“No, Remy. I wish, because you want it so much, that we could make this expedition for you. Your grandfather’s memories of Space can hardly be much comfort to you at your age. But it’s out of the question. We cannot deliver ourselves over to the Outsiders for the whim of just one of us. If only you’d reconcile yourself to it-“
“What’s the use then?” Remy flung at Father. “What’s the use of being able to if we don’t?”
“Being able to is not always the standard to go by,” said Father. He flicked his fingers at the ceiling and we three watched the snowflakes drift down starrily to cover the workbench. “Your mother loves to watch the snow,” he said, “but she doesn’t go around snowing all the time.” He stopped the snow with a snap of his fingers and it dampened the wood shavings with its melting. “No, just being able to is not a valid reason. And reason there must be before action.”
Remy kicked a block of wood out of the workshop and all the way up the slope to our walnut tree on the hill above the twisted, glittering string that was Cayuse Creek. I followed along. I always follow along-Remy’s shadow, they call me-and he usually pays about that much attention to me. What can I expect else, being a girl and his sister besides. But I like it because Remy does things-lots of things-and he can usually use a listening ear. I am the willing ear. I’m Bethie-too, because Mother is Bethie.
“Then we’ll do it by ourselves!” he muttered as he dug a rock out of the ground where it was poking his shoulder when he tried to relax against the hillside. “We’ll build our own craft and we’ll go by ourselves!” He was so used to me that he automatically said “we”-though it usually meant he had decided he’d do something-a sort of royal “we.” He lay back under the tree, his hands under his head, his eyes rebelliously on the leaves above. I sat by him, trying to snow like Father had, but all I got was cold fingertips and one big drop of rain that I flicked at Remy. He wiped it off and glared up at the canopy of leaves. “Derned old birds!”
I laughed.
“Go on! Laugh!” he said, jerking upright. “Fine deal when my own sister laughs!”
“Remy.” I looked at him, smiling. “You’re acting about ten years below yourself and a seven-year-old isn’t very attractive in a frame the size of yours!”
He sank back and grinned. “Well, I bet I could. A craft wouldn’t be so hard to build. I could use scrap metal- though why does it have to be metal? And we could check in the newspaper for when Canaveral says is the best time-“
“Remy”-the light in his eyes quenched at the tone of my voice-“how far is it to the moon?”
“Well, us-I’m not for sure. I think it’s about 250,000 miles, give or take a couple of blocks.”
“How far have you ever lifted a vehicle?” I asked.
“Well, at least five miles-with your help! With your help!” he hastened as I looked at him.
“And how far out of the atmosphere?” I asked.
“Why none at all, of course! Father won’t let me-“
“And in free fall? And landing in no air? And coming back?”
“All right! All right! Don’t rub it in,” he said sulkily. “But you wait!” he promised. “I’ll get into Space yet!”
That evening, Father quirked an eyebrow when Remy said he wanted to start training to become a Motiver. Oh, he could learn it-most any of The People could-but it’s a mighty uphill job of it if you aren’t especially gifted for it. A gifted Motiver hardly needs any training except in how to concentrate on a given project for the time necessary. But Remy would have to start from scratch, which is only a notch or two above Outsider performance-which is mostly nil. Father and Remy both knew Remy was just being stubborn because he so wanted to go out into Space, but Father let him go to Ron for study and I got pretty lonely in the hours he spent away from camp. After all, what is there for a shadow to do when there’s no one to follow around?
For a day or two I ranged above the near slopes and hills, astonishing the circling buzzards by peering over their thin, wide wings, or catching a tingly downward slide on the last slants of the evening sun through the Chimneys. The Chimneys are spare, angular fingers of granite that thrust themselves nakedly up among the wooded hills along one bank of the Cayuse. But exploring on your own stops being fun after a while and I was pretty lonesome the evening I brought Mother a little cottontail rabbit I’d taken away from a coyote on the edge of night.
“I can tell he’s hurt,” I said, holding the soft, furry thing gently in my hands and securely in my Concern. It lay unwinking on my palms, its quick nose its only movement.
“But I can’t decide whether it’s a break or a strain. Tell me again how to tell the difference.”
Mother laid her hand softly on the creature after reassuring it with her Concern. “It’s a strain,” she said softly. “Don’t you sense ” And the rest of it was thinking that has no separate words for it so I can’t write it down. And I did finally Sense the strain in the rabbit’s muscles and the difference between it and how a break in a bone would feel.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I won’t forget again. Shall I let him go, then?”
“Better put him in the patient-pen,” said Mother. “At least for the night. Nothing will fright him there and we can let him go tomorrow.”
So we slipped him into the pen and Mother and I leaned over to watch him hide himself in the green tangle of growing things at the far end. Then I carefully did as Mother did. We reached inside ourselves to channel away the pain we had Sensed. That’s one of the most important things to be learned if you’re a Sensitive—which we both are. When Mother was a girl, she lived among Outsiders and she was almost destroyed before she found our Group and was taught how to Channel.
Still full of the warm, prayerlike feeling that follows the Channeling, we walked back toward the house in the half dark.
“You’ve been missing Remy,” said Mother.
“Yes,” I sighed. “It wouldn’t be so bad if we were back with the Group, but being up here till Father’s shift is over makes it kinda lonesome. Even with Remy coming back here to sleep, it’s not the same. There’s nothing to do-“
Mother laughed. “I’d like a dime for every time a child has said that to a parent! Why not use this so empty rime to develop a new Gift or Persuasion?”
