Chapter 3: CHAPTER THREE

The flight to Toronto was uneventful, except for the infant that insisted on exercising its lungs when he was trying to catch a few minutes of sleep. Since sleep had struck out he browsed through the script of ‘The Pit of Hell.’ He had seen it before, of course, too many times to count, but each time he glanced at it, he was sure that Harold Creighton’s ability to write a decent script was akin to that of his – Fenwick’s – nephew. And Bobby, the would-be scribbler, was seven years old.

This wasn’t a B movie, or even a C movie. It went way beyond any letters of the alphabet.

And the title. What the fuck was that? ‘The Pit of Hell.’ This piece of shit had nothing to do with hell. Unless Creighton cast some unfortunate actor as the devil. The devil with his dragon sidekick. Fire from the dragon’s mouth, fire in hell. Yeah, sure.

Maybe one day, in the far future, preferably after everyone associated with this monstrosity had turned to dust, some enterprising individual might show the movie, and the audience would laugh their damn heads off.

They made a movie about Ed Wood, didn’t they?

He stayed in Toronto long enough to charter a private plane. Or at least he thought he did. When he told the pilot he wanted to fly up to Colbert’s Landing the big beefy man with the gray crew cut told him he couldn’t do it.

“Why not?” He was so close he could almost reach out and touch the fur of these aliens. He wasn’t about to turn around and fly back home.

“Do you know who lives up there?”

“Aliens... and dragons.”

“Whistling dragons,” the pilot corrected him. “The area is off limits to planes.”

“So what the... what am I supposed to do?” He scratched the back of his neck, ran a hand through his unruly, dark-brown hair. “My name is Clarence Fenwick. I’m the head of special effects at Creighton Studios...”

“Harold Creighton? You mean the guy who made ‘Teen Monsters from Mars?’ ” The pilot broke into waves of laughter that threatened to take up the rest of Fenwick’s day.

“I’ll pay you extra,” he said, voice rising to drown out the pilot’s laughter.

“What’s he doing now? Teen Monsters from Venus?”

“Five hundred dollars... above the regular cost of the flight.”

“You don’t seem to understand, Mr... Fenwick. The prime minister can’t even go up there unless it’s for a special reason. They live there, they hunt there, they catch fish, I don’t know what the fuck else they do, and I don’t care.”

“A thousand.”

“Persistent little son of a bitch, aren’t you? Tell you what: Make it five thousand and we’ve got a deal. Of course, I’ll lose my license.”

“Five thousand? Are you nuts?”

The pilot glared at him, and Fenwick wanted to shrink within himself. The pilot could take him on without batting an eye, with one hand behind his back. “Take it or leave it, Mr. Fenwick. I’m ready to get on that plane, and I don’t care what you do. For all I care you can walk up there.”

“All right.” He sighed. He had no idea what Creighton would say about five thousand dollars of the movie’s budget ending up in this man’s pocket, but it couldn’t be helped.

Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to fly to Northern Ontario and interview an alien for a possible part in a movie. Well, that life companion of hers.

As he watched the pilot walk to his plane, waiting near the hangar, he pictured Harold Creighton having the fit of the century. The possibility of getting fired weighed on his mind.

Fuck you, Creighton. I’ll quit before you fire me.

An hour later the plane’s nose was pointing north. Fenwick sat beside the pilot, staring in awe at the scenery below. Toronto was a large city, not as large as L.A. but still the biggest city in Canada. He wasn’t too familiar with Canadian geography, but he had learned that much.

He closed his eyes, confident that the pilot would get him to his destination. For five thousand dollars he could have asked for a trip around the world and back again. Fucking ripoff. But he’d be willing to part with ten thousand dollars of Creighton’s money if it meant an interview with the alien.

When he opened his eyes again Toronto had vanished, replaced by trees. Trees, trees, trees... and lakes... lots of little lakes dotting the ground below. Madness would soon control him if he had to live here his whole life. He was Los Angeles born and bred, the concrete jungle was much more preferable to the wilderness below.

“There’s a small airstrip about two kilometers from the village,” the pilot said through the headphone. “You’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

“Can’t you land a little closer?”

“Are you nuts?”

The airstrip, in the middle of nowhere, stretched for a shorter distance than he imagined. Hell, everything here was in the middle of nowhere.

The pilot brought the plane down smoothly, stopped at the end of the runway.

“Harold Creighton?” He laughed again, as if the name were a big joke.

