A Galaxy Of Strangers Read online

  There will the river whispering run Warm’d by thy eyes, more than the Sun. And there th’enamour’d fish will stay, Begging themselves they may betray.

  When thou wilt swim in that live bath, Each fish, which every channel hath, Will amourously to thee swim, Gladder to catch thee, than thou him… .

  He dreamed that night of a sheltered mountain stream, pure, crystal clear, deep, where young lovers could splash and play and love in the tumbling torrent. He awoke in a chill of fright. What would become of her? He could care for her during the summer. With Old Ed’s help, he could get plenty of fish. But winter would come, and thick ice would cover the water. Even if she could survive the cold, it would be difficult to get food to her. It might be impossible.

  And she might die a lonely death in the cold, stagnating water of the quarry.

  The river? He rejected the thought instantly. He knew instinctively that she needed deep water, that she would be helpless and at the mercy of any passerby in the shoals of that small stream. It was thirty miles to the nearest lake, which was small. But in the opposite direction, fifty miles would take him to Lake Michigan. That was where she should be, with the vast, connecting waters of the Great Lakes to conceal and protect her solitary life on this strange planet. But how could he get her there?

  He would have to think of something.

  He was out before dawn with Old Ed and his net, and they brought in fish by the milk can full. Walt swore him to eternal secrecy and confided that he wanted to try to stock the quarry. Old Ed allowed that he didn’t think it would work, that the fish would lack their natural food and the water might be queer for them. But if Walt wanted to try, why, he enjoyed catching fish, and he’d never rightly caught all he wanted to catch because he hated to waste them. Walt saved out enough fish for the Rogers’ table and triumphantly dumped the rest into the quarry with the shadowy face watching him silently from the depths.

  Walt took advantage of a lull in the dinner-table conversation to say cautiously, “Mother, I’d like one of those aqualung outfits.”

  Edna Rogers set down the steaming dish of mashed potatoes and stared at him. “Did you ever! What would you do with it?”

  “Go in the water,” Walt said.

  Jim Rogers seemed interested. “Now where around here is there water for a thing like that?”

  “There’s the river,” Walt said evasively, “and the quarry—”

  “You couldn’t swim long under water in the river without your tail fins sticking out. And the quarry’s deep enough, but there’s nothing there to see. If there was, you probably couldn’t see it in that water. Those lung things are for places where there’s lots of water and lots of fish and things to see.”

  “Mr. Moore has some of that equipment in,” Edna Rogers said, giving Walt a worried look. “It wasn’t very expensive.”

  “He just has goggles and the things you wear on your feet,” Jim Rogers said. “I told him he’d never sell them. Walt’s talking about these outfits where you have a tank of air on your back and you can stay under for hours. No sense in it around here. But if you want the goggles, Walt, go ahead and buy them. You’ve got your own money, and if you want to waste it—” “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Take some more potatoes, Walter,” Edna Rogers said. “You’re burning up a lot of energy these days. All this fishing and swimming—”

  “Does him good,” Jim Rogers said.

  Walt’s mother shook her head. “What about your painting, Walter? You haven’t touched it for a week.”

  Walt said impatiently, “There’ll be plenty of time for painting when I can’t go fishing or swimming.”

  “He spends too much time by himself,” Edna Rogers said. “Walt, Virginia Harlon asks about you every time I see her, and she felt awfully bad because you wouldn’t go to her party when she asked you. She’d teach you to dance, if you’d let her. Then you could go to the Saturday dances.”

  Jim Rogers chuckled dryly. “He’s young. He’ll have plenty of time to chase after girls.”

  “I still think he spends too much time by himself.” Edna Rogers shrugged resignedly and changed the subject. “What did Mr. Zengler want?”

  Jim Rogers laughed and laid down his fork. “His boy thinks he saw some fish over at the quarry. He tried to catch them and didn’t get a nibble, so he wants to dynamite and see what will come up. Zengler wanted to know if I had any objections.”

  “Dynamite?” Walt blurted. “Dynamite—the quarry?”

