Challenging Destiny #24: August 2007

by Crystalline Sphere Authors

  "See that one there,” said George, pointing to the south. “Low and little and red. That's Mars."

  Max nodded even though he couldn't pick out a single light from so many. He looked back at the trees and wondered how George expected them to get off a train moving at this speed. The choice seemed to be between breaking their necks and dying at once or breaking their backs and dying later.

  "Not far now,” said George.

  "Until what?"

  "You'll see."

  George produced a small flask. He uncorked it, took a short pull and passed it to Max. “Go ahead,” he said. “It'll steady your nerves."

  Max took a hesitant sip. The liquor was sweet and tasted of orange, but it burned all the way down. He took a bigger swallow.

  "Easy,” said George, “you don't want them so steady you can't move."

  The train lurched, and George put a hand on Max's shoulder to steady him. His touch was hot through the thin layer of Max's shirt. The train lurched again and Max could feel the outward pull as it began a long upward turn. The whistle sounded as they passed a crossing.

  "That's the road we'll be taking,” said George.

  The train continued its climb, steadily losing speed. The track bed was built up here, and a long embankment lead from the rails to the forest below.

  "This is as slow as it gets,” said George and leapt into the night.

  Max hesitated. There was a flash from the woods, green and leprous, like marsh light. Max found himself in the air. His feet hit the soft dirt of the embankment and he bent at the waist into a shoulder roll. He rolled twice before springing back to his feet and ran the last few yards into the trees. He aimed for a bushy pine and, turning his back to it, let its branches absorb the last of his momentum.

  After extricating himself from the tree, Max walked back to where George still lay in a heap.

  "You okay?"

  "Nothing's broken, if that's what you mean.” George held out his hand, and Max helped him to his feet. “This body's getting too old for this mode of travel."

  "I guess you better find a better way to ride then. It's the only body you're likely to get."

  George smiled at him then. Max shivered despite the lingering warmth of the late summer air.

  * * * *

  They walked for an hour in companionable silence. A steady south wind whispered secrets to the treetops and stirred eddies of dust on the road. Tree frogs and owls competed in the warm night air, only to fall silent to a wolf howl in the distance.

  The moon had risen and hung like an orange lantern in the sky. Max took the dried apple out of his pocket and gnawed at the sweet flesh as they walked. When he finished he threw the core into the wood and where it rattled through the underbrush.

  "Planted my first tree,” he said and laughed. It felt good to be walking, going somewhere, even if he didn't quite know where. George passed him the flask again and together they finished it.

  Another hour passed without a word being spoken. George is a good companion, thought Max. Talks when he has something to say but knows when to be quiet, too. It takes a while to learn that habit. Some people never do.

  George pointed to a tree lying beside the road and gestured Max to sit down. George rummaged through his knapsack again and gave a little grunt of satisfaction as he drew out a small package.

  "Thought I had some of this left,” said George, unfolding brown wax paper to reveal a couple of lumps of hard candy. “Gonna need some energy before the night is through."

  Max took one of the lumps and popped it in his mouth. The candy tasted of maple, and Max thought of home and springtime and hot maple taffy poured fresh in the snow. He closed his eyes, savouring both the flavour and the memory of happier times.

  "Sounds like we got a long walk ahead of us,” he said. “Where is this business of yours?"

  "My business is in here,” said George, tapping his head. “But the place we're going is about three hundred miles south as the crow flies."

  "Place got a name?"

  "Called Roswell. Roswell, New Mexico."

  "Never heard of it."

  "Not likely to, either. Nothing much ever happened there. Nothing much ever will."

  "So why are we going?"

  "To see a man. Name of Robert Goddard."

  "Never heard of him either."

  "You're not alone. Not many people heard of him. Yet. His time will come."

  George gave him the kind of look people give you when they've said all they're going to say on a particular topic. An invitation to change the subject.

  "So are we going to walk the whole way?"