Fenwick stepped off the plane. Yes, sir, Harold Creighton definitely was a big joke in the film industry. The resurrection of Ed Wood, doomed to make cruddy pictures.

The plane turned, scurried down the runway, lifted off, and sailed southeast.

The pilot had left five thousand dollars richer, but it was worth it. Creighton should have no complaints about parting with that amount of money.

Damn it. He bopped the sides of his head with the palms of his hands. What the hell was he doing here? The picture will stink, it will bomb, it will be the worst picture of the year, the decade. Should be good for a few Razzies.

One path lay in front of him. This should lead to the village where the aliens and whistling dragons lived. Two kilometers, the pilot had said. About a mile and a quarter.

He hadn’t walked far when voices drifted into his ears. He didn’t know what to do, so he waited for the voices to come to him.

One of them belonged to a man of rather imposing structure. About sixty, maybe closer to seventy, with shoulder length white hair, and a needs-to-be trimmed white beard. Stockily built, muscular, like a former wrestler who still trained every day. He wore a red and black lumber jacket, and a pair of grungy black pants.

When Fenwick’s saw the alien, the first thought that came to mind was that he... no, she resembled a fox... a real fox, he added, not like the humans who liked to dress up in fur suits. Shorter than the man walking beside her, maybe 5’9”, 5’10”. Rather skinny, at least in his eyes. Well, not skinny really, but he couldn’t think of the appropriate adjective. This one was definitely a female. Male Tereskàdians had those fine hairs around the perimeter of their ears, females didn’t. She had a narrow muzzle, and two sets of whiskers arranged on both sides of her muzzle, one set near the front, the other further back. Her eyes were cat’s eyes, vertical pupils which, he supposed, grew more rounded in dim light, just like a real cat. Her fur was a sort of medium red... no, there was another color mixed in. What did they call it? Reddish brown. Auburn. Auburn? No, that was a hair color, wasn’t it? Well, why not a fur color? So much easier than saying reddish brown all the time. Auburn fur, except for that black tip of the tail. Like she had dipped her tail in black ink, decided it’d be too much bother to wash it off. The single accessory she wore was a light green collar, with a red diamond shape at the front.

Of course there was the ubiquitous whistling dragon. At first he pictured it as the alien’s pet, but he could never say that. Tereskàdians didn’t own their whistling dragons, the correct term was symbiotic. They literally couldn’t live without each other. Born at the same time, they’d die at the same time.

“Who are you?” the man asked, his voice tinged with venom. “Where did you come from?”

“Los Angeles,” he said.

“That’s a long way from here. How did you get here?”

“Plane,” he said. “My name is Clarence Fenwick. “I’m... the head of... Colonial Studios and—”

The female Tereskàdian regarded him closely, too close for comfort. She took a couple steps closer to him, and he backed off. “You’re lying.”

“My name is Clarence Fenwick.”

“No, the other part.”

“All right.” He had forgotten these aliens could pick out a lie as easily as a beachcomber picking up shells on the beach. “I’m the head of special effects at Creighton Studios. I came here to talk to you about... your dragon.”

“Jhevharel? Why do you want to talk about Jhevharel?”

The man stood off to one side, studied Fenwick through narrowed eyes. Despite his age, he appeared strong enough to tackle him easily, if the opportunity should ever arise.

He’d be on his best behavior, not give the man any reason to use force on him.

“Mr. Creighton... Harold Creighton... is shooting a picture called ‘The Pit of Hell—” He winced noticeably.

“Let’s go back to the village,” Chandrha interrupted. She sniffed the air, turned to her whistling dragon. Jhevharel spread his large black wings, ran a few steps while flapping his wings ponderously.

“Your name is Chandrha,” he said.

“Of course it is.” She was watching her whistling dragon who had barely cleared the top of the trees. “He’s going to hunt for food.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be together all the time?”

“I can see him.”

He shaded his eyes against the sun, tried to locate the whistling dragon. Jhevharel had flown up, beyond the range of his vision. Chandrha’s eyes were a zillion times better than his, and she had no problem staying in visual, as well as telepathic contact, with Jhevharel.

He tried to start a conversation, but she would have none of it. She and the white-haired man walked a few feet in front of him, side by side. They conferred in whispers.

The village spread out before him, larger than he expected. The path on which they had been walking ran through the middle of the village. About two dozen houses sat on each side of the path. Most of the buildings were one-story, two-room wooden structures that might have been suitable to these furred alien being, but not for human beings like him.

