Swords of Waar Read Online Free
Author: Nathan Long
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, adventure
out more tearing each other new assholes over the most minuscule bullshit. I wasted an hour paging through those before I realized I wasn’t going to find anything useful there.
I found a Wikipedia page for him, but it didn’t have much more than what Eli had told me and his bibliography. Finally I found a fan site dedicated to him. It had a picture of him—a scrawny little guy with spectacles and a big mustache—and a more detailed biography than the Wikipedia page had. It also mentioned that his granddaughter, someone named Leigh Gardner, maintained a museum of his memorabilia at his old house, which was in Altadena, California. There was even an address and phone number.
I stared at the phone number for a minute, my heart pounding, then picked up Delia’s phone and dialed. Someone answered in Spanish. They’d never heard of Norman Prescott Kline. I cursed. The number had been changed. Had Leigh Gardner moved? Did somebody else live in Kline’s house? Was it even still there? There was only one way to find out.
I googled the address, which was on a street called Holliston, and scribbled down the directions, then went out to the yard. There were a couple of bikes out there that actually worked. I picked one, and was hunting around for a helmet when I realized what I was doing. If I found a teleport gem, I wasn’t coming back. I guess I coulda left a note telling Eli to pick up his bike at Leigh Gardner’s house if I didn’t come back, but that seemed a pretty lame thank you for all his hospitality.
Instead I took ten bucks from the top of Eli’s dresser, grabbed my hoodie, and went back to the computer to look at bus routes. It didn’t feel right to be charging back to Waar on the Metro, but it was more right than stealing Eli’s bike. I left the copy of Savages of the Red Planet on the kitchen table along with a note:
Delia and Eli,
Think I found a way back 2 Waar. If I don’t come back U know I did. Thanks for everything. Especially the book!
Jane
P.S. Took $10
***
The Kline house was the kind of quaint, two-story bungalow that yuppies paint dark green or deep red and fill with fake craftsman furniture. No yuppies had got to this one yet. It was white, with a white picket fence and a white wicker porch swing, all a bit dusty and old-ladyish.
So was the gal who answered my knock. She was shaped like like an eggplant, narrow at the top and wide at the bottom, and very pink and grandmotherly. She wore a gray twin set and pearls, with white meringue-pie hair and a cardigan around her shoulders though it was the middle of summer. From what I could see beyond her, the house looked as dusty and old-fashioned as she was—couches with afghans over the back, dainty side tables with candy dishes, beaded lamps, a fireplace, the works.
She gave me a nearsighted once-over—holding for a while on my hoodie and the Jack Daniel’s t-shirt I’d borrowed from Eli—then smiled like she was afraid I was going to set her house on fire. “May—may I help you?”
I opened my mouth, then shut it. I’d been so busy praying that the old girl had one of the glowing clock-thingies lying around that I hadn’t thought how I was going to ask her about it once I got here. “Say, did your grandfather leave a teleport device lying around somewhere?” probably wasn’t going to cut it.
I finally managed a grin. “Uh, hi. Is this Norman Prescott Kline’s old house?”
“Yes, it is. But—”
“Oh great. Well, I’m a big fan, and I heard you had a—a kind of museum here. Of all his stuff. I was hoping….” I trailed off as I saw her face go all sad and apologetic.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” She sounded like Julia Child. “I thought everyone knew by now. I no longer maintain the museum. There just weren’t enough people coming. I—I hope you haven’t come far?”
“You wouldn’t believe. But, listen. I don’t suppose you’d make an exception since I’m here already. I won’t take too much of
I found a Wikipedia page for him, but it didn’t have much more than what Eli had told me and his bibliography. Finally I found a fan site dedicated to him. It had a picture of him—a scrawny little guy with spectacles and a big mustache—and a more detailed biography than the Wikipedia page had. It also mentioned that his granddaughter, someone named Leigh Gardner, maintained a museum of his memorabilia at his old house, which was in Altadena, California. There was even an address and phone number.
I stared at the phone number for a minute, my heart pounding, then picked up Delia’s phone and dialed. Someone answered in Spanish. They’d never heard of Norman Prescott Kline. I cursed. The number had been changed. Had Leigh Gardner moved? Did somebody else live in Kline’s house? Was it even still there? There was only one way to find out.
I googled the address, which was on a street called Holliston, and scribbled down the directions, then went out to the yard. There were a couple of bikes out there that actually worked. I picked one, and was hunting around for a helmet when I realized what I was doing. If I found a teleport gem, I wasn’t coming back. I guess I coulda left a note telling Eli to pick up his bike at Leigh Gardner’s house if I didn’t come back, but that seemed a pretty lame thank you for all his hospitality.
Instead I took ten bucks from the top of Eli’s dresser, grabbed my hoodie, and went back to the computer to look at bus routes. It didn’t feel right to be charging back to Waar on the Metro, but it was more right than stealing Eli’s bike. I left the copy of Savages of the Red Planet on the kitchen table along with a note:
Delia and Eli,
Think I found a way back 2 Waar. If I don’t come back U know I did. Thanks for everything. Especially the book!
Jane
P.S. Took $10
***
The Kline house was the kind of quaint, two-story bungalow that yuppies paint dark green or deep red and fill with fake craftsman furniture. No yuppies had got to this one yet. It was white, with a white picket fence and a white wicker porch swing, all a bit dusty and old-ladyish.
So was the gal who answered my knock. She was shaped like like an eggplant, narrow at the top and wide at the bottom, and very pink and grandmotherly. She wore a gray twin set and pearls, with white meringue-pie hair and a cardigan around her shoulders though it was the middle of summer. From what I could see beyond her, the house looked as dusty and old-fashioned as she was—couches with afghans over the back, dainty side tables with candy dishes, beaded lamps, a fireplace, the works.
She gave me a nearsighted once-over—holding for a while on my hoodie and the Jack Daniel’s t-shirt I’d borrowed from Eli—then smiled like she was afraid I was going to set her house on fire. “May—may I help you?”
I opened my mouth, then shut it. I’d been so busy praying that the old girl had one of the glowing clock-thingies lying around that I hadn’t thought how I was going to ask her about it once I got here. “Say, did your grandfather leave a teleport device lying around somewhere?” probably wasn’t going to cut it.
I finally managed a grin. “Uh, hi. Is this Norman Prescott Kline’s old house?”
“Yes, it is. But—”
“Oh great. Well, I’m a big fan, and I heard you had a—a kind of museum here. Of all his stuff. I was hoping….” I trailed off as I saw her face go all sad and apologetic.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” She sounded like Julia Child. “I thought everyone knew by now. I no longer maintain the museum. There just weren’t enough people coming. I—I hope you haven’t come far?”
“You wouldn’t believe. But, listen. I don’t suppose you’d make an exception since I’m here already. I won’t take too much of
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