  “Yeah. I told Zengler there’d never been any fish there and couldn’t be any, and if he wanted to waste the dynamite that was all right with me.”

  “Did you ever!” Edna Rogers said. “Is he going to do it?”

  “I don’t think so. Zengler’s not one to waste anything. What’s the matter, Walt?”

  “I’ve finished,” Walt said, getting to his feet. “I’m not very hungry.”

  “You might excuse yourself.”

  “Excuse me, please,” Walt said humbly and fled before they could answer.

  The quarry was a blending of dim shadows. In the gathering darkness, the motionless water looked like a smooth extension of the pasture. Walt circled around it and went directly to the shack that served Zengler as office and storehouse. Zengler’s four trucks were parked haphazardly nearby, three of them battered hulks and the fourth new, its sleek lines evident even in the dusk.

  Walt sat down next to the shack and waited.

  He knew Roy Zengler. The kid was a young punk who did what he pleased, and if his father told him not to use dynamite, he’d be sneaking around the first chance he got to do it. And old man Zengler would think it was a joke, afterward, and laugh it off.

  Crickets chirped busily, and a rabbit loped slowly past, hesitated, and scampered away. The ground became insufferably hard, and Walt finally got to his feet and leaned against the shack. He did not know what to do. If Roy didn’t come, Walt could see him in the morning and warn him off, but that would make him much more certain to try it.

  A light bounced toward him on the quarry road. A bicycle lurched and skidded in the sand, and its rider leaped off and wheeled it forward. He leaned it against the shed and moved toward the door, keys jingling. Walt stepped out and faced him.

  “Roy?”

  “Oh, it’s you, Walt. Jeez, you scared me. Gonna have a little fun —want to join me?”

  “Those fish are mine,” Walt said. “I put them there. You let them alone.”

  “Like hell they’re yours. Dad leases this place, doesn’t he? You got no business—”

  Walt swung. His fist spattered against Roy’s face and sent him sprawling. Walt was on him in a flash, his hands found the throat and circled it, and he applied pressure. “Try dynamiting those fish,” Walt said grimly, “and I’ll kill you.”

  “All right,” Roy said weakly.

  Walt released him, and Roy got up slowly. “All right,” he said again. “I didn’t know. Your old man said—you could have been nice about it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You let them alone.”

  “All right.”

  Roy went to his bicycle, wheeled it out to the road, and mounted. “You can’t watch this place all the time,” he shouted. “I’ll be back. You’ll see.”

  Walt fumbled frantically on the ground, found a stone, and threw it.

  “Missed!” Roy shouted. “I’ll be back! Just you wait!”

  He vanished into the darkness, and Walt stood looking after him, white-faced and trembling with rage and fright, knowing he would be back.

  “Your mother and I would like to go over to Coleville tomorrow,” Jim Rogers said. “She wants to see her sister, and maybe we’ll take in a movie. Think you could manage the evening chores all right?”

  Walt, lost in thought, said nothing.

  “Walt? Did you hear what I said?”

  “What? Oh, sure. I can manage. I always have, haven’t I?” Jim Rogers chuckled. “Sure you have. I was just wondering if you were still with us.”


  “Will you stay overnight?”

  “Nope. We won’t be back very early, though. Don’t wait up for us.”

  Walt nodded absently, looked up, found his father regarding him with a troubled frown.

  “Something bothering you, Walt?” “No. Why?”

  “You’ve been acting odd. Your mother’s worried about you. So— when you went out last night, I followed you. Don’t look so guilty,” he went on, as Walt started and flushed crimson. “She was afraid you were getting into trouble, the way you’ve been staying out nights. I reckon maybe she was more afraid you were getting some girl into trouble. Anyway, I don’t see much point in sitting over there by the quarry until after midnight, but if you want to do it, I can’t see that any harm can come of it. I know you’ve always enjoyed going off by yourself. It isn’t our way, your mother and I, but we try to understand. So I want you to know we’re on your side, and if you have something on your mind we’ll try to help.”