One building stood two stories tall, built with brick and stone, larger than the others. He couldn’t help staring at that one, wondering.

When they reached Chandrha’s home she turned around, checked the sky. A moment later Jhevharel sailed down and settled beside his Tereskàdian.

“You wasted your time coming here,” she said.

“I can make it worth your while, Chandrha.” He wasn’t going to give up that easily.

“I don’t need your money.”

“Mr. Creighton needs a dragon for his next movie.” Mr. Creighton needs to get out of the movie business, he rephrased.

“Jhevharel is not a dragon, Sen Fenwick. Not in the sense you’re thinking.”

“Sen— Oh yes, your form of address. I know he’s not a dragon like you see in stories and films, but he has wings and he flies, and that’s close enough.”

“He wants to know what he’d have to do.”

“We’d use him for long shots, you know like when he’s flying in the sky. For close-ups we’d use CGI... that’s computer generated imagery. All Jhevharel would have to do is fly... and look menacing.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“What’d I say?”

“You want my whistling dragon to come across like one of those reptilian beasts in that... what was the name of that movie, Arak?”

“Reign of Fire,” the white-haired man replied. The man’s face indicated without a doubt that he wasn’t a fan of the movie.

“It’s nothing like that at all,” he said.

“You’re lying again,” she said.

He tried to come up of another approach. This female was pretty stubborn, and talk of a substantial amount of money for a few weeks work wouldn’t be helpful at all. If he had his way he’d forget all about this film, but since work equaled a pay cheque, he’d have to come up with a CGI dragon.

“What can I do to persuade you?” He didn’t like the way that sounded, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say right now.

“You can’t,” she said. “If humans see Jhevharel, or any of our whistling dragons, in that light, it would reflect badly on our species.”

“At least take a look at the script.” He held out a bound copy of ‘The Pit of Hell.’

She took the script from his hand, as if it were something alive, glanced at it, whiskers twitching. From what he had read about these aliens, twitching whiskers meant indecision. Was that a good sign?

“You can read?” he asked.

“Of course I can read,” she said, rather forcefully. “I attended the University of Treskebhar, and I was schooled here in Northern Ontario. How do you think I learned your language?”

“Will you take a look, please?”

“All right. I’m not going to promise anything.”

“Thank you. Is there some place I can get something to eat. You know, human food.”

“Second last house on your left,” she said. “That’s the diner.” She and Jhevharel disappeared into their home. The white-haired man stared at him, made him feel uncomfortable. All right, so he wasn’t supposed to be here. So this village was off limits to humans, unless a special reason brought them here. But did that matter to him? He was going to go through with this disaster of a movie, and hope Harold Creighton would drop into oblivion after this stinker sank into extinction.

He headed to the second house on the left, glanced back once, but the white-haired man just stood and watched him. What was his name again? Arak. What was he doing in the village?

The waitress who served him a dish of spaghetti and meatballs at what might in quaint terms be described as a cozy diner asked him what brought him all the way to Colbert’s Landing. He told her he was trying to make a deal with the female Tereskàdian named Chandrha and her whistling dragon. He wanted to bring them to Los Angeles to make a movie, but he didn’t tell her he was interested in the whistling dragon, and not her.

“She won’t like that at all,” the girl said. “You know, all that fur...”

“It’s a dragon film, not science fiction.”

“Maybe there’s a part for her.”

“Mr. Creighton just wants the dragon.”

“You can’t separate them.”

He shoveled a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. Who said anything about separating them? Jhevharel would be in the picture, Chandrha on the sidelines.

He had just finished his meal when Chandrha and Jhevharel stormed into the restaurant.

“I want to talk to you outside,” she said. Ears back, black tip of her tail flicking.

“What’s the matter?” He dabbed his lips with a napkin.

“Outside.”

When he passed the whistling dragon, the animal uttered a soft sssrrr. Something bothering him?

“Are you a... what do they call it?... a wise guy?” she demanded.

They stood in front of the diner, far enough so they wouldn’t block people from entering and leaving.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Where is my part?”

“I didn’t write the script.”

“You expect Jhevharel to play in his movie, but not me? What kind of script is that?”

“Maybe we can write a part for you.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Mr. Creighton won’t go for it. He’s making a dragon movie. I told him I’d talk to you about your whistling dragon. All he’d have to do is just fly—”

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“And look menacing. You said that.”

“There’s something else.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his left shoe scraping dirt.

