Richard Grant was resting beside the little spring that gushed out of the hillside and tumbled in a flashing stream across the twisting trail when the squirrel rushed past him and shinnied up a towering hickory tree. Behind the squirrel, in a cyclone of churning autumn-fallen leaves, came the little black dog.
When he saw Grant the dog skidded to a stop, stood watching him, tail wagging, eyes a — dance with fun.
Grant grinned. 'Hello, there,' he said.
'Hi,' said the dog.
Grant jerked out of his easy slouch, jaw hanging limp. The dog laughed back at him, red dish rag of a tongue lolling from its mouth.
Grant jerked a thumb at the hickory. 'Your squirrel's up there.'
'Thanks,' said the dog, 'I know it. I can smell him.'
Startled, Grant looked swiftly around, suspecting a practical joke. Ventriloquism, maybe. But there was no one in sight. The woods were empty except for himself and the dog, the gurgling spring, the squirrel chattering in the tree.
The dog walked closer.
'My name,' he said, 'is Nathaniel.'
The words were there. There was no doubt of it. Almost like human speech, except they were pronounced carefully, as one who was learning the language might pronounce them. And a brogue, an accent that could not be placed, a certain eccentricity of intonation.
'I live over the hill,' declared Nathaniel, 'with the Websters.'
He sat down, beat his tail upon the ground, scattering leaves. He looked extremely happy.
Grant suddenly snapped his fingers.
'Bruce Webster! Now I know. Should have thought of it before. Glad to meet you, Nathaniel.'
'Who are you?' asked Nathaniel.
'Me? I'm Richard Grant, enumerator.'
'What's an enum… enumer-'
'An enumerator is someone who counts people,' Grant explained. 'I'm taking a census.'
'There are lots of words,' said Nathaniel, 'that I can't say.'
He got up, walked over to the spring, and lapped noisily. Finished, he plunked himself down beside the man.
'Want to shoot the squirrel?' he asked.
'Want me to?'
'Sure thing,' said Nathaniel.
But the squirrel was gone. Together they circled the tree, searching its almost bare branches. There was no bushy tail sticking out from behind the boll, no beady eyes staring down
at them. While they had talked, the squirrel had made his getaway.
Nathaniel looked a bit crestfallen, but he made the best of it.
'Why don't you spend the night with us?' he invited.
'Then, come morning, we could go hunting. Spend all day at it.'
Grant chuckled. 'I wouldn't want to trouble you. I am used to camping out.'
Nathaniel insisted. 'Bruce would be glad to see you. And Grandpa wouldn't mind. He don't know half what goes on, anyway.'
'Who's Grandpa?'
'His real name is Thomas,' said Nathaniel, 'but we all call him Grandpa. He is Bruce's father. Awful old now. Just sits all day and thinks about a thing that happened long ago.'
Grant nodded. 'I know about that, Nathaniel. Juwain.'
'Yeah, that's it,' agreed Nathaniel. 'What does it mean?'
Grant shook his head. 'Wish I could tell you, Nathaniel. Wish I knew.'
He hoisted the pack to his shoulder, stooped and scratched the dog behind the ear. Nathaniel grimaced with delight.
'Thanks,' he said, and started up the path.
Grant followed.
Thomas Webster sat in his wheel chair on the lawn and stared out across the evening hills.
Especially when he can't walk any more and his eyes are going bad.
Elsie will have a silly cake for me with lots of candles on it and the robots all will bring me a gift and those dogs of Bruce's will come in and wish me happy returns of the day and wag their tails at me. And there will be a few televisor calls — although not many, perhaps. And I'll pound my chest and say I'm going to live to be a hundred and everyone will grin behind their hands and say 'listen to the old fool'.
Eighty— six years and there were two things I meant to do. One of them I did and the other one I didn't.
A cawing crow skimmed over a distant ridge and slanted down into the valley shadow. From far away, down by the river, came the quacking of a flock of mallards.
Soon the stars would be coming out. Came out early this time of year. He liked to look at them. The stars! He patted the arms of the chair with fierce pride. The stars, by Lord, were his meat. An obsession? Perhaps — but at least something to wipe out that stigma of long ago, a shield to keep the family from the gossip of historic busybodies. And Bruce was helping too. Those dogs of his A step sounded in the grass behind him.
'Your whisky, sir,' said Jenkins.
Thomas Webster stared at the robot, took the glass off the tray.
'Thank you, Jenkins,' he said.
He twirled the glass between his fingers. 'How long, Jenkins, have you been lugging drinks to this family?'
'Your father, sir,' said Jenkins. 'And his father before him.'
'Any news?' asked the old man.
Jenkins shook his head. 'No news.'
Thomas Webster sipped the drink. 'That means, then, that they're well beyond the solar system. Too far out even for the Pluto station to relay. Halfway or better to Alpha Centauri. If only I live long enough-'
'You will, sir,' Jenkins told him. 'I feel it in my bones.'
'You,' declared the old man, 'haven't any bones.'
He sipped the drink slowly, tasting it with expert tongue.
Watered too much again. But it wouldn't do to say anything. No use flying off the handle at Jenkins. That doctor! Telling Jenkins to water it a bit more. Depriving a man of proper drinking in his final years 'What's that down there' he asked, pointing to the path that straggled up the hill.
Jenkins turned to look.
'It appears, sir,' he said, 'that Nathaniel's bringing someone home.'
