—Sheila Williams
* * * *
Mr. Silverberg,
I enjoyed your “History of the Papacy,” and couldn't resist responding to it. As a non-Catholic, but close to them, I appreciated the humor in some of the forgettable incidents of the Church's past.
Many people agree that the late John Paul did a lot to eliminate the discord between Christians, and a prominent Protestant was heard to say, “What we need is a Pope—that Pope.” As an Anglo-Catholic, I wish the Church had kept to its origins, and there would not have been a need for a Reformation. Wouldn't it be neat if the Chief Rabbi of Israel were an Episcopalian? Or, God help us, the Grand Mufti of Egypt a Jew? And as one who grew up surrounded by wonderful Jewish neighbors, I feel a kinship with Judaism, and hope that some day we can all put our arms around each other in God's presence.
Your story, “Hanosz Prime Goes to Old Earth” was one of the best I have ever read.
Robert A. Stanton
Seminole, F
* * * *
Greetings,
I am quite pleased to see an editorial in the July issue concerning my favorite obsession, and professional specialization: dinosaurs. However (and I hate to be the bearer of bad news), Mr. Silverberg is mistaken in thinking that having a Mesosaurus specimen on display puts a dinosaur in his living room.
Mesosaurus is not a member of Dinosauria. (Dinosauria is currently defined in scientific circles as the most recent common ancestor of Iguanodon and Megalosaurus and all of that ancestor's descendants). The mesosaurids were a far more ancient lineage of reptiles, already a distinct group seventy million years before the first dinosaurs appeared. Mesosaurs are more distantly related to dinosaurs than are pterosaurs, crocodilians, lizards, snakes, and possibly turtles (the origin of the latter being one of the biggest enigmas in vertebrate evolution at present).
So Mesosaurus is no dinosaur. However, not to despair! Given the current definition of Dinosauria, Mr. Silverberg almost certainly DOES have dinosaurs around his house. The origin of birds lies within the small feathered coelurosaurian dinosaurs. Consequently, as descendants of the most recent common ancestor of Iguanodon and Megalosaurus, birds are dinosaurs. So, while he has none in his living room, Silverberg might very well have dinosaurs in his yard, and occasionally on the dining room table!
Thomas R. Holtz, Jr.
Senior Lecturer, Vertebrate Paleontology
Department of Geology
University of Maryland
College Park, MD
* * * *
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* * *
A BILLION EVES
Robert Reed
Robert Reed tells us the following tale “is a brutal reworking of a story that I first wrote in my mid-twenties. What remains from that earlier attempt is the flashback sections with the sorority house ... except that I changed the point-of-view and the general tone, and, hopefully, I bring to bear the wisdom of a couple of decades of life experience."
* * * *
1
Kala's parents were thrifty, impractical people. They deplored spending money, particularly on anything that smacked of luxury or indulgence; yet, at the same time, they suffered from big dreams and a crippling inability to set responsible goals.
One spring evening, Father announced, “We should take a long drive this summer."
“To where?” Mom asked warily.
“Into the mountains,” he answered. “Just like we've talked about doing a thousand times."
“But can we afford it?"
“If we count our coins, and if the fund drive keeps doing well. Why not?” First Day celebrations had just finished, and their church, which prided itself on its responsible goals, was having a successful year. “A taste of the wilderness,” he cried out at the dinner table. “Doesn't that sound fun?"
To any other family, that would have been the beginning of a wonderful holiday. But Kala knew better. Trouble arrived as soon as they began drawing up lists of destinations. Her brother Sandor demanded a day or two spent exploring the canyon always named Grand. Father divulged an unsuspected fondness for the sleepy, ice-caked volcanoes near the Mother Ocean. When pressed, Kala admitted that she would love walking a beach beside the brackish Mormon Sea. And while Mom didn't particularly care about scenery—a point made with a distinctly superior tone—she mentioned having five sisters scattered across the West. They couldn't travel through that country and not stop at each of their front doors, if only to quickly pay their respects.
Suddenly their objectives filled a long piece of paper, and even an eleven-year-old girl could see what was obvious: Just the driving was going choke their vacation. Worse still, Mom announced, “There's no reason to pay strangers to cook for us. We'll bring our own food.” That meant dragging a bulky cooler everywhere they went, and every meal would be sloppy sandwiches, and every day would begin with a hunt for fresh ice and cheap groceries to replace the supplies that would inevitably spoil.
Not wanting to be out-cheaped by his wife, Father added, “And we'll be camping, of course.” But how could they camp? They didn't have equipment. “Oh, we have our sleeping sacks,” he reminded his doubting daughter. “And I'll borrow gear from our friends at church. I'm sure I can. So don't worry. It's going to be wonderful! We'll just drive as far as we want every day and pull over at nightfall. Just so long as it costs nothing to pitch a tent."
To Kala, this seemed like an impossible, doomed journey. Too many miles had to be conquered, too many wishes granted, and even under the best circumstances, nobody would end up happy.
“Why don't you guys ever learn?” Kala muttered.
“What was that, darling?"
“Nothing, Father,” she replied with a minimal bow. “Nothing."