“What?”

“Breathe fire.”

“What?” The flicking of he tail increased, like it was ready to fall off at any moment. “Jhevharel does not breathe fire. He’s a whistling dragon from the planet Tereskàdhar. He is not an Earth dragon.”

“CGI.”

“You told me.”

“We can do things these days we wouldn’t even have dreamed of decades ago.”

“Yeah, like reptilian aliens with a bunch of tentacles sticking out of their bodies. ‘War of the Worlds’... ‘Independence Day.’ Poor Americans, getting picked on by nasty aliens.”

“I’m trying to convince you.”

“Why don’t you use this computer... CGI? Make your own dragon.”

“It’s expensive. Mr. Creighton doesn’t like to spend any more money than necessary.” What was the budget for this monstrosity? A dollar twenty-five? Ha ha.

She walked ahead of him, Jhevharel beside her, and he followed. Where were they going now? He was cold, even though winter hadn’t arrived yet. That’s what you get for not dressing warm for this part of Canada. He wished he were back in Los Angeles, and damn you, Harold Creighton. If she didn’t agree to let her whistling dragon come with him, he’d have to come up with a CGI dragon. With the budget for this film most about a million dollars, maybe less, what did they expect him to do? A papier-mâché dragon held up by strings?

She led the way to her home. When she opened the door, a small version of herself scooted out, put up its arms. She took it in her arms, her eyes on Fenwick. “This is Ad‘herha. She’s five years old. The one in the doorway is her whistling dragon Rivenhar (Rĭ’ vě nahr). My first cub, Lhorhanha, and her whistling dragon Chenharhel (Chě’ nah reel) are off playing somewhere with other cubs. My mate, Rheôvhan, has our third cub in his chamber. Her name is Mykharha, and her whistling dragon’s name is Zedrheân (Zě dree ahn). You know what I’m trying to say?”

Of course. It meant he’d have to bring Chandrha’s entire family to Los Angeles. Since they lived in Canada under the protection of the Canadian government, the entire process of moving them to the United States would be out of the question. The American government was rather paranoid when it came to aliens, which was one reason they had stayed in Canada.

“I have to think,” he said. He didn’t like to think too much, that was Creighton’s job. He had come here to persuade these aliens to let him have the use of a whistling dragon for a film Harold Creighton was making. “I’ll have to talk with my boss.”

“You do that,” Chandrha said, “but I can tell you right now we’re not leaving.”

“Maybe...” Something flashed into his mind, something he wanted to dismiss. What was that saying, the one about Muhammad and the mountain? “Is there any way I can contact someone in the United States? I do have a cell phone, but I’m afraid it’s no use here.”

“You can reach someone outside Canada at the second house on your left.” She pointed at the building further down the street, where he had dined earlier, but he was more interested in her digit. She possessed those deadly claws, although at the moment they were sheathed. What frightened him was the deadly poison in those claws. If there was one consolation, Tereskàdians used their claws to catch food, or if someone attacked them. He had no intention of attacking any of these aliens.

When he entered the diner he walked to the counter, asked the girl if he could place a call to the United States. The old man sauntered up beside him, placed his hand on the counter. “It’s not cheap.”

He hadn’t seen one of those old-fashioned black push-button phones in ages. “I’ll pay for it. Better yet, I’ll call collect.”

“Go ahead.”

Who the hell was this guy?

He had seen one of those contraptions in a museum he visited two months ago. He’d have bet his life savings he’d never see a working model anywhere. “Thank you,” he muttered.

“Hello,” the voice on the other end said when he managed to get through. “Harold Creighton here.”

“This is Clarence Fenwick.”

“What the hell are you calling me for? Where is that dragon? When are you coming back? This is costing me money, you know. Money money money. Bring that dragon here so we can get back to shooting. I’ve had to work my way around you, Fenwick, but I need that dragon.”

“Sir... Mr. Creighton... we have a problem.”

“Problem? What problem?”

“How badly do you need that dragon?”

“What are you talking about? I’m putting a lot of money into this movie. I have creditors who are watching me like a fucking hawk. What do you want me to do, give it all up?”

“I can’t just bring the... uh, dragon,” he said, his mind on another job. “The Tereskàdian and her whistling dragon have to be together.”

“I know that,” Creighton said, sounding much too exasperated. The poor man was a city block from a heart attack. “Symbio... whatever you call it. Can’t live without each other. So? Bring the two of them.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Oh for... why not?”

