“I’ll wave to you as we go by, headed for the moon!” he teased.
“Rainy,” I paused with a handful of nightgown poised above the case. “It might still be all a mad dream of Tom’s. We’ve never seen the rocket. We’ve never seen the son. I could be misreading the metal completely. It’ll be fun if you can find out for sure, but don’t get your heart set on it too much. And be careful!”
Mother and I decided to take the pickup truck because Father had the forestry jeep and we might need transportation if we went among Outsiders. So we loaded in our cases. Mother got in touch with Father and told him good-by. As the pickup lifted out of the yard and drifted upward and away over the treetops, I leaned out and waved at Remy, who was standing forlornly on the front porch.
It was a wonderful two weeks-in a solemn sort of way. We have a very small hospital. The People are pretty healthy, but Dr. Curtis, who is an Outsider friend of ours, brings patients out every so often for Mother to help him diagnose. That’s her Gift-to put her hands on the suffering and read what the trouble is. So when he’s completely puzzled with a case, he brings it out to Mother. She’s too shy to go Outside. Besides, the People function more efficiently when they are among their own.
It wasn’t an easy two weeks because a Sensitive must experience whatever the patient is experiencing. Even if it is vicarious, it’s still very real and very uncomfortable, especially for a beginner such as I am. One evening I thought I was going to die when I got so caught up in the smothering agony of a seizure that I forgot to Channel and lost my way in the suffering. Mother had to rescue me and give me back my breath.
When we finally finished at the hospital, we headed home again. I felt as though I were ten years older-as though I had left home as a child and returned as an adult. I bad forgotten completely about Tom and the rocket and had to grope for memory when Remy hissed to me, “It’s real!” Then memory went off like a veritable rocket of its own and I nearly burst with excitement.
There was no opportunity that night to find out any details, but it made pleasant speculation before I fell asleep. Next morning we left right after breakfast, lifting into the shivery morning chill, above the small mists that curled up from the cienega where antelope grazed, ankle-deep in the pooling water or belly-deep in dew-heavy wild flowers.
“No campsites?” I asked, as we left the flats behind us.
“I finished them last week,” said Remy. “Father said I could have some time off. Which is a real deal because Tom needs so much help now.” Remy frowned down at me as he lifted above me. “I’m worried, Shadow. He’s sick. I mean more than a wandery mind. I’m afraid he’ll be Called before—”
“Before the ship is done?” I asked with a squeeze in my heart that he should be still so preoccupied with his own dream.
“Exactly!” flashed Remy. “But I’m not thinking of myself alone. Sure I want the ship finished, and I want in it and out into Space. But I know Tom now and I know he’s only living for this flight and it’s bigger to him than his hope of Heaven or fear of Hell. You see, I’ve met his son-“
“You have!” I reached for his arm. “Oh, Remy! Really! Is he as-uh-eccentric as Tom? Do you like him? Is he-” I stopped. Remy was close to me. I should have been able to read his “yes” or “no” from the plainest outer edges of his thinking, but he was closed to me.
“What’s wrong, Remy?” I asked in a subdued voice. “Is he worse than Tom? Won’t he let you-“
“Wait and ask Tom,” said Remy. “He tells me every day. He’s like a child and he’s decided he can trust me so he talks and talks and talks and always the same thing.” Remy swallowed visibly. “It takes some getting used to-at least for me. Maybe for you-“
“Remy!” I interrupted. “We’re almost there and we’re still airborne. We’d better-“
“Not necessary,” he said. “Tom’s seen me lift lots of times and use lots of our Signs and Persuasions.” Remy laughed at my astonishment. “Don’t worry. It’s no betrayal. He just thinks I’ve gone to a newfangled school. He marvels at what they teach nowadays and is quite sure I can’t spell for sour apples or tell which is the longest river in South America. I told you he’s like a child. He’ll accept anything except the fact-” We were slanting down to the Selkirk.
“‘The fact-” I prompted. Then instinctively looked for a hiding place. Tom was waiting for us.
“Hi!” His husky, unsurprised voice greeted us as we landed. “So the sister got back? She’s almost as good in the air as you are, isn’t she? You two must have got an early start this morning. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
I was shocked by his haggard face and the slow weakness of his movements. I could read illness in his eyes, but I winced away from the idea of touching his fragile shoulders or cramped chest to read the illness that was filling him to exhaustion. We sat quietly on the doorstep and smelled the coffee he brewed for breakfast and waited while he worried down a crumbly slice of bread. And that was his breakfast.
“‘I told my sister about the ship,” Remy said gently.
“The ship-” His eyes brightened. “Don’t trust many people to show them the ship, but if she’s your sister, I trust her. But first-” His eyes closed under the weight of sorrow that flowed almost visibly down over his face. “First I want her to meet my son. Come on in.” He stepped back and Remy followed him into the shack. I bundled up my astonishment and followed them.
“Remember how we looked for an entrance?” grinned Remy. “Tom’s not so stupid!”
I don’t know what all Tom did with things that clanked and pulleys that whined and boards that parted in half, but the end result was a big black square in the middle of the floor of the shack. It led down into a dark nothingness, “He goes down a ladder,” whispered Remy as Tom’s tousled head disappeared. “But I’ve been having to help him hold on. He’s getting awfully weak.”
So, as we dropped down through the trapdoor, I lent my help along with Remy’s and held the trembling old hands around the ladder rungs and steadied the feeble old knees as Tom descended. At the bottom of the ladder, Tom threw a switch and the subdued glow of a string of lights lead off along a drift.
“My son rigged up the lights,” Tom said, “The generator’s over by the ship.” There was a series of thuds and clanks and a shower of dust sprinkled us liberally as the door above swung shut again.
We walked without talking along the drift behind Tom as he scurried along the floor that had been worn smooth in spots by countless comings and goings.
The drift angled off to one side and when I rounded the corner I cried out softly. The roof had collapsed and the
