He had been under way only a few minutes when, topping a hill, his lights picked out a car parked by the roadside. He recognized the long lines of Zengler’s new Cadillac, the only one in the township. He caught a glimpse of a pair of heads close together in the front seat and guessed that it would be Roy Zengler, out with some girl too young to know better.
His foot dug hard at the accelerator. As the truck picked up speed he glanced at the side-view mirror. He saw the light flash on in the Cadillac as Roy flung open the door and leaped out. As long as Walt could see him he was standing in the road, staring after the disappearing truck.
Walt thought with reckless abandon, “He’ll tell. They’ll go to the quarry, just to make sure, and they’ll find the truck gone. They’ll think some kids took it for a joy ride, and they’ll be looking for them around Harwell, so they’ll probably catch me on the way back.” He felt a twinge of uneasiness, but he told himself boldly that what happened didn’t matter—on the way back. The truck roared on smoothly, powerfully.
He was only ten miles from the lake when he had to risk a stretch of main highway. He was worrying about the girl and trying to decide whether to look for fresh water for her or try to get to the lake as quickly as possible. He kept going because that was easiest, but he continued to worry.
Traffic on the highway was light, and Walt was so engrossed in his concern for the girl that he did not notice the car approaching him from the rear. He did not notice it until it pulled alongside and the red light flashed, and he realized that a state trooper was ordering him to stop. His numbed hands and feet obediently made the proper motions. The truck eased off the road and halted. The police car stopped behind him. Then, as the trooper got out and walked forward, he stepped on the accelerator.
For precious seconds the trooper seemed bewildered. He stood outlined in the lights of his car, waving his hands. Then, as Walt glanced again at the mirror, one hand spouted fire. Walt thought wildly, “The tires—if he hits a tire—”
Glass tinkled behind him as the rear window shattered, and the bullet thudded into the roof of the cab. The fire flashed again, and then the truck nosed over a rise and was safe. Walt drove with the accelerator crushed to the floor, peering anxiously beyond the racing beams of his headlights. A dirt road veered off at a sharp angle to the right, and he made the turn with screaming brakes. He found himself on a winding country road. Around a curve and out of sight of the highway, he switched off his lights. A farmhouse beckoned, and he slowed and skidded into the driveway, rolled as far as the barn, and turned sharply to come to a stop between the barn and a corn crib. Seconds later the police car roared past and disappeared.
A yard light came on. A man opened the farmhouse door and stood looking out at him. Walt backed up, turned, and drove back to the highway. He followed the highway for a short distance, took the first turn to the left, and breathed freely once more as the truck bounced along a rough dirt road. At the next crossroad he turned right and headed for the lake.
In the moon’s half light the gently tossing water was beautiful. Walt drove past an unoccupied summer cottage, turned at the edge of the beach, and backed toward the water. A few yards short of his goal, his wheels spun in the loose sand and dug themselves in.
Walt leaped out and dropped the tailgate. Water soaked his knees as he hauled himself up. He placed the ramp in position, and then, as he turned, a stream of water brushed his foot. He knelt, fumbled in the darkness, and found the holes. The trooper’s last shots had struck the tank.
And the tank was two-thirds empty.
With a moan he seized the buckets and ran for the lake. For the moment he had no thought that the shots might have struck the girl. He thought only of life-giving water. He splashed into the lake, dipped the buckets, and raced back to the truck. Again and again he made the trip, until his breath came in tormented jerks and his aching legs could carry him no faster than a plodding walk. Still he worked on, dumping water into the tank and seeing it gush forth through the holes.
He lost all sense of time. The water level in the tank was rising slowly—too slowly, he feared—and when finally it occurred to him that she might be wounded or dead, he could not bring himself to look and see. Like an automaton, he continued to carry water.
Then, turning once more with full buckets, he saw her. She stumbled down the ramp and staggered toward him—toward the lake. She moved awkwardly, her feet churning in the sand, and as he hurried to meet her she fell at his feet with weird, whistling gasps.
He bent over to help her and fell back with a cry of horror.