“They have three cubs, and one of them is still nursing.”

Silence on the other end. A moment later he heard Creighton breathing, maybe burning his brain trying to think of something to say.

“Why do we have to have a species where the cub sucks the male’s tits?” Creighton said. “Something’s wrong there. Anyway... How many would you have to bring here?”

“Eight,” he said. “Four Tereskàdians and four whistling dragons, although the youngest are in those holes they have in their bellies, you know, the chambers.”

“You’re going to ruin me, Fenwick. This was going to be the best picture, my masterpiece. I can smell Oscar nominations, you know. Best picture... best director...”

All you can smell is what comes out of your rear end. Aloud he said, “Yes, sir. Academy awards... uh huh. Would be nice.” Creighton and a few Razzies would fit together nicely.

“What are you going to do?” Creighton asked.

“I have an idea,” he said, “but it may mean more money.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You haven’t heard it yet.”

“You said ‘more money’ which means I don’t like it. Other people are putting money into this project, people who are going to have their names listed as producers and executive producers, in addition to my name. They want to see results, they want to watch the screen, and see a finished product, and if you tell me shit like that, they won’t see a finished product.”

“Do you want to make this movie, or don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I make movies, that’s what I was born to do. All right, I’ll listen to what you have to say, but it better be good.”

He rolled his eyes. Born to make movies. Yeah, right. You were born to jerk off, because making movies isn’t your forte.

“We make the film right here,” he said, hesitating to continue, waiting for Creighton to explode, but all he heard was steady breathing on the other end. “Since we’d have a problem bringing the aliens into the States maybe we could bring a minimum crew up, and film it right here.”

“Are you fucking nuts?” Creighton exploded. Fenwick pictured the eminent director turning red, clenching something in his hand, the script perhaps, crushing it, tearing it. Or maybe the keyboard on his desk would be the unfortunate victim of his fury. “You want me and the crew to come up there, to Canada, to the frozen north, and shoot the film there? Who the fuck do you think I am, George Lucas... Stephen Spielberg? They got hundreds of millions of dollars, I got one million... no, two million for this picture. You come back here and make a CGI dragon, you hear me?”

“So you don’t want a whistling dragon?”

“Maybe if I make a musical.”

“All right, I guess.” He inserted the proper amount of disappointment into his voice.

“How much do they want?” Creighton asked.

“Who?”

“Them. The aliens. How much are they asking?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Everybody wants something, so don’t give me that bullshit they don’t want anything.”

“They’re carnivores. They hunt for their food, and there’s plenty of game up here.”

“You’re trying to talk me into this, aren’t you, Fenwick? You want to work with these aliens.”

“It should save a lot of money coming up here, sir. Remember what I said about a minimum crew. If we take them down to L.A. we’d have a lot of hassles with our government, as well as the Canadian government.”

“All right, I’ll see if I can put together a minimum crew, plus the actors, of course. We could be up there in... three days?”

“There’s another problem, sir.”

“Oh, Jesuschristonapogostick, what now?”

“This area is off limits to outsiders,” he said. He didn’t want to tell Creighton about this, but his wicked mind wanted him to make this movie, to finish it, and distribute it to as many theaters as possible. To fail miserably. Harold Creighton, the laughing stock of the film industry.

“So how did you end up there?”

“I was lucky,” he said, “plus I had to fork over a little extra.”

“How much extra.”

“Five thousand.” Instinctively, he winced.

“Of my money, I presume.”

“Yeah.”

“So what are we supposed to do, parachute in?”

“We’d have to check with the Canadian government.”

Hesitation. Then, “You let me handle this. I’ll get back to you. Can I reach you at that number?” He quoted the number.

“I’ll have someone contact me,” he said. If Harold Creighton told the Canadian government who he was and what he did for a living he’d be denied, and it wouldn’t have surprised if they laughed their heads off.

He placed the receiver in its cradle, peeked into the office where Arak was busy at his desk. All those aliens, and two lone humans. What was he doing here? Did he own this diner, the village? Was he somehow connected with the Canadian government?

He went back to Chandrha’s home, knocked on the door. When it opened, it wasn’t Chandrha standing there, but a male. He could tell by the fine hairs around the perimeter of the ears. He couldn’t help glancing at the male’s crotch. They had genitals, just like every other mammal, but they kept everything – penis, scrotum – in a special chamber. He couldn’t remember the name of the adult’s penile chamber; he had read it somewhere in that much-copied 100-volume encyclopedia they had brought with them from their homeworld, but it had escaped his mind.

