Джек Макдевитт - A Voice in the Night

He took the short route, up Fifth Street. He moved quickly today, his usual easy pace discarded for a sprint. The streets were full of kids tossing footballs. The weather had cooled off, and the sun rode in a cloudless sky. He knew that, when he breasted the trees, the world would open all the way to the horizon.

The lovely young woman with the red-blonde hair was in front of the library again. She was on a different bench, on the far side near the parking lot. He caught his breath and slowed down. She sat with one knee crossed over the other, apparently absorbed in her book. The routine traffic of a Wednesday afternoon flowed around her, teenagers in small crowds, and mothers with young children, and some of the town’s retired folks.

But it was all backdrop. The benches and the box elders, the people and the frame houses across the street, even the little Greek library itself, all became the stage on which she performed. Arnold kept going, putting one foot before the other, not knowing what else to do. Maybe there was some place where a meeting would be inevitable, where she could be approached without his having to hang himself out on the line. Maybe if he became world-famous as the friend of the Wind-Creature, the man who had presided over the ultimate historic event, the situation would become more favorable.

Pardon me, Arnold. I know we’ve never met, but I was wondering if we could go someplace and talk about the Traveler.

She glanced up. Arnold wasn’t quick enough, got caught staring. And for a single, riveting moment, their eyes swept across each other, not quite connecting. Even from his considerable distance, he felt her power.

That is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.

He floated across the street, his hopes rising, seeing for the first time the full possibilities of the situation.

Arnold on Sixty Minutes : And what were your thoughts, Mister Whitaker, when you first realized you were speaking to a creature from another world?

The library, and the woman, passed out of sight behind Conway’s house.

The National Academy of Sciences wishes to present its highest award, the—. He hesitated. What sort of award did they give out, anyway?—the Schroedinger’s Cat Medal to Arnold Whitaker, owner of the Lock ‘n’ Bolt Hardware Store in Fort Moxie, North Dakota.

The empty lot at the foot of Fifth Street was rutted, and the ruts were covered by thick grass. Arnold slowed down, but he was still moving too fast when he left the unpaved roadway and started up the slope toward the trees. He lost his footing almost immediately on the uneven ground, and sprawled forward. But he suffered no damage other than a skinned knee. He limped the rest of the way into the wind screen.

The trees closed over him. He crunched through underbrush thick with piles of leaves. Birds sang and fluttered overhead. He pushed his hands into his pockets and walked jauntily through the narrow belt of woodland. The one fear he now had was that the Traveler might somehow be gone. Had second thoughts, perhaps. Or maybe the whole business had resulted from some massive breakdown of physical law which had now healed.

He wanted to cry out to the Traveler, to shout a greeting into the trees, but he was still too close to the Fort Moxie side of the belt. Wouldn’t do to have people notice that old Arnie was up in the trees talking to himself.

He found the jogging path, and followed it out to the river, and finally to the black boulder, where he stopped. He listened for several minutes, and heard nothing unusual. “Traveler,” he said, in a conversational tone, “are you here?”

The wind rose. “Arnold, why do you travel relentlessly around the outer boundary of so lonely a place?”

The starkness of the question threw him momentarily off balance. “I like to jog,” he said. The river murmured sleepily. “I’m glad you stayed. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Neither was I.”

“But you came back.”

“Yes.”

“Where do you go when you’re not here?”

“The prairie.” A sudden gust rattled the branches. “I love riding the gales through the prairie.”

“But you must have gone somewhere, right? Grand Forks, maybe? Fargo?”

“I went to the prairie.”

Arnold looked off to the west, across the vast pool-table-flat land. It was deadly dull. He wondered whether his visitor might not be too bright. My God, what a disaster that would be. The first visitor from the stars, and it turns out to be a bit slow. “You said something yesterday about rules. Who makes the rules? Is there some sort of government out there?”

“There’s a civilization.”

“What kind of civilization?”

“I don’t know. What kinds are there? Other than where people are civil?” It chuckled.

“I mean, is it one of those things like in Star Trek, with a lot of member worlds?”

“I do not know the reference.”

Arnold surreptitiously slid the sheets from his legal pad out of his sleeve. “Why are you here?” he asked casually.

“I thought I answered that yesterday.”

“You said you were a tourist. But what are you interested in? Architecture? Our technology? What?”

“I’m interested in riding the wind.”

“Oh.” Arnold felt mildly piqued. “Is that all?”

“This is such a violent world. It is very enjoyable.”

“Violent?” He felt a chill rise from somewhere deep down: It sounded so pleased with the idea. “The world, this world, isn’t violent. We haven’t had a crime in Fort Moxie since the 1930s. And, well, we have wars occasionally. But we keep them small.”

“I’m not talking about people, Arnold. I mean the climate.”

“The climate?”

“Yes. Your atmosphere is turbulent. Exciting. For example, in this area, a fifty-mile an hour wind is not at all unusual.”

“So what?”

“I come from a place that is composed of glades and meadows and quiet streams. It’s always very still. Very peaceful. Dull. You know what I mean? Not like here.”

Arnold found a nearby log, and sat down. “What about us?”

“Who?”

“Us. People. What’s your connection with us?”

“I don’t have a connection with you.”

“You’re only interested in whether it’s raining? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m interested in your thermal currents. In your gusts and gales and storms.”

Arnold laughed. “Then you don’t care about us?”

“What’s to care about? No, I like to be driven across the sky. Arnold, you have no idea what a rousing, delicious atmosphere you live in.”

“Well, I know it gets a little brisk.”

“You’re a solid, Arnold. You’re safe. If I were caught out on the prairie, or even in here, by a strong gale, I would be scattered beyond recovery.”

“Then why are you here at all? Why don’t you go someplace safe? Like New York?”

“If I’d wanted safety, I’d have stayed home.”

“That’s why you come to the wind screen,” said Arnold. “It’s a refuge for you. Right?”

“Very good. Yes, it’s comforting to settle in for the night, among these trees.”

“How did you get here? To Earth, I mean. Did you come in a UFO?”

“What’s a UFO?”

“Unidentified flying object. They’ve been seen all over. Some people think they’re interstellar ships.”

“Oh.”

“Well? Did you come in one?”

“Oh, no. Sealed up in a ship, traveling between the stars? No, thank you. I don’t think anyone would go anywhere if they had to travel around like that. Are you sure about these objects?”