Her face was a gruesome, rubbery mask, her eyes large and sunken. She had no nose. Needlelike fangs protruded from her gaping, gasping mouth. Her hair, her lovely, flowing hair, was short tufts of fur that covered her back from the crown of her head to the base of her spine. The glimmering dark green fabric that she wore was her flesh, spongy and slimy to the touch.
As he stared helplessly, she lurched to her feet, staggered forward, and sprawled at the water’s edge with her head submerged. A moment later her webbed feet kicked and tore at the sand, and she slid into the water and disappeared.
Stunned to paralysis, Walt looked after her, unable to move, or think, or do anything but stare bewilderedly at the ruffled sand and the lapping waves. He did not hear the car drive up and stop. He did not notice the lights that pinioned him against the watery horizon. He heard nothing at all until the trooper approached with a sharp command. Then he turned slowly and raised his hands.
The trooper moved forward cautiously, shined a light into his face, and exclaimed, “Why, you’re only a kid!”
Walt said nothing.
The trooper searched him deftly, stepped back, and signaled him to drop his hands. “That wasn’t very smart. What were you trying to do?”
Walt shook his head. The enormity of what he had done horrified him. The truck, stolen and damaged. The tank, which his father would have to pay for. Running away from the police. And now he’d have to face his parents. What could he tell them? What could he tell anyone?
A few yards out from shore, something broke water with an echoing splash-something big. The trooper whirled. “Good God! What was that?”
Walt shrugged wearily. “Only a fish,” he said.
WHO’S ON FIRST?
Priority Rating: Routine
From: Jard Killil, Minister of Juvenile Affairs
To: All Planetary Police Organizations
All Interplanetary Patrol Units
Subject: Juvenile detention escapee Muko Zilo
Enclosures: Character analysis, filmstrips, retinal patterns
All law-enforcement agencies are hereby informed of the escape of Muko Zilo from the Juvenile Rehabilitation Center on Philoy, Raff III, Sector 1311. Escapee is presumed to have fled the planet in a stolen space yacht, Stellar Class II, range unlimited. His probable destination is unknown.
Escapee is not considered dangerous. He possesses low-grade intelligence and has no psi ability higher than Class F. Kindly notify Philoy JRC immediately upon detention.
The major-league baseball season of 1998 was only two weeks old, and Manager Pops Poppinger wished it was over and done with. Since opening day his Pirates had managed to lose fourteen games while winning none, and Pops had only the Baseball Managers’ Tenure Act of 1993 to thank for the fact that he was still gainfully employed. He’d had that same act to thank for his regular paychecks during the 1996 and 1997 seasons.
“But it can’t last,” he muttered. “Congress will repeal the thing and cite me as the reason.”
He strode through the locker room without a glance at his lounging ballplayers, entered his private office, and slammed the door. He did not want to talk to anyone, especially if that anyone happened to be wearing a Pirates’ uniform. He dropped an armful of newspapers onto his desk, tilted back in his chair until he could plant his size thirteen feet in a comfortable position, and opened the top paper to the sports pages. The headline made him wince, �
��When is a Pirate?” it demanded. Pops stuck a cigar in his mouth as he read and forgot to light it.
“In the venerable days of yore,” the article said, “when professional athletic organizations found it necessary to attach themselves to some unfortunate city in the mistaken belief that civic loyalty would induce the population to attend games in person and pay for the privilege, the fair city of Pittsburgh spawned two notable gangs of thieves, the baseball Pirates and the football Steelers. Both organizations had their days of glory. Within the memories of men now living, if you care to believe it, the Pirates won five consecutive world championships and the Steelers four.
“Those days of myth and fable are far behind us. If the Steelers stole anything worth mentioning during the football season just concluded, it escaped this writer’s attention. The 1998 Pirates are so far removed from thievery that they will not take a game as a gift. They emphatically demonstrated their moral uprightness yesterday, when their opposition was stricken with that most tragic of baseball diseases, paralytic generosity. The Dodgers committed six errors and presented the Pirates with nine unearned runs. The Dodgers won the game, 27 to 9.”
