'Yes.'
'At first I thought--you were a little weird.'
'... And now you know it?'
She laughed.
'I suppose so. Someone said you're still in school? That right?'
'It is.'
'You going to stay with music when you get out?'
He shrugged.
'Hard to say.'
'You've got a future, I'd think. Ever record anything?'
'No.'
'I had a record. Didn't do well.'
'Sorry.'
'The breaks... Maybe bad timing. Maybe not, too. I don't know. I'd really like to try something with you. See how it sounds. If it works, I know a guy...'
'My material?'
'Yeah.'
He nodded.
'Okay. After the show, let's go somewhere and try a few.'
'My place isn't far. We can walk'
'Fine.'
He took a sip of beer, glanced over and saw that the man on the floor was beginning to stir. In the distance, he heard the sound of a siren. He heard someone ask, 'Where's the gun?'
'It's a funny feeling I get when I hear you,' she resumed, 'as though the world were a little bit out of kilter.'
'Maybe it is.'
'... As though you tear a little hole through it and I can see a piece of something else on the other side.'
'If I could only tear one big enough I'd step through.'
'You sound like my ex-husband.'
'Was he a musician?'
'No. He was a physicist who liked poetry.'
'What became of him?'
'He's out on the Coast in a commune. Arts and crafts, gardening... Stuff like that.'
'He up and leave, or he ask you to go with?'
'He asked, but I didn't want pig shit on my heels.'
Dan nodded.
'I'll have to watch where I step if I ever step through.'
The police car pulled up in front, its light turning, blinking. The siren died. Dan finished his drink as someone located the weapon.
'We'd look pretty good on an album cover,' she said. 'Especially with that streak. Maybe I could... Naw.'
The man with the sore head was led away. Car doors slammed. The blinking stopped.
'I've got to go sing something,' he said, rising. 'Or is it your turn?'
She looked at her watch.
'You finish up,' she said. 'I'll just listen and wait.'
He mounted the platform and took the guitar into his hands. The pillars of smoke began to intertwine.
VI
The giant mechanical bird deposited Mark Marakson on the hilltop. Mark brushed back the soft green sleeve of his upper garment and pressed several buttons on the wide bracelet he wore upon his left wrist. The bird took flight again, climbing steadily. He controlled its passage with the wristband and saw through its eyes upon the tiny screen at the bracelet's center.
He saw that the way ahead was clear. He shouldered his pack and began walking. Down from the hill and through the woods he went, coming at last to a trail that led toward more open country. Overhead, his bird was but a tiny dot, circling.
He passed cultivated fields, but no habitations until he came within sight of his father's house. He had plotted his return route carefully.
His work shed stood undisturbed. He deposited his pack within it and headed toward the house.
The door swung shut behind him. The place seemed more disarrayed than he had ever before seen it.
'Hello!' he called. 'Hello?'
There was no reply, He went through the entire house, finding no one. Dust lay thick everywhere. Marakas could well be in the field, or tending to any of the numerous chores about the place. But Melanie was usually in the house. He looked about outside, investigating the barns and work sheds, walked down to the ditches, scanned the fields. No one. He returned to the house and sought food for lunch. The larder was empty, however, so he ate of his own provisions. But he operated the wrist-control first, and the speck in the heavens ceased its circling and sped southward.
Disturbed, he began cleaning and straightening about the place. Finally, he went out to the shed and set to work assembling the unit he had brought with him.
It was on toward evening, his labors long finished, when he heard the sound of the approaching wagon. He departed the house, which he had set back in order, and awaited the vehicle's arrival.
He saw Marakas drive up to the barn and begin unhitching the team. He walked over to assist him.
'Dad...'he said. 'Hello.'
Marakas turned and stared at him. His expression remained blank for an instant too long. During that instant, it struck Mark what had troubled him about his father's movements, his reaction time: he was more than a little drunk.
'Mark,' he said then, recognition spreading across his face. He stook a small step forward. 'You've been gone. Over a year. A year and a half... Almost two. What--happened? Where have you been?'
'It's a long story. Here, let me help with that.'
He took over the unhitching of the team, the rubbing down of the horses in their stalls, their feeding.
'... So, when they destroyed my wagon, I had to leave. I was--afraid. I headed south.'
He barred the barn door. The sun was just losing its final edge.
'But so long, Mark... You never sent us word or anything,' Marakas said.
'I couldn't. How's--how's mother?'
Marakas looked away and did not reply. Finally, he pointed toward a small orchard.
'Over there,' he said at last.
After a time, Mark asked, 'How'd it happen?'
'In her sleep. It wasn't bad for her. Come on.'
They walked toward the orchard. Mark saw the small, rocked-over grave, a part of the shadows and rootwork near one of the larger trees. He halted beside it, looking down.
'My going away...' he finally said. 'That didn't have anything to do with it--did it?'
Marakas put a hand on his shoulder.
'No, of course not. '
'You never appreciate... Till they're gone.'
'I know.'
'That's why the place is--not the way it used to be?'
'It's no secret I've been drinking a lot. Yes. My heart hasn't been in things around here.'
Mark nodded, dropped to one knee, touched the stones.
