of it. California doesn't sound any wilder than a place named All-Hands'.
Nor did they question. He told them that his father had died the year before, and that his mother was quite ill (he thought of adding that the Queen's repossession men had come in the middle of the night and taken away their donkey, grinned, and decided that maybe he ought to leave that part out). His mother had given him what money she could (except the word that came out in the strange language wasn't really money - it was something like sticks) and had sent him off to the village of California, to stay with his Aunt Helen.
'These are hard times,' Mrs. Henry said, holding Jason, now changed, more closely to her.
'All-Hands' is near the summer palace, isn't it, boy?' It was the first time Henry had spoken since inviting Jack aboard.
'Yes,' Jack said. 'That is, fairly near. I mean - '
'You never said what your father died of.'
Now he had turned his head. His gaze was narrow and assessing, the former kindness gone; it had been blown out of his eyes like candle-flames in a wind. Yes, there were trap-doors here.
'Was he ill?' Mrs. Henry asked. 'So much illness these days - pox, plague - hard times . . . '
For a wild moment Jack thought of saying, No, he wasn't ill, Mrs. Henry. He took a lot of volts, my dad. You see he went off one Saturday to do some work, and he left Mrs. Jerry and all the little Jerrys - including me - back at home. This was when we all lived in a hole in the baseboard and nobody lived anywhere else, you see. And do you know what? He stuck his screwdriver into a bunch of wires and Mrs. Feeny, she works over at Richard Sloat's house, she heard Uncle Morgan talking on the phone and he said the electricity came out, all of the electricity, and it cooked him, it cooked him so bad that his glasses melted all over his nose, only you don't know about glasses because you don't have them here. No glasses . . . no electricity . . . no Midnight Blue . . . no airplanes. Don't end up like Mrs. Jerry, Mrs. Henry. Don't -
'Never mind was he ill,' the whiskered farmer said. 'Was he political?'
Jack looked at him. His mouth was working but no sounds came out. He didn't know what to say. There were too many trapdoors.
Henry nodded, as if he had answered. 'Jump down, laddie. Market's just over the next rise. I reckon you can ankle it from here, can't you?'
'Yes,' Jack said. 'I reckon I can.'
Mrs. Henry looked confused . . . but she was now holding Jason away from Jack, as if he might have some contagious disease.
The farmer, still looking back over his shoulder, smiled a bit ruefully. 'I'm sorry. You seem a nice enough lad, but we're simple people here - whatever's going on back yonder by the sea is something for great lords to settle. Either the Queen will die or she won't . . . and of course, someday she must. God pounds all His nails sooner or later. And what happens to little people when they meddle into the affairs of the great is that they get hurt.'
'My father - '