Pops crumpled the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. “Bah! Let ‘em rave. It’s for sure I ain’t got any ballplayers, but I got lots of tenure.”
The telephone rang, and he picked it up and growled a response.
“Who’s pitching today, Pops?” a cheerful voice asked.
“I dunno,” Pops said. “If you reporters find some guy in the press box that ain’t got a sore arm, send him down.”
He slammed down the phone and reached for another paper. “Pirates Still In Reverse,” the headline said. Pops tossed that one aside without reading it.
A knock rattled the door. Pops ignored it. The knock sounded again, and the door opened wide enough to admit the large, grinning face of Dipsey Marlow, the Pirates’ third-base coach.
“Scram!” Pops snapped.
“Some kid here to see you, Pops.”
“Tell him I got a batboy. I got a whole team of batboys.” “He’s older than that—I think. He says he’s got a letter for you.” Pops straightened up and grinned. “From Congress?” “He says it’s from Pete Holloway.” “Send him in.”
The kid shuffled in awkwardly. His dimensions looked to be about five feet, five inches—in both directions. Oddly enough, he was not fat. There was an unhealthy thinness about his freckled face, and his overly large ears gave his features a whimsical grotesqueness, but he was shaped like a box and moved like one. He dragged to a stop in front of Pops’s desk, fumbled through four pockets, and came up with a letter. “Mr. Poppinger?”
The high, squeaky voice made Pops’s ears ring. “I’m ashamed to admit it,” Pops said, “but that’s my name.”
“Mr. Holloway told me to give this to you.”
“The last I heard of Pete Holloway, he was lost in the woods up in Maine.”
“He still is, sir. I mean, he’s still in Maine.”
“You came clear out here to California just to give me this?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pops took the envelope and ripped it open.
“Dear Pops,” he read. “This here kid Zilo is the most gawdawful ballplayer I ever see on two legs. He also is the luckiest man south of the North Pole. Put him in center with a rocking chair and a bottle of beer and every ball hit to the outfield will drop in his lap. He’ll even catch some of them. Sign him, and you’ll win the pennant. Yours, Pete. p.s. He also is lucky with the bat.”
Pops scratched his head and squinted disbelievingly at Zilo. “What d’ya play?”
“Outfield,” Zilo said. He quickly corrected himself. “Outfield, sir.”
“Where in the outfield?”
“Anywhere, sir. Just so it’s the outfield, sir.”
Pops wasn’t certain whether he should throw him out or go along with the gag. “I got three outfielders that get by. How about second or short? Between first and third I got nothing but grass.”
“Oh, no, sir. Mr. Holloway had me play short, and I made nine errors in one inning. Then he moved me to the outfield.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t kill you,” Pops said. He continued to eye Zilo disbelievingly. “You actually played baseball for Pete?”
“Yes, sir. Last summer, sir. I went to see him a week ago to find out when I could start playing again, and he said he thought you could use me because your season starts before his does.”
“What’d you bat?”
“Six-forty, sir.”
Pops winced. “What’d you field?”
“A thousand, sir. In the outfield. In the infield it was zero.” Pops got up slowly. “Son, Pete Holloway is an old friend of mine, and he never gave me a bad tip yet. I’ll give you a tryout.” “That’s very kind of you, sir.”
“The name is Pops. And it ain’t kind of me after what happened yesterday.”
Pops was standing in the corner of the dugout with Ed Schwartz, the club secretary, when the new Pirate walked out onto the field. Pops took one look, clapped his hand to his forehead, and gasped, “My God!”
“I told you I’d find him a uniform,” Ed said. “I didn’t guarantee to find him one that fit. He just isn’t made the way our uniforms are made, and if I were you I’d make sure I wanted to keep him before I called the tailor. Otherwise, if you release him we’ll have a set of uniforms on our hands that won’t fit anyone or anything except maybe that oversized water cooler in the league offices.”
