Science Fiction Friday -- Chapter 2

Read Chapter 1 here

Like A Rolling Stone

The pistol was not a large one. It bore little surface resemblance to the piece that Del had shown me, but, like his, it had been made in the firearms factories of Marfa - a place even farther out on the fringe than Cotter. I held it in my cold hand and considered the weight of it. I considered its power and potential. I had looked at one of the rounds it fired. They weren't round at all except for the very end. The body was triangular with rounded corners, made of a kind of waxy-feeling gray material behind the bright metallic nose — the part that did the damage.

It was past midnight. More than an hour before I had cautiously trailed my quarry down the street and into this tavern. In a little while he would stumble out, having drunk himself into oblivion with my money. At that point I would end his life and his thieving and, possibly, my own life. If I lived, and the sheriffs didn't hook me, I would head out into the wilderness to find Del or die trying - a much likelier thing.

A rectangle of light splashed onto the walkway. A dark form fell within. It was the thief. He was thoroughly drunk — and singing. I stepped from the deeper shadows and into his path. He took a couple of wobbly paces toward me then paused, not quite sure if he saw a specter in his way. He mumbled something and took another step. I leveled the gun and pressed the trigger. Nothing happened.

Frantically I tried to work the unfamiliar mechanism without benefit of light. I tried again. Nothing. He was an arm's length away. I whipped the heavy barrel of the weapon down on his head. He dropped with a groan and a thud. I slammed the toe of my boot into his ribs a couple of times for good measure, shoved the pistol in my coat pocket, and walked away trying to figure out which way south might be.

A walking tour of that broad, scarred tabletop on Cotter isn't much to talk about. There are places where people work, and, hard by, places where they live and trade. A mine or a smelter is like a stump with a ring of sprouts coming up from it, nothing elegant or orderly about it. In the middle of the day, I came to one of those places. A kind soul let me fill my water jugs. As I moved on, I wondered if Del had come through exactly this way. I felt that he probably had, that he had passed by these stores and shacks on his way to the outlands. I felt a little rush of something I didn't have a name for, but it was good. I knew that much. There had been a voice in my head all the time I was walking that told me I was a fool for leaving the mine. It asked me how long I thought the protein bars would last, and where I'd get a drink of liquor when the craving hit me, and how I thought I was going to make it sleeping on cold ground of a night. It was a persistent and thoroughly sensible voice that sounded a lot like mine, reminding me that I was, after all, possessed of a weak and questionable character, lacking in perseverance and prone to addictions and taking the easy way out. Every bit of what the voice said I tended to agree with - and, anyway, there's not much point in debating a voice in your own head. I usually lose track of whose side I'm on.

The sun was slanting low above the horizon in a cleft in some heavy clouds when a couple of fellows came up behind me on a six-wheeled mule pulling a wagonload of crates. I waved them down and asked if I could hitch a ride to the next town. They told me to hop on top of the crates and make myself at home. The ride was rough but it was faster than walking. I could hear the men on the mule talking, but I couldn't make out the words. They stopped at a crossroad and told me to get down. I didn't mind. They'd saved me a lot of steps, and I figured they had decided to change directions. It bothered me a little that they both climbed off the mule and faced me.

"Thanks for the ride, boys. I appreciate it," I offered.

One of them pointed at my ruck. "Let's see what's in yer bag."

"Look, I'd give ya somethin' if I had it. All I got is a little food, extra shirts and socks. Ya wouldn't leave a man to freeze and starve out here, would ya?"

"Ain't our worry. Hand it over."

I still hadn't figured out how to use my gun, and I had a flash of regret that I hadn't bothered with it the whole day. As it stood, I didn't have that much more to lose by making a play, so I pulled the pistol out of my pocket. I had barely gotten it pointed in their general direction when the damn thing went off. The bullet plowed into the ground at their feet.

"Hell!" I said.