* * * *
Yet luck occasionally smiles, particularly on the most afflicted souls. They were still a couple of hundred miles from the mountains when the radiator hose burst. Suddenly the hot July air was filled with hissing steam and the sweet taste of antifreeze. Father invested a few moments cursing God and the First Father before he pulled onto the shoulder. “Stay inside,” he ordered. Then he climbed out and lifted the long hood with a metallic screech, breathing deeply before vanishing into the swirling, superheated cloud.
Sandor wanted to help. He practically begged Mom for the chance. But she shot a warning stare back at him, saying, “No, young father. You're staying with me. It's dangerous out there!"
“It's not,” Kala's brother maintained.
But an instant later, as if to prove Mom correct, Father cried out. He screamed twice. The poor man had burned his right hand with the scalding water. And as if to balance his misery, he then blindly reached out with his left hand, briefly touching the overheated engine block.
“Are you all right?” Mom called out.
Father dropped the hood and stared in through the windshield, pale as a tortoise egg and wincing in misery.
“Leave that hood open,” Sandor shouted. “Just a crack!"
“Why?” the burnt man asked.
“To let the air blow through and cool the engine,” the boy explained. He wasn't two years older than Kala, but unlike either parent, Sandor had a pragmatic genius for machinery and other necessities of life. Leaning toward his little sister, he said, “If we're lucky, all we'll need is a new hose and fluid."
But we aren't lucky people, she kept thi
nking.
They had left home on the Friday Sabbath, which meant that most of the world was closed for business. Yet despite Kala's misgivings, this proved to be an exceptional day: Father drove their wounded car back to the last intersection, and through some uncommon fluke, they found a little fix-it and fuel shop that was open. A burly old gentleman welcomed them with cornbread and promises of a quick repair. He gave Father a medicating salve and showed the women a new Lady's Room in back, out of sight of the highway. But there wasn't any reason to hide. Mom had her children late in life, and besides, she'd let herself get heavy over the last few years. And Kala was still wearing a little girl's body, her face soon to turn lovely, but camouflaged for the moment with youth and a clumsy abundance of sharp bone.
Sharing the public room, the mother and daughter finished their cornbread while their men stood in the garage, staring at the hot, wet engine.
Despite its being the Sabbath, the traffic was heavy—freight trucks and tiny cars and everything between. Traveling men and a few women bought fuel and sweet drinks. The women were always quick to pay and eager to leave; most were nearly as old as Mom, but where was the point in taking chances? The male customers lingered, and the fix-it man seemed to relish their company, discussing every possible subject with each of them. The weather was a vital topic, as were sports teams and the boring district news. A glum little truck driver argued that the world was already too crowded and cluttered for his tastes, and the old gentleman couldn't agree more. Yet the next customer was a happy salesman, and, in front of him, the fix-it man couldn't stop praising their wise government and the rapid expansion of the population.
Kala mentioned these inconsistencies to her mother.
She shrugged them off, explaining, “He's a businessman, darling. He dresses his words for the occasion."
Kala's bony face turned skeptical. She had always been the smartest student at her Lady's Academy. But she was also a serious, nearly humorless creature, and perhaps because of that, she always felt too sure of herself. In any situation, she believed there was one answer that was right, only one message worth giving, and the good person held her position against all enemies. “I'd never dress up my words,” she vowed. “Not one way or the other."
“Why am I not surprised?” Mom replied, finding some reason to laugh.
Kala decided to be politely silent, at least for the present time. She listened to hymns playing on the shop's radio, humming along with her favorites. She studied her favorite field guide to the native flora and fauna, preparing herself for the wilderness to come. The surrounding countryside was as far removed from wilderness as possible—level and open, green corn stretching to every horizon and a few junipers planted beside the highway as windbreaks. Sometimes Kala would rise from her chair and wander around the little room. The shop's moneybox was locked and screwed into the top of a long plastic cabinet. Old forms and paid bills were stacked in a dusty corner. A metal door led back into the Lady's Room, opened for the moment but ready to be slammed shut and locked with a bright steel bolt. Next to that door was a big sheet of poster board covered with photographs of young women. Several dozen faces smiled toward the cameras. Returning to her chair, Kala commented on how many girls that was.
Her mother simply nodded, making no comment.
After her next trip around the room, Kala asked, “Were all of those girls taken?"
“Hardly,” Mom replied instantly, as if she were waiting for the question. “Probably most are runaways. Bad homes and the wrong friends, and now they're living on the street somewhere. Only missing."
Kala considered that response. Only missing? But that seemed worse than being taken from this world. Living on the street, without home or family—that sounded like a horrible fate.
Guessing her daughter's mind, Mom added, “Either way, you're never going to live their lives."
Of course she wouldn't; Kala had no doubt about that.
Sandor appeared abruptly, followed by Father. Together they delivered the very bad news. Their old car needed a lot of work. A critical gasket was failing, and something was horribly wrong in the transmission. Repairs would take time and most of their money, which was a big problem. Or maybe not. Father had already given this matter some thought. The closest mountains weren't more than three hours away. Forced into a rational corner, he suggested camping in just one location. A base camp, if you would. This year, they couldn't visit the Grand Canyon or the Mormon Sea, much less enjoy the company of distant sisters. But they could spend ten lazy days in the high country, then return home with a few coins still rattling in their pockets.
