Space Race

by Sylvia Waugh

  And, to his surprise, the machine flickered into life and seemed to answer him.

  “The way of Ormingat is to protect.”

  No more was said, and Vateelin concluded that the phrase he had uttered was yet another key word provoking an automated response.

  The slow hours crept to midnight, the start of the final day. The penultimate globule lined up obediently and nine lights in formation swung over the face of the stellar clock like a rod. Only one remained to join the line. It traveled alone in an odd orbit, swinging over the pole as its fellows waved their wand in unison across the clock's equator.

  Then, once more, the screen began to glow. “Prepare for takeoff,” said the voice. “You will be leaving the ship for a short time. Put on your outer garment. There will not be much time.”

  In a daze, Vateelin picked up the sheepskin coat, leaving the empty document case on the seat beside him.

  “You have received permission?” he said to the screen.

  “Now fasten both sets of bands around you,” it continued, ignoring the question. “This will be a short trip, an unusual one for this vessel, but achievable.”

  Vateelin did as he was told, addressing no more questions to the screen, accepting that the instructions must mean that they were going to Casselton. For where else would they go on an unusually short trip?

  “Ready?” said the voice.

  “Yes,” said Vateelin firmly.

  Something like a firework flew up out of the earth beside the Scott Monument. A spark crossed the sky and was barely noticed. And within minutes the ship had landed in Casselton, in the grounds of the General Hospital.

  “You have one hour,” said the voice. “That should be more than enough. The ship must seal and selfprotect in the hours before detonation.”

  The final globule flickered past the wand, still out of sync but growing ever closer. It was the last thing Vateelin observed before he left the ship and grew to human size again.

  Each bed had a large, white-cuffed red stocking hanging from the bedrail. If Jamie had been an inmate, the ward would have been riotous at six in the morning even if he had still been hauling his drip around. But the five patients left in over Christmas were all ill enough or sad enough to need some encouragement.

  At the usual waking hour for Christmas morning (and well beyond) three of them were still sleeping.

  Evie was already awake. She was waiting for her mam and dad to come through the doorway. She was convinced that they had stayed in the hospital grounds all night, ready to reenter as soon as the doors were open.

  The other one awake was Thomas, but he pretended he was still asleep. He was wrapped up not only in his sheets but in a feeling of total misery. He was waiting for Vateelin, and Vateelin had not come and had given no sign or signal of his coming.

  Nurses came and went. The day gradually began in earnest; the stockings took precedence over bathing and breakfast. That was the established routine for Christmas day. Kirsty was back on duty and twice as cheerful, if that was possible.

  “Happy Christmas, Thomas,” said Kirsty, coming to his bedside, giving him a hug, and handing him the stocking he had not bothered to reach out for. “There's a special package from your friend Stella. And Jamie's dad brought something for you—you remember Jamie. The rest are all from Santa Claus himself. And if they're not, I'm sure I don't know who sent them!”

  Thomas took the gifts automatically and silently, just as he would take his breakfast.

  The presents from Stella were not actually in the stocking. They were in a separate bag lying at the foot of the bed. Thomas opened them to find a model of the old Flying Scotsman, and a book about all of the trains in the Railway Museum at York. Ordinarily Thomas, who loved trains, would have been delighted. But his anxiety at being stranded in the hospital ruined whatever appreciation he might have had.

  He almost threw Mickey's card away with the wrappings but noticed it just in time. He opened the envelope and read his friend's message, which filled the inside flap. It was written in very small, neat writing.

  Hello Thomas—I no you mite not get this card I hope your dad has come for you. I no you told me the truth . I kept the secret but if you get stuck please come home to Belthorp. Your dad will come for you but if he's a long time you mite as well come back here til he comes you cud get on telly again. Your friend for always Happy Xmas from Mickey Trent.

  Mickey might not be the world's best speller, but, as usual, what he said made some sense.

  Next came Jamie's parcel. The die-cast model of a silver plane would normally have been something to treasure. Thomas fingered it briefly, put it to one side, and opened the Christmas card. A single sheet of paper fell out. Jamie's writing was big, bold, and wobbly. His spelling—surprisingly, perhaps—was nearly perfect.

