Remy.
“He’s crying,” I said softly. “He’s crying like a child.”
“Is he hurt?” Remy asked, straightening.
“No-o-o, I don’t think so,” I said, trying to reach him more fully. “It’s sorrow and loneliness-that’s why he’s crying.”
We went back the next day. This time I took a deep-dish apple pie along. Most men have a sweet tooth and miss desserts the most when they’re camping. It was a juicy pie and, after I had dribbled juice down the front of me and down onto Remy where he lifted below, I put it into a nice, level inanimate lift and let it trail behind me.
I don’t know exactly what we expected, but it was rather an anticlimax to be welcomed casually at the Selkirk-no surprise, no shotgun, no questions, but plenty of thanks for the pie. Between gulps and through muffling mouthfuls, we learned that the old man’s name was Thomas.
“Should have been Doubting Thomas,” he told us unhappily. “Didn’t believe a word my son said. And when he used up all our money buying-” He swallowed hard and blinked and changed the subject.
We never did find out much about him and, of course, ignored completely whatever it was in the shaft of the Selkirk. At least we did that trip and for many more that followed. Remy was learning patience the hard way, but I must admit he was doing wonderfully well for Remy. One thing we didn’t find out was the whereabouts of his son. Most of the time for Thomas his son had no other name except My Son. Sometimes he talked as though his son were just over the hill. Other times he was so long gone that he was half forgotten.
Not long after we got on visiting terms with Tom, I felt I’d better alert Remy. “He’s not completely sane,” I told him.
“Sometimes he’s as clear as can be. Other times his thoughts are as tangled as baling wire.”
“Old age,” suggested Remy. “He’s almost eighty.”
“It might be,” I said. “But he’s carrying a burden of some kind. If I were a Sorter, I could Go-In to him and tell what it is, hut every time he thinks of whatever is troubling him, his thoughts hurt him and get all tangled up.”
“Harmless, though,” said Remy.
“Yes?” I brought back to his mind the shotgun blast we had been greeted with. Remy moved uneasily. “We startled him then,” he said.
“No telling what will startle him. Remember, he’s not always tracking logically. We’d better tread lightly for a while.”
One day about a week later, a most impatient week for Remy, we were visiting with Tom again-or rather watching him devour half a lemon pie at one sitting-when we got off onto mines and mining towns.
“Father said the Selkirk was quite a mine when it was new. They took over a million dollars’ worth of silver out of her. Are you working her any?” Remy held his breath as he waited Tom’s response to this obvious fishing.
“No,” said Tom. “I’m not a miner. Don’t know anything about mines and ores and stuff. I was a sheet metal man before I retired.” He frowned and stirred uneasily. “I can’t remember much of what I used to do. My memory isn’t so good any more. Not since my son filled me up with this idea of getting to the moon.” I felt Remy freeze beside me. “He’s talked it so much and worked at it so hard and sunk everything we ever owned into it that I can’t think of anything else any more either. It’s like a horn blaring in my ears all the time. Gets so bad sometimes—” He pressed his hands to his ears and shook his head.
“How soon will you be blasting off?” Remy asked carefully casually.
“My son says there’s only a little left to do. I ought to be able to figure it out from the plans.”
“Where is your son?” asked Remy softly.
“My son’s-” Tom stopped and frowned, “My sons-” His eyes clouded over and his face set woodenly. “My son said no one was to come around. My son said everyone had to stay away.” His voice was rising and he came to his feet.
“My son said they’d come and try to stop us!” The voice went up another notch. “He said they’d come snooping and take the ship away!” He was yelling now. “He said to keep them away! Keep them away until he-until he-” His voice broke and he grabbed for the nearest chunk of rock. I reached out quickly with my mind and opened his hand so it dropped the rock and, while he was groping for another, Remy and I took off down the hill, wordless and shaken. We clutched each other at the foot of the slope.
“It is a rocket!” stuttered Remy, shaken with delight. “I told you sol A real rocket! A moon rocket!”
“He kept saying ‘my son said,’” I shivered. “Something’s wrong about that son of his.”
“Why worry about that?” exulted Remy. “He’s got a spacecraft of some kind and it’s supposed to go to the moon.”
“I worry about that,” I said, “because every time he says ‘my son’ his mind tangles more. That’s what triggered this madness.”
Well, when we got back home, almost bursting with the news we couldn’t share, Mother was brisking around gathering up some essential things. “It’s an emergency,” she said.
“Word came from the Group. Dr’. Curtis is bringing a patient out to us and he needs me. Shadow, you’re to Come with me. This will be a good chance for you to begin on real diagnosis. You’re old enough now. Remy, you be good and take care of your father. You’d better be the cook and no more than two meals a day of fried eggs!”
“But, Mother-” Remy looked at me and frowned.
“Shadow-“
“Yes?” Mother turned from the case she was packing.
“Oh, nothing,” he said, his bottom lip pushing forward in his disappointment.
“Well, this’ll have to be your exclusive little red wagon, now,” I murmured as he reached down a case for me from the top shelf of the closet. “But drag it mighty carefully. If in doubt-lift !”