Today, though, the male’s genitals didn’t reside in that chamber. They dangled out there in full view, and the male didn’t even care who was standing in front of him. Fenwick averted his eyes, tried to focus on something else, no matter how mundane. But how could he keep from seeing that organ?

“You... um, must be... uh, Rheôvhan,” he stammered.

“Is this offending you?” Rheôvhan asked. “I’m sorry, I keep forgetting you humans are rather modest.” His genitals slid into the special cavity reserved for penis and scrotum, something Fenwick found so fascinating he didn't even realize he was staring.

“I came here talk to you about a movie,” he said.

“Chandrha told me.” Rheôvhan smoothed his fur where his genitals had been moments before.

If it weren’t for those fine hairs around the ears, a male Tereskàdian might be mistaken for a female. Without meaning to, his eyes wandered to Rheôvhan’s chest where two teats were prominently displayed.

“Now you’re fascinated with my teats,” Rheôvhan said.

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I was trying to persuade your mate to let me borrow your whistling dragon. I realize you and your whistling dragons have to be together all the time, so I was willing to fly her and... Jhevharel to Los Angeles...”

“Out of the question,” a feminine voice called out from the next room. She appeared in the doorway. “And you know why, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” He avoided her dark eyes. “I need a place to stay for the next three days.”

“We can’t help you,” Rheôvhan said. “This is a small village, populated by Tereskàdians and whistling dragons... and two humans, Arak, and the lady who runs the diner, Alice Baumgartner. You’re not even supposed to be here, Sen Fenwick, but we can’t do anything about that now.”

“Where am I supposed to stay?” he asked. He needed to find some accommodations for the next three days, but he wasn’t going to sleep outside. What sort of animals were out there, ready to treat him like their next meal?

“Ask Arak about that two-story building,” Rheôvhan said. “He’s usually at the diner.” Short, and to the point.

Damn foxes. Oh sure, they weren’t foxes, but those were the first disparaging words that came into his mind. If they were living in his country they wouldn’t be living in their own village, they’d be in some underground facility, poked and prodded by scientists trying to learn whatever secrets they could.

When he asked Arak if he could stay someplace for the next three days the old man just glared at him. After his eyes had burned a hole in Fenwick’s blue jacket, he said, “There are rooms in that two-story building down the road. That’s where guests stay.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Where’re you from?” Arak asked.

“Los Angeles. My boss is going to call me back in three days.” He didn’t want to tell Arak the possibility that a film crew might come up here to shoot the movie, with Jhevharel as the villain.

“I hope you realize the Canadian government has made this area off limits to visitors,” the old man said bluntly. “This village, and a 10,000 square kilometer area surrounding this village, which extends to James Bay. I don’t know how much that is in square miles, and I don’t care. You can figure it out.” The old man pointed to the two story building. “That’s the guest building. There’ll be rooms available. Cost you $50 a night... Canadian. Not much to it, but it should do. It’s got a shower and a toilet... single room with a bed. If you were expecting Best Western, I hate to disappoint you.”

Fenwick headed over to the two-story building, asked the nervous looking female Tereskàdian at the front about a room. He followed her upstairs to a corner unit, opened the door.

“Fifty a night,” the alien said.

“Send the bill to Harold Creighton Studios,” he said.

“You need to pay fifty right now.”

He dug into his wallet, drew out two twenties and two tens. American. “I don’t know what the exchange rate is, but this should cover it.”

The alien accepted it, a bit reluctantly before he left.

How comfortably would he sleep tonight? The bed might fall apart at any moment, but he was so tired he didn’t care if it crashed to the floor while he was sleeping.

Definitely not a high class hotel.

He wished the Canadian government would deny Creighton’s request to send a film crew up here to shoot a movie, but that meant no money in his pocket. And millions of dollars lost. Creighton would have to come up with the money to repay his backers. And some of those backers liked to twist your arms behind your back, and threaten your family.

He slept fitfully that night, sleep filled with dreams of Harold Creighton and his crew landing in the middle of the village, shouting orders to the Tereskàdians, pushing Arak aside. Rheôvhan and Chandrha, and their whistling dragons stood off to one side, their ears back, and the tips of their tails flicking. What can I do? He shrugged, as he mouthed those words.

He opened his eyes, his mind on Creighton. He didn’t want the man to come here.

Too late, a little voice inside his head said. Too fucking late.

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