  "It would be a nice walk. This is pretty country. But we ain't got the time. You can't tell it by looking but there's a lot of people live along here, up in the hills. Come dawn, there'll be traffic on this road and we'll pick up a lift."

  "It's been my experience that people are cautious about picking up strangers on the road, especially when one of them is as big as you."

  "Or as brown as me?"

  Max shrugged. He'd grown up with coloured folk in Nova Scotia, counted them as friends, neighbours, sometimes enemies—just people. But Americans were peculiar, especially in the south.

  "New Mexico is a different kind of place. Lots of different kind of people here. A lot of them brown. Someone will give us a ride. And, if not, there's a branch-line about six-hours walk from here. Train brought us this far, train can take us the rest."

  * * * *

  As predicted, the first vehicles appeared on the road shortly after sunrise and soon George and Max were bouncing along in the back of a horse drawn wagon with a group of farm workers. George carried on conversation in Spanish as if it were his native tongue. Later, they waved down a truck that took them all the way to Albuquerque. Settled in among the crates of fresh produce, Max had time to observe the countryside and ponder what he had gotten himself into. It felt big. Maybe now is the time for little men to get involved in big things, thought Max. A chill ran down his back. He'd always avoided men like George, men with big ideas and big plans. They seemed dangerous. They seemed wrong. Maybe I'm the one who's been wrong.

  The landscape changed as they drove south. Mountain forests gave way to dry rolling hills, covered in brush and stunted pines. Small villages, built of the native mud, perched on hilltops on either side of the road. Some houses were whitewashed or painted in a variety of bright colours while others had been left bare and brown. Only the tall white crosses that marked the Catholic churches in the village centres afforded a unifying mark. He found no comfort in seeing them.

  "There's a little town east of here, they say has been inhabited for over eight hundred years,” said George. “Bunch of artists make it their home now."

  "Is that what this Goddard fellow is, an artist?"

  "In a way,” said George. “He works like an artist."

  "Sits around dreaming all day and drinking all night?” said Max, thinking of the artists he had met in New York.

  "Don't know about the drinking part,” said George, “but dreaming is a big part of it. Dreaming about what might be possible and what seems impossible and about the path between the two. Trying different things out to see what solves the problem he's discovered with the world. Hard work, experiment, intuition—it's all pretty much the same thing."

  "Then he's an artist?"

  "A rose by any other name will smell as sweet. Mr. Goddard paints the sky with his brushes and builds sculptures out of steel and fire."

  With that, George turned over and went to sleep. Max watched him for a while and then turned back to look at the passing land as it transformed itself again, this time into a flat desert plateau, cooking under a southwestern sun.

  Just like descriptions of hell, thought Max, a barren wasteland filled with vipers and scorpions. He drifted into a restless sleep, haunted by visions of demons, all wearing George's enigmatic smile.

  * * * *

  After Albuquerque, they headed east and south. Dri
ves became scarcer as the land grew emptier. The few cars they saw didn't stop and Max took to cursing them as they disappeared in clouds of dust. The next day was no better and even George's placid temper began to fray. Sunset found them walking south on a deserted stretch of road.

  "Looks like we'll be camping again tonight,” said Max.

  "I hope not,” said George. “I hate sleeping when I'm wet."

  Max looked up. To the west, rolling brown hills stretched until they met the dark purple of mountain. To the south and east, the land was flat and the colour of ash. Low brush and the occasional stand of cactus formed the only break in the landscape.

  "This place looks like it hasn't seen rain in years,” he said.

  George pointed to a low bank of cloud hovering on the western horizon, pearl and pink in the setting sun.

  "Red sky at night, sailor's delight,” quoted Max.

  "Maybe,” said George. “But we're not at sea now. You keep your eye on that delight while I look for shelter."

  The bank of cloud became a towering thunderhead, grim and black against the darkening sky. Lightning flickered across its face like ill-suppressed rage, as it built and piled toward them. The low grumble of thunder reached Max's ears moments before the first few drops of rain spattered in the dirt at his feet.

