Джек Макдевитт - A Voice in the Night

Their eyes locked, and Arnold realized that, no matter how things fell out, his life would never be the same.

But the Traveler lay ahead. His incorporeal rival. How impressed would she be with Arnold when she met him ?

“Do you run?” he asked.

“Only when I’m being chased.”

She laughed, sliced a strip off her steak, and slid it between her lips. “But you do, of course?”

“Yes. There’s a jogging path through the wind screen. It goes past the river. On a night like this, it’s lovely.” And a little unusual.

Her eyes filled with amusement. “You want to walk out there? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

He could not escape the Traveler. If it was indeed interested in Linda, best confront it now. “You would enjoy it,” he said.

She reached across the table and covered his hand with her own.

A brisk wind blew off the river. The treetops masked a three-quarter moon. He was supremely conscious of Linda’s physical presence as they walked.

The night was bright and clear, a magnificent evening to stroll with a beautiful woman at the edge of the Red River. But the Traveler was nearby. He felt its presence. When it speaks, it could not help but frighten her. And, whatever else happens, she will eventually learn that Arnold was part of the plot. What was he doing up here anyway?

He glanced over at her.

“An evening full of starlight,” she said. “This was a good idea.”

The wind moved.

“Maybe we should get back to the car,” he said.

“Are you cold?”

The river gurgled, and something nearby splashed. Beyond the trees, toward town, a dog barked. Music from a distant stereo penetrated the stillness. “No,” he said. And could think of nothing to explain his remark.

He felt the wind creature advance through the night, felt the wind rise, watched the moon dance on the river. Linda walked beside him, warm and luminous. Her hips brushed his, her fingers clung to his hand. “It is so dark out here,” she said, letting go and opening her arms to the night. She turned to face him. Her lips were wet in the moonlight, and she caught him in that emerald gaze.

Years from now, when the Traveler would be gone, Arnold wanted desperately that there would be someone with whom he could remember the passion of this night. And maybe the loss.

She was in his arms. Her acquiescence, the pliability of her shoulders, electrified him. And she kissed him. Hit and run: he felt the brief press of her lips, and she was gone before he knew it had happened.

“You’re probably right, Arnold. Why don’t we call it a night?”

He nodded.

The moonlight changed. Darkened.

The trees stirred.

“Here he is,” he said.

Linda looked curiously at him. “Here who is?” She looked around, shrugged, and delivered a mischievous smile, suggesting that she knew her kiss had been dynamite, and that if he was a little unsettled by it, she understood.

“The Traveler. He’s here.”

“Arnold, you’re scaring me.”

The trees grew still. “Just kidding,” he said. “Maybe we should start back.”

He took the lead. Pebbles crunched underfoot, and he made small talk, how he had been jogging here for years, how good the fishing used to be.

But the darkness along the edge of the river was complete. And in his haste, he lost his footing, got tangled in something. He never saw what it was, a bramble, a rock, a root. But he went sprawling, and heard a sharp crack like breaking wood. A stab of pure agony raced up one leg.

Linda was beside him immediately. “Lie still,” she said. “What is it?”

“Ankle.” He was mortified. And frightened.

Carefully, she untied his shoe and took it off. It hurt. “I think it’s broken.” She made a sympathetic sound and smiled down at him. “I’ll need the car keys.”

“Why?”

She was removing her jacket, placing it over him. “So we can get you out of here. I’m going to need some help.”

He fished in his pocket, held them up for her. “That was dumb,” he said.

She took them, bent over, raised his head, and kissed him. This time, she went long and deep, her hair brushed his cheek, and her hand grasped the nape of his neck. “Stay put, Scout,” she said, with a wink. “I’ll be back as quick as I can”

“Wait,” he said.

But she was gone. And the wind sighed in the trees.

He made one effort to get up, thought better of it, and lay back. Damn.

“Arnold.”

He closed his eyes. “Hello, Traveler.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’ll survive.”

“I had no idea you were so clumsy.”

“This is your fault.”

“Possibly.”

“My ankle’s broken, damn it.”

“You sound annoyed.”

“You’d sound annoyed too. I got her up here and where were you?”

“Arnold, I’m fond of you.” The voice came out of the trees and off the river. It was softening. Changing. “You earned your wings tonight.”

“Earned my wings? Where did you hear that?”

“Down at the Air Force base. In Grand Forks.” The trees sighed. “I’ll miss you.”

Arnold propped himself on his elbows. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Yes. Time to go.”

“Have they come for you? Your friends?”

“Not yet.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“Because I am becoming too attached to you.”

Arnold heard a car start. And drive off. “To me? I thought you were interested in Linda.”

“We both know she’ll need a good man, Arnold.” The voice seemed very close.

“I don’t think I’ll ever have a chance with her.”

“Keep talking like that and you won’t.” The canopy swayed and creaked. Something flew past, squawking. “I’ve enjoyed our time together.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tonight.”

“Don’t.” Arnold thought how empty the wind screen would be without its eerie inhabitant. “Stay a while longer. There’s no hurry.”

It rubbed against the bushes. And the river. “ It’s not as if you’re going to be able to come back up here for a while.”

Arnold glanced down at his ankle. “Where will you go?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

It fell silent. Air currents flowed, grew cooler. It withdrew from him. Something long, and lithe, rose into the night. The moon, visible through a break in the trees, seemed to lose some of its clarity. It was as if a mist drifted in front of it. The mist drifted out over the river. It was graceful and sinuous, and, as Arnold watched, it rose into a living fountain. It swirled away across the dark water and reformed on the opposite shore.

“Traveler,” he called. “Don’t leave.” He tried to get up, but the pain in his ankle pierced him again and he cried out. The lights eddied around him, and closed in an ethereal embrace. In that moment, on the shoreline, among the narrow screen of box elders and bushes, its sweet warm breath played over him, and it clung to him.

She clung to him. Arnold assigned it a new gender.

“I will not forget you,” he said.

“Nor I you.”

“Will you come back?”

The wind moved around him. “It’s unlikely, Arnold.”

“Ships in the night.”

“Please explain.”

“Linda could probably handle it better. People who meet, become emotionally entangled, and pass on. Nothing happens.”

“I would like to think we have done better.”