Space Taxi--Aliens on Earth Read online

  “So, you know, hard to miss,” I add.

  She shakes her head and comes around the side of the counter. “The only alien I’ve seen this morning was a tall, white-haired man in a fancy gray suit. Didn’t even know he was an alien until he ordered some pastries and a coffee and then started to drink the coffee through his nose.”

  “Okay, that’s really weird,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she agrees. “I tried to make small talk with him, you know, ask him where he was staying during the storm, but before he could answer I turned away for, like, a second, and he was gone. Just slipped away without waiting for his change.”

  Dad looks quizzical. “I don’t recall seeing a man like that yesterday. Do you, Archie?”

  I think for a minute, then shake my head. “It was really crowded, though.”

  Even though Pockets is still acting like a regular cat, I can tell from the angle of his ears that he heard the conversation. He pretends to rub against my leg as he whispers to Vanya, “Let us know if he shows up again, or if the girl in the bubble does.” He motions for me to give Vanya my walkie-talkie. I pull it off my belt loop and she slides it into her apron pocket.

  “Will do,” she says. Then she bends down and pets Pockets on the head. Smiling up at me, she says, “Your cat is so cute, how can you stand it?”

  Pockets growls.

  “You know he’s not really my pet, right?” I ask.

  She grins. “I know. But it’s fun to make him squirm.”

  “It is fun to make him squirm!” I agree. I like this girl!

  Vanya hands me and Dad free bagels (mine has chocolate chips in it, which makes me like her even more!) and Pockets nudges us firmly toward the door.

  Once outside, we duck into the alley beside the store and Pockets drops the “I’m just a cute, innocent house pet” act and gets back to business. “Whoever that man is, he’s not supposed to be wandering around.” He pulls out his tablet and taps it angrily a few times, then tucks it away again. “I’d already know his identity by now if this was working!” He sighs. “We’ll just have to keep doing this the old-fashioned way.”

  He holds up his walkie-talkie and presses the button. “Simon? You there? Any word?”

  Only static comes through. Pockets tries again, with the same result.

  “Do you think something could have happened to him?” Dad asks. “Maybe this goes deeper than an alien running away. Maybe she was taken! And now they’ve come back for Simon!”

  Pockets shakes his head. “You’ve been watching too much television.”

  “Probably,” Dad admits.

  “Still, let’s get back there,” Pockets says. “Maybe the girl’s shown up and we can get back to… well, to all the stuff we have to do.”

  He looks away as he says that. I get an unpleasant chill down my back but force myself not to jump to any conclusions. As my mom told me once when I used to worry a lot, “Nothing’s wrong till something’s wrong.” Right now we already have one real mystery on our hands, plus we need to get back to Toe. Who knows what Penny’s done to him by now? I pick up the pace.

  A few minutes later, Pockets pounds on Simon’s door. It swings open. “Any luck?” Simon asks.

  Pockets holds up the walkie-talkie. “Why didn’t you answer?”

  Simon reaches over to the hall table and grabs his walkie-talkie from under a pile of outgoing mail. “Oh, this thing? I didn’t know what it was.”

  “Really?” I can’t help saying. “I got my first walkie-talkie when I was five.”

  Dad leans toward me. “Simon spent most of his childhood away from Earth. His father ran the taxi operations at Home Base.”

  Well, that explains it.

  “Sorry I missed your call,” Simon says. “But I told your ISF buddy that I didn’t have any more news. Figured he’d pass that on.”

  Pockets’ ears flatten. “I didn’t send anyone.”

  “No?” Simon looks surprised.

  “White-haired guy in a fancy gray suit?” Pockets asks.

  “Yup. You ISF agents must make a good living to afford high-quality threads like that.”

  Pockets ignores that comment and asks, “Did he drink with his nose?”

  “What? No—I mean, I don’t know. He wasn’t drinking anything.”

  “What exactly did he say?” Pockets presses.

  “He just asked to see the girl, and when I said she wasn’t here anymore, he thanked me politely and left.”

  “That’s it?” Pockets asks. He sits down on the porch and begins jotting down notes on a notepad. His pencil tip breaks, and that sends him nearly over the edge. He is not handling this low-tech lifestyle very well. He angrily pulls out another pencil and continues scribbling away. After a full minute of Pockets ignoring the rest of us, Dad and Simon strike up a conversation about boring space taxi stuff like wind drag and the importance of always having a roll of duct tape to patch torn hoses. I’m curious to see the girl’s escape route. I back off the porch.

  “Be right back,” I tell Dad, and then hurry over to the side of the house, where Simon pointed earlier.

  I tilt my head back and can see the still-open window. It must have been a tight squeeze. And the roof is pretty steep. At some point she would have had to soar through the air in order to reach the ground. I hope that bubble can bounce!

  About halfway up the house I spot something yellow—fabric? paper?—stuck behind the rusty brown drainpipe that runs down from the gutter to the ground. At this distance I can’t tell what it is. Part of Bubble Girl’s duffel that ripped off on her way down? I try to remember what color that was, but can’t. It could be nothing, or it could be a clue.

  “Pockets?” I call out. “Can you climb a drainpipe?”

  Chapter Six:

  Cracking the Code

  Yup, Pockets can climb a drainpipe. But he doesn’t even need to. He just crouches low and then leaps up into the air, grabbing the yellow object with his teeth. For such a huge cat, he lands with only the slightest plop.

  Dad pulls the object out of Pockets’ mouth. It does turn out to be paper—a flyer or an ad for something. Only it’s written in some foreign language. Pockets smooths it out on the ground, turns it a quarter turn, studies it, then turns it again. I’m preparing for that growl of frustration that’s become so common since yesterday, but instead he just sighs and hangs his head.

  “It’s my own fault,” he says. “This could be the clue we need, but I didn’t pay enough attention in my classes at the ISF Academy. I figured, why should I bother to learn all those languages when all I have to do is plug them into my tablet or stick in my Translate-Ear? Now I know why.”

  I awkwardly pat him on the shoulder. “Don’t feel too bad. A solar storm knocking out all your equipment almost never happens, right? And hey, Toe told me he’s studying to be a teacher. I bet he knows something about alien languages.”

  We get home to find everyone around the kitchen table. Mom deposits a fresh stack of pancakes in front of Toe, who is clutching his belly. “I couldn’t eat one more bite,” he sings when he sees us. “Pancakes this good are a total delight!”

  “Mom’s pancakes are definitely the best,” I agree. I give Toe a quick once-over to make sure Penny hasn’t decided to pierce his ears or strap her purple dragon to his back. Except for the fact that his wavy fur has been brushed straight, he looks pretty much how we left him.

  Now back to being unable to speak since Penny is around, Pockets heads into the living room and curls up in a sunny spot. Ten seconds later, he’s snoring. Whatever else is bothering him, it can’t compete with his need to sleep.

  Toe gets to work on the flyer while Dad and I help ourselves to his breakfast. Barney’s bagels are good, but nothing compares to Mom’s pancakes. Bored, Penny wanders off into the living room and curls up next to Pockets. His snores are now mixed with purrs. Penny can always get him to purr, even in his sleep!

  “Archie,” Toe sings after making sure Penny can’t hear the question