  "Over here,” George called from a low stand of scrub. “This is the best we're going to find."

  Max shook his head. “Shouldn't shelter under trees in a lightning storm."

  "You got a better idea?"

  "Down there.” Max pointed to a rock overhang. It perched halfway up the side of a narrow cut in the land. The darkness at its back suggested a cave.

  "Ten minutes from now, that whole thing is going to be underwater. Trust me on this one, boy. Better to chance a lightning strike than sure death by drowning."

  Max shook his head at the doubtful shelter of the trees. Ain't going to rain that hard, he thought.

  Another flash and a crack close at hand. The rain paused and Max looked back at the storm. A grey curtain moved toward him with the speed of a locomotive. He had a vision of himself overwhelmed, swept along by forces he didn't understand.

  "You going to join me?” called George.

  Max ran to the shelter of the trees before the storm could take him.

  * * * *

  "No rain like a desert rain,” said George the next morning. He shared out the last of the food they had bought in Albuquerque. It made a meagre breakfast. Combined with the steaming dampness of his clothes, that should have made Max feel sorry for himself.

  Like water in the desert. He had never understood that expression before. What had been sere and barren now teemed with colour and life. Flowers had sprouted from cactus tips and cracks in the earth. Insects crawled and lizards hopped and birds sang. Even the air seemed brighter, the sky bluer, the earth rich in its browns and yellows.

  "It's beautiful, George."

  "That it is,” said George. “It's a beautiful planet. You don't know how lucky you are to live on it."

  "Who are you, George?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "I think it might,” said Max.

  George didn't answer. He bent and picked up a rock and threw it into the bush. A lizard darted across an open space. A small cloud of insects, chased by a brightly feathered bird, flew upward. “Yesterday,” said George, “all that would have raised was dust. Who can say what tomorrow will bring?"

  Max shook his head and looked away.

  "Did you ever read the book Robinson Crusoe?” asked George.

  Max nodded. “A long time ago."

  "Crusoe knew where his home was, even knew how to get there in a general sort of way. But he lacked the resources, the specific skills, to make the journey. Hell, he barely had what it took to survive."

  "Until Friday came along."

  "That's right. Friday saved Crusoe."

  "I thought it was the other way around,” said Max.

  "Depends on who's telling the story. It's all a matter of perspective. Anyway, one of us is Crusoe and one of us is Friday."

  "Which of us is which?"

  "It all depends on your point of view."

  "You say the oddest things sometimes, George."

  "Do I? Well, never mind. Let's hit the road. I got a feeling today is going to be our lucky day."

  * * * *

  "This is it?” Max looked down the dusty main street lined with one- and two-storey clapboard buildings. It was bigger than the other places they had passed since Albuquerque but still didn't amount to more than a few thousand people gathered around a crossroads and a railway station.

  "What were you expecting? New York?"

  "I don't know. I had built it up somehow in my mind."

  "People have a bad habit of doing that,” said George. “Roswell is the metropolis of Eastern New Mexico. It's a centre for mining and cattle ranching and, most important, of the American space program."

  "The American what?"

  "Well, maybe I'm overstating the case. America is a great country but sometimes it's too sure of its own greatness. It doesn't think the rest of the world matters. America won't be ready for space until someone else is. For now, the space program consists of one man..."

  "Robert Goddard?"

  "The very one. One man operating on a meagre research grant and a single launch site."

  "What's he launching? Balloons?"

  "An excellent guess! They are powered by hot gases, they do go up in the air and eventually they come down again. Though that's not my department, as one of my colleagues will become famous for saying. Rockets, my young friend, Mr. Goddard launches rockets."

  "Like fireworks?"

  "Oh, the youth of today are so woefully undereducated."

  George indicated a sign that read Braxton's Grocerteria and Emporium. Max followed him into the dimly lit interior. A thickset man, presumably Braxton, watched suspiciously as George made his selections from the well-stocked shelves.

