The road was a relic of the past: a six-lane highway complete with a wide, planted median. Overgrown, most of the median plants had died; only a few stubborn oleanders survived, battling the weeds, crabgrass, and summer drought. The lane-divider stripes had faded to a dull gray, and, poking through cracks in the asphalt, bunches of golden field grass decorated the pavement.
Bypassing the village, the highway stretched to the western horizon, separating fields of yellow hay, cutting between rolling hills dotted with black oak. Framed by the orange-pink sky, a dark figure walked beside the median. It was a man. He was burdened with a backpack and was ambling in the energy-conserving gait of an experienced wanderer.
Nearing the outskirts of the village, the man stopped. Shading his eyes, he glanced back, watching the sun disappear; then he turned and walked across the three lanes. He stopped on the road shoulder, looking down the main street--the only real street--of the village.
His shoulders were rounded and slumped as if he carried a much heavier load than a backpack. He carried a carved and polished walking stick, his only adornment--except for his color. Clothes, backpack, hair, beard, all exposed skin from head to foot: the man was the color of dark blue ink. Indigo.
The indigo man saw no one on the village street, not even a dog: supper time.
Cautiously he walked into the village, inspecting the buildings as he moved down the center of the street. His search was specific, not the unmotivated curiosity of an idler. Above the general store a faded sign read, Enjoy Coca-Cola. He'd seen the red-and-white signs in many villages, advertising a beverage that was no longer made. On both sides of the street, the houses were identical, boxes peeling a grayish paint. He stepped around the hummerpad at the center of the town. The circular disc of concrete with steps, ramps, and railings was well maintained, at odds with the general appearance of other structures.
Continuing down the street, the indigo man passed a school, the post office, a few more houses, and finally paused at the edge of town before a small dirty building. Yes, there was the sign over the door, dusty but legible: C.P. Hostel.
Sighing, the indigo man stepped to the heavy oaken door; he placed the palm of his hand against a metallic sensor inset in the door and waited, knowing that somewhere a computer recorded his identity and noted his location.
A whirr and a click. The door swung in.
Taking one tentative step inside, the indigo man looked about the large single room. It looked and smelled like a barracks: neat and clean. At the far end, arranged in a row across the hall, were five old-style military bunks, all made up, with hospital folds. Behind the bunks were two doors labelled M and W. Immediately in front of him was a heavy wooden dining table with ten chairs of matching black oak. To his right was a recreation area: a card table with several open books and a half circle of folding chairs, ringing a blank holoview bowl.
As his gaze moved around the room, the wrinkles on the indigo man's forehead deepened into a frown.
He was alone!
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