  At the top of the page was a properly printed letter heading:

  The Sunflower Retirement Home Kenton Corner Casselton

  Dear Sammy,

  I am writing from home but my mam told me not to put our address on the letter. So if you want to write to me send it care of Mrs. Armstrong at the above address Mrs. Armstrong is my great-granny. She's my dad's gran and she's nearly ninety you would like her. That can be our line of comunication.

  I am writing to tell you that I think you are a spaceboy stuck on Earth by mistake. I think you come from a different plannet. I know about you seeing the crash on Walgate Hill. Is that how you got stuck? I don't know how I can help you but I will if I can. I know how to smuggle things because my dad is a customs officer. Just let me know if you want me to do anything. I am coming to the hospital the Wednesday after Christmas for a checkup. I'll try to get my dad to bring me then I could come along and see you if you are still there. My mam doesn't understand about people from other planets. Yours faithfully, Jamie Martin.

  P.S. Nobody knows what I think but me.

  Thomas lay back thinking of his old friend Mickey and his new friend Jamie. He did not weep, but his heart filled with tears. Why could he not just be a real Earth boy? Why could his father not just be an ordinary Earthling? It would be so lovely to have a great-granny of his very own like Jamie, and a mother and brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts. And to have a real and lasting place here on Earth.

  Listlessly he put the presents to one side.

  He closed his eyes and, almost as in prayer, whispered softly enough for no one to hear, “Where are you, Vateelin? Why have you not come for me?”

  Evie's family were the first to arrive, heaped up with parcels and softly singing “Jingle Bells.” The little girl was kissed and cuddled by her mam and dad and had an extra parcel thrust at her by her older brother, who said gruffly, “That's for you from me.”

  A few minutes later, the sad little woman who came each day to visit the infant in the corner cot came in with a taller, older friend who might have been her sister.

  Danny Joicey, in the next cot, was recovering after a very tricky operation.

  “He's doing fine,” said Kirsty to the company of Joiceys who came in to visit and made the ward just a little bit too noisy. Rules were relaxed for Christmas day and the ward was empty enough to make it unnecessary to limit the number of visitors per bed.

  The older boy in the bed nearest the bathroom had very quiet visitors, a middle-aged couple visiting their only child.

  Thomas was the only one who had no visitors at all.

  It hurt.

  He was used to Christmas being very special and very loving. And here he was alone and feeling lost. Other children had relations to spare. He had only ever had his father. And Stella—but Stella wasn't quite a relation, was she? Earthlings were very clear about that.

  Thomas lay back watching the others, automatically composing in his head the things he would say about them if he were writing it all down. Habit dies hard. Observing had been part of his life for so long that he saw things other children his age might well have missed.

  Kirsty was specially attentive, but Thomas
barely looked at her. His decision not to speak held firm. He picked up the book about the trains at York, began to read it and to examine minutely all of the pictures.

  “That's the Mallard,” said Kirsty, looking over his shoulder.

  Thomas nodded briefly and turned the page as soon as he felt it not too rude to do so.

  The day passed slowly. Christmas dinner and tea were dutifully eaten. Because of all the visitors toing and froing, no attempt was made to have the children eating at the center table. Each bed became more than ever its own little island.

  After tea, there was nothing for Thomas to do but lie back and wait yet again.

  This time, though, the waiting took another form, a form more frightening. Thomas found that not only could he pretend amnesia, he could somehow cultivate it. With effort, he made his eyes see nothing, his ears hear nothing. Then the muscles of his body relaxed completely, with final twitches in his arms and legs.

  “Thomas,” said Kirsty briskly, alarmed at the boy's trancelike appearance. “Thomas.”

  At her voice Thomas came to life again with a jump, as if he had fallen from a ledge. He looked at the smiling face and, unthinkingly, smiled back.

  “That's better,” said Kirsty, straightening his sheet and tucking him up neatly. “That is much better. I'm going home now. Hope you've not minded too much your Christmas with us. In years to come, perhaps you'll enjoy the memory.”

  The thought of years to come was enough to make him fully aware again of his miserable state. He very deliberately veiled his eyes with indifference, as if it were a third eyelid.