  "You fellas new around here?” he said, as George deposited his purchases on the counter.

  "If you could cut us off a nice hunk of that hard cheese I'd be much obliged, Mr. Braxton,” said George.

  The man didn't move until George produced a ten-dollar bill from his bottomless knapsack.

  A smile appeared as quickly as desert flowers after rain.

  "Braxton died. I'm Scarpelli. Luigi Scarpelli. But everyone just calls me Lou. This the cheese you wanted?"

  George nodded and Lou cut a large wedge of pale yellow and placed it on the scales. He tallied up the bill and shook his head.

  "That's three forty five for the lot. You got anything smaller? This early in the day, it's tough to make change."

  George left the ten sitting on the counter. “You have something that may be more valuable to us than food. I'm looking for a man."

  Lou glanced from the ten to George's face and back again.

  "What makes you think I can help you?"

  "You're an important man, Lou. You knew we weren't from around here. That implies to me you got a pretty good sense of who belongs and who doesn't."

  "Maybe.” Lou licked his lips and his eyes flickered to the screen door as if he were expecting sudden intruders. “You guys from the government?"

  George laughed, the warm comforting laugh this time. “Do I look like I'm from the government?"

  Lou laughed, too, a dry nervous chuckle. “Well, you never know, do you? This new deal is supposed to change a lot of things."

  "Don't worry, Lou, I'm not from the government.” George paused and laughed again. “We're not revenuers—let me put your mind at rest."

  George pulled the empty flask from his knapsack and pulled out the cork. He shoved the bottle into Lou's surprised face. “That smell like revenuers?"

  Lou relaxed. The ten disappeared into his shirt pocket.

  "We're looking for a man named Goddard. Dr. Robert Goddard."

  Lou looked puzzled. “The Doc's name is Hen
derson. He's been here for ... wait a second. There's a professor comes out here every summer."

  "Maybe,” said George.

  "Don't know if his name is Goddard. He has a big place east of here. There's a couple of young fellows work for him, college kids, I guess. They pick up his supplies. Don't talk much though."

  "Where's his place?"

  "Go down to the crossroads and east about eight miles. There's a bunch of ranches that way—nothing much else until you get to the Texas border. He's on an abandoned spread north of the road. Just look for the No Trespassing signs."

  "Dr. Goddard likes his privacy."

  "That's for sure,” said Lou. “I don't know what he's up to but I heard rumours. Explosions and funny lights in the sky. It's kind of spooky."

  "I'm sure you'll get used to it,” said George. He pulled out another five. “Do you suppose you could find us a ride?"

  "Hell, for five bucks, I'll close the store and take you myself.” Lou hung a closed sign on the window and led George and Max out back to his truck. “But don't say I didn't warn you. They don't like visitors."

  * * * *

  A large ‘no trespassing’ sign hung in the middle of the closed gate. Smaller neatly printed signs warned of dogs and declared that trespassers would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Someone had scrawled at the bottom of the latter sign: This means you!

  "Do you want me to wait? Or come back for you?” asked Lou.

  "We'll be fine,” said George.

  Lou shrugged, pulled a u-turn in the middle of the road, and headed back to town. George watched the trail of dust until it faded in the distance.

  "Come on,” he said.

  Max hesitated.

  "What's the problem?” asked George. “Afraid of a few signs?"

  "No. Dogs."

  George laughed. “Leave the dogs to me."

  A heavy chain and padlock fastened the gate. George pulled the barbed wire apart and ushered Max through. Max performed the same courtesy for George and in a few moments they were walking down the dusty track to a distant ranch house.

  They were a hundred yards from the house when several large dogs came running towards them. Max froze. George kept walking as if the dogs were wagging their tails in greeting instead of circling with bared teeth, low growls in their chests. George knelt and held out his hand to the lead dog, a broad-shouldered shepherd with brindled fur. He stared directly in the dog's eyes.