Mom bowed to her husband, telling him, “It's your decision, dear."
“Then that's what we'll do,” he said, borrowing a map from the counter. “I'll find a good place to pitch the tent. All right?"
Full of resolve, the men once again left. But Mom remained nervous, sitting forward in her chair—a heavy woman in matronly robes, her hair grayer than ever, thick fingers moving while her expression was stiff and unchanging.
Kala wanted to ask about her thoughts. Was she disappointed not to see her sisters? Or was she feeling guilty? Unless of course Mom was asking herself what else could be wrong with a car they had bought for almost nothing and done nothing to maintain.
The sudden deep hissing of brakes interrupted the silence. A traveler had pulled off the highway, parking beside the most distant gas pump. Kala saw the long sky-blue body and thought of a school bus. But the school's old name had been sanded off, the windows in the front covered with iron bars, while the back windows were sealed with plywood. She knew exactly what the bus was. Supplies were stuffed in the back, she reasoned. And a lot more gear was tied up on the roof—bulky sacks running its full length, secured with ropes and rubber straps and protected from any rain with yellowing pieces of thick plastic.
A man stepped out into the midday glare. He wasn't young, or old. The emerald green shirt and black collar marked him as a member of the Church of Eden. Two pistols rode high on his belt. He looked handsome and strong, and, in ways Kala couldn't quite define, he acted competent in all matters important. After glancing up and down the highway, he stared into the open garage. Then he pulled out a keychain and locked the bus door, and he fed the gas nozzle into the big fuel tank, jamming in every possible drop.
Once again, the fix-it man had stopped working on their car. But unlike the other interruptions, he started to walk out toward the pump, a long wrench in one hand. The always-friendly face was gone. What replaced it wasn't unfriendly, but there was a sense of caution, and perhaps a touch of disapproval.
“No, sir,” the younger gentleman called out. “I'll come in and pay."
“You don't have to—"
“Yeah, I do. Keep your distance now."
The fix-it man stopped walking, and after a moment, he turned and retreated.
The younger man hit the bus door once with the flat of his hand, shouting, “Two minutes."
By then, everybody had moved to the public room. Father glanced at the Lady's Room but then decided it wasn't necessary. He took his position behind Mom's chair, his sore red hands wrapped in gauze. Sandor hovered beside Kala. The fix-it man stood behind the counter, telling the women, “Don't worry,” while opening a cupboard and pulling something heavy into position.
“It was a gun,” Sandor later told his sister. “I caught a glimpse. A little splattergun. Loaded and ready, I would bet."
“But why?” Kala would wonder aloud.
“Because that green-shirt was leaving us,” her brother reminded her. “Where he was going, there's no fix-it shops. No tools, no law. So what if he tried to steal a box of wrenches, you know?"
Maybe. But the man had acted more worried about them, as if he were afraid somebody would try to steal his prized possessions. Entering the room carefully, he announced, “My brother's still onboard."
“Good for him,” said the fix-it man.
“How much do I owe?"
“Twenty and a third."
“Keep the change,” he said, handing over two bills. The green-shirted man tried to smile, only it was a pained, forced grin. “Tell me, old man: Anybody ask about me today?"
“Like who?"
“Or anybody mention a bus looking like mine? Any gentlemen come by and inquire if you've seen us...?"
The fix-it man shook his head, nothing like a smile on his worn face. “No, sir. Nobody's asked about you or your bus."
“Good.” The green-shirted man yanked more money from the roll, setting it on the plastic countertop. “There's a blonde kid. If he stops by and asks ... do me a favor? Don't tell him anything, but make him think you know shit."
The fix-it man nodded.
“He'll give you money for your answers. Take all you can. And then tell him I went north from here. Up the Red Highway to Paradise. You heard me say that. ‘North to Paradise.’”
“But you're going somewhere else, I believe."
“Oh, a little ways.” Laughing, the would-be Father turned and started back to his bus.
That's when Sandor asked, “Do you really have one?"
“Quiet,” Father cautioned.
But the green-shirted man felt like smiling. He turned and looked at the thirteen-year-old-boy, asking, “Why? You interested in these things?"
“Sure I am."
Laughing, the man said, “I bet you are."
Sandor was small for his age, but he was bold and very smart about many subjects, and in circumstances where most people would feel afraid, he was at his bravest best. “A little Class D, is it?"
That got the man to look hard at him. “You think so?"
“Charged and ready,” Sandor guessed. He named three possible manufacturers, and then said, “You've set it up in the aisle, I bet. Right in the middle of the bus."
“Is that how I should do it?"
“The rip-zone reaches out what? Thirty, thirty-five feet? Which isn't all that big."
“Big enough,” said the man.
Just then, someone else began pulling on the bus horn. Maybe it was the unseen brother. Whoever it was, the horn was loud and insistent.
Asimov's SF, October-November 2006 Page 3