Story: The Glove, XIII

( Part XII , XIV )

The shot rang out, and then another. And another. Gunshots were practically unheard of on the moon of Ganymede, apart from the shooting events at the Highland Games, the annual moon-wide sports championships. Steffan had gotten used to gunshots while competing for his precinct in the modern caber toss and tennis champsionships, but that had been two years before. A moment of stunned stillness quickly segued into a duck for cover behind a tree. Where had the shot originated?

Zing.

The Ganymedian tree lost a bit of bark as Steffan huddled behind it. Then there was silence. There was to be no fooling the young piper, though, and he waited a full ten minutes before waving a white handkerchief outside the hidden zone behind the trunk. Had that shot been aimed at him, or had coincidence played its normal grim and merry part? Gunshots didn't fit into his preferred lifestyle. Perhaps some running away was in order? Just as he was preparing to make a break for it, keeping the trunk at his back, a squad of armed police appeared, utterly incongruous in both their style and appearance. Armed police were another unheard of happenstance, and he gaped.

"You, get back behind the vehicle!" Bellowed a probable high ranker, and Steffan dutifully obeyed. The vehicle was completely unmarked. Not an insignia in sight. In fact, the police didn't have any markings either. They just had the air of police officers. He pushed back into the trees a little, in the general direction of the tea shop. Some cakes seemed in order. Or scones, where the onligatory argument about pronunciation would be a blessed relief.

The scanner was waved in disgust, and knocked against a tree in the time honoured fashion as Steffan disappeared. Minutes later he was ensconced, and en-sconed, at Alison's Tea Rooms. There was nothing like tea and scones to calm someone down after a traumatic event. Alison was a nice lady, thoroughly at home in her environment, and seemingly perpetually busy with preparing things for the tourists visiting the old scenic town. A second person emerged from the back room and consulted her for a moment, before boldly advancing and sitting opposite our protagonist. She looked relieved.

"Thank Troos that you're okay! You are okay, aren't you?" She looked him over. "Aye, you seem fine." A freckled frown relaxed. "We've never wanted to see anyone hurt."

Being caught with a mouthful of scone had never been so inconvenient. Steffan's response would have to wait.

To be continued...