The Curiosity Killers by K W Taylor

director were the man’s location—the top of Ben’s desk—and his state of dress, which was something resembling either a very short monk’s robe or a very long potato sack. Wheaton’s feet were bare and dirty, and Ben cringed at the thought of twelfth-century detritus being smeared across his fresh ink blotter. Ben’s cat looked from Wheaton to Ben and then gave a disgruntled hiss.
    “Well, that’s a weight off.” Ben said. He tisked the hissing cat. “Hush, Bodhi.” He urged the feline away from the desk, strode to the older man, and held his hand out to him. “We’d given you up for dead.” Ben hoped the client read his coldness as casual, even as a strangling panic seized his body. What could have happened to delay Wheaton?
    Wheaton’s eyes darted, rabbit-scared, around the room. “Where am I?” His gaze fell on Ben. “Oh, Mister Jonson, thank goodness.” He took Ben’s hand and let himself be helped down from the desk. Once on the floor, Wheaton bounced from spot to spot, his gait springy despite his size. He beamed at the younger man. “My, but that was a heart-stopping turn.” Wheaton was filthy, covered in muck and dust and God knew what else, and for a moment Ben felt pristine by comparison in his sweat-soaked business finery. Wheaton grinned at Ben. “It was exhilarating, that’s what it was.”
    Ben looked at his client. “You know in a bit I’ll have to suppress the memory,” he reminded him. “We can discuss the events at length, and we’ll replace it—”
    “I recall the sales pitch,” Wheaton interrupted. “I’ll think I had a restful spa weekend or some such.” He nodded. “I know, but blimey, the things I saw.” He elbowed Ben in the ribs. “The ladies . I know I wasn’t there for the ladies, but what a lovely surprise.”
    Ben’s face grew hot. At a loss for words, he gestured to the outer room. “Let’s have a chat, then.”
    After a short rest, Wheaton was much more appropriately attired in a loose white dress shirt and mock equestrian breeches. He lounged by the enormous fieldstone hearth for his debriefing. The rest of the staff of Jonson’s Exotic Travel was there as well. Doctor Vere joined Ben on the settee opposite, cups of tea placed into their waiting hands by their assistant. After serving, Kris proceeded to splay her lithe form out on the rug, half-reclined into something resembling a modified supta baddha konasana position, legs tucked to her sides. Bodhi nestled beside her and began to purr.
    Ben marveled at Kris’s impossibly bendy young form, but then quickly shoved the thought away. Not only was she his employee, the young ladies who occasionally squired her away to mid-afternoon tea made it clear to Ben that he was decidedly not her type. Still, he loved the beauty of how her hair shone blue-black in the firelight.
    “So did you find out whether the kids were aliens or not?” Kris asked Wheaton.
    Vere allowed his foot to swing into her arm.
    “Ow! I was just asking what we were all thinking.”
    “Young lady, that was impertinent,” Vere said.
    “Miss Moto doesn’t care about being impertinent,” Ben pointed out to his colleague. That was what they all loved about her, after all, even Vere, despite his gruffness toward the young woman. “Mister Wheaton, please,” Ben continued. “In your own time.”
    Wheaton sat up straighter, squaring his shoulders and putting his teacup down. “As you know, I grew up near Woolpit. I lived with the legends of the green children my whole life, and when I came into my inheritance, I wanted nothing more than to find out the definitive answer, once and for all.”
    “But you went out on the town with a bunch of old-timey chicks instead?” Kris asked. She slid out of Vere’s reach when it looked as if she would be kicked again. “I swear, man, you’re gonna lose a limb,” she warned.
    Vere waved a hand at Kris. “My dear, I could earn a Nobel Prize in Physics without the use of a single