  Walt moistened his lips and swallowed. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “You’re sure there isn’t something bothering you?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Well—you weren’t over there to meet someone, were you? A girl, maybe?” “No!” Walt said defiantly.

  “If you have a girl, or when you have one, you don’t have to sneak off and meet her. Bring her here, and we’ll make her welcome. Otherwise, well, you’re young. There are lots of problems in this life, and you’ll run smack into them soon enough. There’s no point in rushing around trying to tangle with them now. Might as well enjoy yourself. And—are you sure it’s all right about the chores?”

  “It’s all right,” Walt said.

  Later, when his parents were safely out of hearing, Walt risked a telephone call. Carl Reynolds, a friend Walt’s age, accepted his request as a matter of course. “Sure,” he said. “Sure—I’ll do chores for you Saturday night. I owe you one, you know. I’ll have to clear it with the old man, though.”

  “Carl,” Walt said tremulously, “tell him you’re going to help me. Don’t tell him I won’t be here.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Carl laughed. “Sure. I’ll tell him that. And I wish you luck, old fellow. Do I know her?”

  “No,” Walt said. “You don’t know her.”

  Late Saturday afternoon, Walt walked slowly over to the deserted quarry. Somewhere in the depths she was—doing what? He knew that he had only to splash, and she would come. But instead he sat down under the oak tree and thoughtfully studied the quiet, dark water. He had come to realize that his was a hopeless love, that there was no middle ground where a creature of the air and one of the water could meet. He had gone swimming in the quarry twice since he had found her. The first time she had fled in seeming panic, and when she did return she kept her distance cautiously.

  He wanted only to touch her, to caress the beautiful, flowing hair. She eluded him easily, and then, when she found how awkward his movements were, she circled around him with dazzling speed. He dove to the depths with her, but in the dim, uncertain light it was only a nimble shadow that cavorted about him. His second effort had been as frustrating as the first, and he had not tried again.

  True love, he told himself, must be selfless. The happiness of the loved one was the important thing. He had spent hours trying to think of some place, some way for her to live in comfort and safety, where he could still visit her from time to time, even if only to see her through the blurring water. There was no such place. He would have to get her to Lake Michigan, and once those vast waters closed over her he must accept the fact that he could never see her again.

  He glanced at his watch and walked toward Zengler’s shack. “Has to be timed just right,” he reminded himself. A single blow with a rock snapped open the flimsy padlock. There weren’t—never had been—any thieves around Harwell, and that lock had served Zengler for years.

  Walt lifted the rings of keys from a nail inside the door and ran an appreciative eye over Zengler’s new truck. Gas? He could siphon some out of the other trucks if there wasn’t enough. Anything else? A bucket. He found two in the corner and set them aside.

  Looking up at the truck’s high tailgate, he started apprehensively. How would she get in?

  In the shack were tools and nails. Scattered about were lengths and scraps of lumber. Walt nailed frantically, fearful that now he might be too late. He should have thought of it sooner. He could have made something easier for her than this rough ramp with strips nailed across it. But this would have to do. He carried the ramp, and the buckets, down to the water, to the spot he had picked out, and then he ran back to the truck.

  He drove slowly at first, getting the feel of the truck, timidly testing its deep-throated power. Dusk was settling on the town when he reached Harwell. Nearly everyone would be uptown, but he took no chances. He followed a circuitous route toward the business section, using alleys as much as he could, driving without lights, crossing side streets cautiously.

  He kept glancing at his watch. Mr. Warren always closed up promptly at nine, Saturday night or no Saturday night. He couldn’t be late, but he didn’t dare be too early.

  He turned into the alley paralleling Main Street and carefully backed into position. “A. J. Warren and Sons, Farm Implements,” the weathered sign over the rear door said. Walt glanced at his watch again, went to the door, and looked in. There were several farmers up front, casually inspecting a new tractor. One of the Warren boys was sweeping up. Walt dropped back into the shadows and waited nervously.

  The farmers left one by one. Not until Mr. Warren followed the last one to the door, and locked it, did Walt step forward. Mr. Warren turned and saw him.