Pops walked over to the third-base coaching box, where Dipsey Marlow was standing to watch batting practice. The Dodger dugout had just got its first incredulous look at Zilo, and Pops waited until the uproar subsided somewhat before he spoke.
“Think Pete is pulling my leg?” he asked.
“It wouldn’t be like Pete, but it’s possible.”
“The way things is going, he ought to know better. I’ll look him up when the season is over and shoot him.”
Dipsey grinned happily. He was rather pleased with himself in spite of yesterday’s loss. As third-base coach he’d been the loneliest man in the Western Hemisphere for seven straight days while the Pirates were being shut out without a man reaching third. Even if his team was losing, he liked to have some traffic to direct.
“You got nothing to lose but ball games,” he said.
Zilo had taken his place in the batter’s box. He cut on the first pitch, and the ball dribbled weakly out toward the pitcher’s mound.
“He’s a fly swatter,” Dipsey said disgustedly.
Zilo poked two more lazy ground balls and lifted a pop fly to the third baseman. Apparently satisfied, he borrowed a glove and wandered out to left field. He dropped a couple of balls that were hit right at him and stumbled over his own feet when he tried to go a few steps to his left.
“It’s a joke,” Pops said. “Pete must have seen him catch one. That’s what he meant by him being lucky.”
Dipsey walked out to left field to talk with Zilo. He came back looking foolish. “The kid says it’s all right—he’s just testing the atmosphere. It’ll be different when the game starts.”
“He says he hit six-forty,” Pops said dreamily.
“You going to use him?”
“Sure I’ll use him. If I’m gonna shoot Pete, I gotta have a reason that’ll stand up in court. As soon as we get ten runs behind, in he goes.”
Pops headed back toward the dugout, and some tourists in box seats raised a lusty chorus of boos as he passed. Pops scowled and quickened his pace. The dratted tourists were ruining the game. There had been a time when a manager could concentrate on what he was doing, but now he had to operate with a mob of howling spectators literally hanging over his shoulder and shouting advice and criticism into his ears. It got on the players’ nerves, too. There was the Giants’ Red Cowan, who’d been a good pitcher until they opened the games to tourists. The noise so rattled him that he had to retire.
“Why can’t they stay home and see it o
n TV, like everybody else?” Pops growled.
“Because they pay money, that’s why,” Ed Schwartz said. “There’s a novelty or something in seeing a ball game in the flesh, and it’s getting so some of these tourists are planning their vacations so they can take in a few games. Bill Willard—the L.A. Times man—was saying that the National League now is California’s number one tourist attraction. The American League is doing the same thing for Arizona.”
The boos sounded again, and Pops ducked into the dugout out of sight. “I don’t mind their watching,” he said, “if only they’d keep their mouths shut. When I started managing there wasn’t anyone around during a game except the TV men, and they were too busy to be giving me advice. Even the sportswriters watched on TV. Now they camp here the whole season, and you can’t go out after the morning paper without finding one waiting for an interview.”
“The tourists are here to stay, so you might as well get used to them,” Ed said. “There’s even some talk about putting up hotels for them, so they won’t have to commute from Fresno to see the games.”
Pops sat down and borrowed Ed’s pen to make out his lineup. Ed looked over his shoulder and asked, “How come you’re not using that new guy?”
“I’m saving him until we get far enough behind.”
“You mean until the second inning?” Ed said and ducked as Pops fired a catcher’s mask.
“That’s the trouble with those tenure laws,” Pops said. “They had to go and include the club secretaries.”
The game started off in a way sadly familiar to Pops. The Dodgers scored three runs in the first inning and threatened to blast the Pirates right out of the league. Then, with the bases loaded and one out, the Pirates’ third baseman managed to hang onto a sizzling line drive and turn it into a double play. Pops’s breathing spell lasted only until the next inning. Lefty Effinger, the Pirates’ pitcher, spent a long afternoon falling out of one hole and into another. In nine innings he gave up a total of seventeen hits, but a miraculous succession of picked-off runners, overrun bases, and double plays kept the Dodgers shut out after those first three runs.
A Galaxy Of Strangers Page 12