My shock and surprise were genuine but mild in comparison to that of my would-be attackers. Before I could quite register what had happened, they were on their mule and putting as much distance between us as possible. The wagon was bouncing violently as they went out of sight, and I half hoped that one of the crates might be jarred loose; it was not to be.

Now I had a mystery. Why had the pistol failed to go off when I had tried to kill a thief the night before, only to fire almost on its own this time? I wondered if it was robotic or on a timer. As I stared at the mute metal, I noticed a little button that showed red at the base of it. Thinking that red was some kind of warning, I carefully pushed down on the button while keeping the muzzle of the pistol pointed away from my various body parts. There was no explosion, so I pointed the gun at a rock some distance away and pulled the trigger. Just as the night before, I heard only a click. The button I had depressed was a kind of cross toggle. Pushing it down on one side of the trigger guard pushed it out on the other. I very carefully pushed it back until red was again visible. Again, I squeezed the trigger. This time the pistol boomed and bucked in my hand. A geyser of dirt was thrown up in the approximate vicinity of the rock I had targeted. "I had the ruttin' safety on," I said aloud. As the gun rode in my coat pocket all that day, I must have bumped the little button into the off-position. Making my weapon as safe as possible, I returned it to my pocket and resumed my journey.

After about twenty minutes, I reached the top of a slight rise. The ground fell away gently for a few klicks then just as gently rose so as to form a shallow bowl with a cluster of buildings at the bottom. A great cone-shaped kiln stood above where the land climbed to the south and the west pouring out smoke that sank over the village and clouded the pathways that wandered from shanty to shack. Shadows were already thickening in the low spot as the sun sank, and lights seemed to spread like sparks from one little window to another.

I thought I might find a corner somewhere there to pass the night and sleep in relative warmth. A hot meal would have been welcome; I had no hope of it, thinking that my best chance might be to find some abandoned or neglected structure that would get me off the bare ground and hold in a little heat. As I drew nearer the village on what might be called the outskirts I came to a little hut with no lights. Because it was off by itself and dark, I thought it might be the kind of place I sought. I stepped up to it and was about to rap on the door when a voice called from inside.

"Enter, friend, the door is not latched against you."

I lifted the bar and pushed the door back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb no one. I was just after a place to sleep out'a the cold. Didn't look like anybody was home here."

"Ah, it's dark then. I don't pay that much attention to the time of day. Come on in and hold the heat we have. It will be little enough on my creaking, lazy bones."

I still couldn't see anything in the interior, but the voice sounded honest enough. Sometimes a man has to take things on faith. I stepped through the opening and closed the door behind me.

"I know I have a lamp here somewhere."

Suddenly the room was illuminated. I blinked.

"Is it working?"

"Uh, yep, if ya mean the light," I replied. "Are you not able to see that?"

The occupant of the house looked toward me. It was a man, perhaps a few years older than I was, dressed in a faded uniform of some kind. I could see the eyes now, and there was no question of him knowing the light was on.

"I'm sorry."

"Be not sorry for me, friend, you have burdens of your own, no doubt. Each of us is given only that which we are able to bear. I can bear mine if you can bear your own."

"That sounds philosophical enough. Poetic, near."

"You're a literate man, then?"

"I can read and write, and I always kind'a liked rhymes and poems."

"Wonderful. You are an answer to prayer."

I laughed a little. "I don't believe even my mama thought that." My host chuckled and pointed me toward a wooden chair which I was happy to take. I sighed as I rested my weary feet. "In fact," I continued as I drew off my ruck and my coat, "she said sometimes that I was God's punishment on her for the wicked ways of her youth."

"She meant it for humor and loved you very much. I can hear it in your voice."

"That's true," I said. "Me and Mom got along real good. I don't usually think of her 'cause I miss her so much. I been meanin' to send her a wave when I could afford it, or maybe a letter."

"The letter would be the better. I'm sure she'd love to see your face, but a letter she could hold close to her heart knowing your hands had touched it, and she could read it again and again."