  “Evening, Walt,” he said. “Just closing. Can I do something for you?”

  Walt fought to make his voice sound normal. “Dad’s decided to take that big stock tank you were talking to him about.” Mr. Warren beamed. “Glad to hear it. What changed his mind?” “Ours sprung another leak.”

  “I told him it wouldn’t last much longer. I’ll send the new one out Monday morning. That be all right?”

  “I’ll take it now, if you don’t mind,” Walt said. “I borrowed a truck. It’s out back.”

  “Why, sure. Tank’s out in the shed.”

  “I know,” Walt said. “And—Mr. Warren—”

  “Yes?”

  “Dad will be in Monday to see you about—about—”

  “Sure thing, Walt. Your pa’s credit is good as gold. Come on, and we’ll get it in the truck.”

  It was easy—so easy that Walt giggled hilariously when he got the truck out of Harwell and pointed toward the quarry. Then he soberly reminded himself that this was only the beginning, and he stopped laughing.

  At the quarry he drove down to the water, set his brakes, and got Zengler’s pump going. The ancient gasoline engine made a racket that should have been heard for miles, and Walt felt panicky as he directed the stream of water into the tank. Across the fields he could see the lights in the barn, where Carl Reynolds would be finishing the milking. It was taking him longer than Walt had expected. Supposing he heard the pump when he took the cows to the pasture, and came to investigate?

  It couldn’t be helped. It would take forever to fill the tank by hand.

  When the water reached the brim, he cut off the motor and slowly backed the truck into position where he had left the ramp and the buckets. It took him some jockeying to place the truck so that the ramp just reached the edge of the water, and he had to be careful about it. A false move, and Zengler might never find out what had happened to his truck.

  He set the brakes. He dropped the tailgate and wedged the ramp into position. Then he leaned over and splashed the water.

  She did not come.

  “The pump must have frightened her,” he muttered. He splashed again and again.

  Suddenly he saw her, a dark shadow in the darker water. He waited for her to edge closer, and then he mounted the ramp. Looking down at the water,
alarm gripped him. How could he make her understand what he wanted? He could scarcely see her, and he could only hope that she could see him better. But even if she could, if she understood what he wanted, would she trust him?

  He gestured. He moved up and down the ramp. He splashed the water in the tank. And all the while her shadowy form hung motionless in the water below him.

  “Oh, God,” he pleaded, “make her understand!” It was getting late. He had to drive fifty miles, and drive fifty miles back, and leave Zengler’s truck and get home before his parents got there. And somehow he’d have to explain about the tank.

  The darkness deepened, and the moon had not yet appeared. Lights went off in the barn as Carl finished up and headed for home. He could hear the cattle on the other side of the pasture. He stumbled frantically up and down the ramp. There must be some way-He leaped down and ran for Zengler’s shed. Maybe a rope-He stopped before he got there and turned back. How could a rope help? He couldn’t drag her out of the water. Was she afraid of

  the air? But she’d gotten from the place the ship came down over to the water. He turned back toward the truck, turned again. A light-perhaps if he could light the tank she could see what he wanted her to do. Even a match might help. He fumbled wildly about the shed, knocking things down and finding nothing.

  A new fear splashed over him coldly. Perhaps there were others there. Perhaps she wouldn’t want to leave by herself. Suppose there were dozens of them?

  He started to run back to the truck, and the sound of—something —brought him to a halt. Something, followed by a splash. He ran again.

  A wet trail led up the ramp and into the truck. The truck was flooded with the tank’s overflow. “She did it!” he gasped. He leaped up the ramp and looked into the tank. She was there, the closest he had ever seen her, a dark form somehow shimmering and dimly luminescent. He threw the ramp and the buckets into the truck and put up the tailgate. With a wild song of joy throbbing in his throat, he started the motor and got the truck into gear.

  He took a route that would carry him around Harwell on back roads. He had studied maps—how he had studied them!—and he wanted to keep to lightly traveled roads most of the way. But he would have to hurry. He had no idea how long the girl could live in that tank without having the water changed.