Джек Макдевитт - A Voice in the Night

“No. Not really.”

“If I were you I wouldn’t take those stories too seriously.”

Arnold consulted his list. “You did stay here last night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Reasonably well, thank you.”

“You do sleep, then?”

“Of course. Arnold, everyone sleeps. It’s a universal phenomenon.”

“Do you dream?”

“Oh, yes.”

Insects murmured. “About what?” A sudden breeze blew his notes out of his hands. He watched the yellow pages sail high into the air, where a sharp draft caught them and sent them out over the river, where they fluttered down into the water. “You did that,” he said.

“I’d rather just talk idly,” said the Traveler. “I really have no interest in being interviewed.”

“I’m sorry,” said Arnold.

“It’s all right.”

“I mean, I just wanted to be sure I didn’t miss asking you something important.”

The restlessness in the trees intensified slightly. “I suppose I shouldn’t have started this.”

The air stirred and began to move. “What’s happening?”

“Goodby, Arnold.”

“Please don’t go.” Air currents whispered through the foliage. “Hey. Are you alone? Is anyone with you?” The evening grew still.

“You are perceptive.”

Arnold sensed a change in tone. “Did you come here alone?”

Silence.

“What happened?”

“Listen, please let it go.”

“Some kind of accident?” After a long moment: “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll survive.”

“When will you go home?”

“When they realize I haven’t returned. They’ll need to mount a rescue party.”

“Who will?”

“Never mind. It’s not easy to explain.”

“How long will it take?”

“Hard to say. Could be tomorrow. More likely next spring.”

“How will you know when they’ve come?”

“They won’t exactly come. But they’ll be able to find me.”

“The one you lost: was it a mate?”

Ripples on the river. “The term has connotations that do not apply.”

“I’m sorry.”

Branches swung. “Walk with me.”

“Sure. Which way?”

“Toward the highway. Along the river bank.”

The air was warm and smelled of berries and mint. “How long will you stay here? In Fort Moxie?”

“I don’t know. Until I decide to leave.”

“Just follow the wind, huh?” Arnold grinned, pleased with himself. The river flowed, and the forest moved. The Traveler didn’t say much. It seemed rather to react to the changing colors of the landscape, and to the occasional bursts of high wind out of the north.

“Look to your left.”

“What? What is it?” Arnold peered into the open spaces between the trees. There was nothing. Maybe a corner of Mark Hassle’s garage.

“Butterfly.”

He had to reprogram, change his perspective. Color fluttered in the sunlight. A monarch. Black and orange, it spread its wings and moved with magnificent unconcern over a honeysuckle.

“As far as I know, it is unique to Earth.”

He felt the woodland breathe. A passing breeze lifted the insect. It flew a zigzag course and settled onto a leaf.

“End of summer,” said Arnold. “It will be too cold soon.”

They talked about wind currents and the hardware store and Arnold’s telescope. “I envy you,” said the Traveler.

“Why?”

“I cannot look through a telescope.”

Arnold frowned. “You do have eyes?”

“No. But I am not without vision.” In its turn, the Traveler tried to describe how it felt to ride the wind, to glide silently above the swaying grasslands. “It is best to stay low, near the ground. You get more force there. Higher, in the clouds, everything becomes very still.”

Occasionally, the Traveler moved off through the trees. It seemed restless, and branches and bushes swayed in its passage. “Is anything wrong?” Arnold asked at last. “Other than the one you lost?

“Why do you ask?”

“You move around so much.”

“It is my nature. I cannot easily remain in one place.”

The sun was getting close to the horizon. “I’d like to ask a favor,” said Arnold. He’d been hoping the Traveler would give him an opening, say something that would allow him to introduce the possibility of bringing other people out to the wind screen. Arnold had, say, Joe Scarborough in mind. But no opportunity had presented itself, and so he had decided to act directly. “I have a friend who would give almost anything to talk with you.”

“No.”

“I’ve told him that you were up here, and he asked to meet you.” Two squirrels dashed across the path and scrabbled up a tree. “It wouldn’t hurt anything. Just a few words, right? Just say hello, the way you did with me.” He felt a surge of desperation. “It isn’t fair, you know. I mean, you started this. You didn’t mind using me just so you could have somebody to talk to. But you don’t care very much what it does to me. I’ve got the biggest secret in the world, and I can’t tell anybody.”

The Traveler did not respond.

“It’s easy for you, isn’t it? Not your problem.” The north wind stirred the leaves. “Well, you can sit out here for the rest of the winter as far as I’m concerned. I’m not coming back.”

He walked heavily away. He thought the Traveler would call him back. A human would. But the jogging path remained utterly silent. He was still walking, and feeling absurd, when he crossed Lev Anderson’s fields and came out behind the Historical Center.

In a way that he was hard-pressed to define, the sheer unearthly character of the encounters seemed to have dwindled. The prickle along the backbone, the deep fears, the sense of wonder, faded. Despite its ethereal structure, the Traveler possessed a more definite reality than, say, Mrs. Mike Kramer, who came in with her husband and, while he selected a hammer, gabbled on about the church choir’s next project. Or Bill Pepperdine, the high school football coach, who was worried about the low level of ferocity in his offensive line this year.

Floyd Rickett came in around three, and jabbed his way through several customers taking advantage of Arnold’s annual autumn paint sale.

“I was out in the wind screen today,” he said, pointedly, talking across Mrs. Mellon, who was trying to make up her mind about the color chart.

Floyd’s eyes connected with his. They were blue, but like marble rather than seawater. “And—?” asked Arnold, hopefully.

“This one,” said Mrs. Mellon, pointing to sunset bronze.

Arnold nodded. “Just be a couple of minutes, Floyd.” He picked up the primaries, three gallons, poured a measure of red into each, and set the first one in the mixer. He activated the device, and returned to Floyd, who was waiting over near the flashlight display. He looked puzzled, and maybe a little scared.

“What is it?” Arnold asked. “Did you hear anything?”

“A voice,” said Floyd.

“Out in the wind screen?”

“Yes.” Cut to the bottom line. “I was walking out there, thinking about what you’d said. And I heard it. Plain as day. Whispering in the treetops.” The blue eyes peered at him from either side of the long, sharp nose. “I’ll never forget it, Arnold.”

“What did it say?”

“It was hard to tell at first. I could make out my name, but there was something else, too.”