A complete stranger had me close to crying. I didn't know what was going on. I shook my head. "I ain't even told you my name. I'm Hayes."

"Most people call me Tenny, and I'm pleased to meet you, Hayes. We'll have supper shortly."

"Oh, I don't need nothin' to eat, Tenny. I have some protein here in my bag. I'll be happy to share it with ya. It ain't much for taste, but it's fillin'."

"No, Hayes, you keep that. You're likely to need it soon. I have food to spare. The Balfours see that I always have plenty to eat. They aren't quite so conscientious on extra fuel for my generator. But I think the last few days have been sunnier than usual so my cells are fully charged. We can have lights and heat all night if we want."

I nodded, then realized Tenny wouldn't be aware of it. "We won't need to do that. If you don't mind my askin', who are the Balfours?"

"The family that owns the kiln and muckpits around here. I used to work for them. I lost my sight in an accident. They were very generous and sent me to a Central planet facility. The restoration attempts were unsuccessful. There was just too much damage. They would have given me a place there where I could have lived, but I wanted to come back to Cotter."

"No offense, but I don't understand that a'tall."

"It's a long story. Too long for tonight. Maybe the next time you stop by I'll give you my complete autobiography which I plan to finish soon and market as the ultimate non-addictive sleep aid." Tenny paused while I laughed. "Now, let's eat."

Tenny didn't ask a lot of questions about my life, and he didn't tell me much about his. We talked about my folks, my mother especially, and about books and music and funny stories we had heard. I picked up that Tenny's situation was some kind of special case. Even the kindest and most generous families with connections that will get someone into an advanced facility back in the hub aren't likely to do for a common worker what the Balfours had done for Tenny. And then there was the old uniform that I couldn't quite recognize — but I didn't press it. I was the man's guest, consuming his bread, beans, and beer. He could tell me whatever he liked. It was just proper etiquette not to ask too much or too close.

After supper, Tenny explained what he had meant by me being an answer to prayer. "I have my books." He handed me a reading pad. "There's a built-in voice for the blind, the illiterate, and the lazy, but I get so tired of the sameness of it. It's too mechanical. I would be most grateful if you would read a page or two for me."

I was happy to oblige. He indicated that he had the pad on the page he wanted to hear me read:

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves-goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.

Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is-
Chríst-for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

I stumbled through, and Tenny asked me to have another go, and then another. He gave me a word or two, and I realized the rhythm and the music in it at long last. I fell asleep with the memory of it echoing through my dreams.

The next morning I was kind of slow leaving. The truth is that I was afraid of what lay ahead of me. I hadn't had much time to think it over and the sanctuary of Tenny's place was tempting. I was sure I could find a spot working in the oven or the pits and hang around to be a help to my blind friend and myself. It was weighing down my mind, making me hesitant and lethargic.

"For that I came," Tenny said to me.

"What?"

"The line from the poem."

"Oh, yeah. Where's that feller from?"

"Gerard Manley Hopkins was an Old Earth man from what they called 'England', I think. He's one of my favorites. But I say that about most of them after I've read them again, whether it's Hopkins, Browning, Cohen, or Ran. He's good, though."

"I guess I'd better be goin'."

"You don't want to stay here, Hayes. You have something else to do. You have another destiny. I want you to do two things before you leave. One is to write down 'As kingfishers catch fire' to take with you. The other is to write a letter to your mother. I'll get it sent out for you after you're gone a few days. Just in case." Tenny smiled. I smiled back, and, this time, it didn't occur to me that he would miss it.

I was back on the road by mid-morning. Late in the day, I fell in with some herders that were on their way back to the outlands having brought in a load of alpaca fleece for trade. They were a decent sort and knew of the river that Del had mentioned. It would have been out of their way to take me right to it, but they let me ride with them to the edge of the plateau and pointed me in the right direction.


Chapter 3