  Thomas was relieved when Cornelia came on duty. She was quieter and much more serious than Kirsty. It would not be so hard to lie waiting and thinking all evening and into the night.

  The waiting became less hopeful with every hour that passed.

  What do I expect? Vateelin to come here and claim me? That wouldn't work. He would be asked all sorts of questions, to which he would not be able to give any proper answers. Will he ring the hospital and leave a message for me? That might be easy. He could send me some instructions about what to do next. That's what I would do if I were Vateelin and he were Tonitheen!

  Toward eleven o'clock Thomas fell asleep and dreamed of Stella. It was summer. They were walking in Waylie's Wood, carrying a basket full of picnic food. Vateelin was not there. Vateelin was nowhere in sight. They sat down on a tartan rug and opened their sandwiches and drank cups of coffee from a flask. And Vateelin definitely was not there.

  Thomas woke up crying. The one thing he wanted at that moment was to be cuddled by Stella and told that everything would be all right.

  Cornelia, attentive as ever, heard the sobbing and came to see what she could do.

  “What's wrong, Thomas?” she said. The covers on his bed were all crumpled and his pillows were awry. Cornelia began to straighten them.

  “There, there now,” she said. “Let me make you comfortable.”

  She felt his brow and thought that, if not feverish, he was certainly overheated. Hospital beds often feel too hot at night.

  “Would you like a cool drink?” she said.

  The last time Cornelia had found him sobbing, Thomas had stifled the sobs and just listened to her quietly. This time he made no attempt to hold back his tears. He sobbed openly, reaching up with his arms and clinging to the nurse's aide so that she could not finish straightening the sheet. The day had been so very, very lonely.

  “What is it, love?” she said. “What do you want? Shall I fetch the doctor?”

  “I want to go home,” said Thomas. “I want to go home with Stella.”

  He gripped Cornelia's hands tightly.

  “I'm Thomas Derwent,” he said, “and my home is in Belthorp. Mrs. Dalrymple looks after me. Please ask her to come and take me home.”

  Cornelia wanted very much to go and tell others what was happening, but first she had to soothe and settle her young patient. She gently released her hands from his, laid him back on his pillow, and tucked in his blankets.

  “Now, Thomas,” she said, “try to go to sleep again. I will tell Dr. Jones, who's on duty tonight, all that you have said. I am sure your Mrs. Dalrymple will come and take you home tomorrow, but it's nearly midnight now. There's nothing we can do till morning. I'll fetch you a glass of barley water. Would you like some ice in it?”

  Thomas nodded. The crying had stopped and he was ready to agree to anything. Vateelin had failed him. But Stella was still anxious to take him home. That was better than nothing. Yet it was not something to be happy about. Tonitheen at that moment felt as if he were dying, as if his own Vateelin mesht were already dead.

  He turned restlessly on his pillow. The night would be long.

  Then he found himself uttering words he had no right to remember, in the quietest of voices so that no one in the ward could hear.

  “Keldu,” he murmured. “Sha Keldu roon.”

  And the spirit of his own mother enfolded him and lulled him to sleep. Yet somehow in dreams, Keldu was Stella, because love is love is love.

  Patrick stood awhile outside the hospital, studying, watching.

  Now, at long last, he was in sight of his objective. All he needed to do was walk through the casualty department (the only outer door open at this time of night), down the corridor to the left, and then along past three side rooms to the children's ward.

  Would anyone ask him where he was going at two in the morning on the Feast of Stephen? Would anyone challenge his right to be there?

  No.

  The power of the spaceship would go with him. It was not, after all, so very great a feat. Science fiction is full of so-called force fields, invisible barriers that protect those inside from harm. Patrick's force field was much simpler. It was nearer to the ancient, but true, cloak of invisibility. He himself underwent no physical change. But illusion, a sort of mammoth sleight of hand, rendered him totally unnoticeable. This was Ormingat science, the magic not of supernatural power but of pure scientific fact. People really can be made to see no more than they are meant to see.

  The doors to the emergency and accident department opened automatically as Patrick approached. He went in and the doors slid together again. So the doors at least knew that he was there. The receptionist behind her glass panel was totally unaware of him, though he walked right past her. Patients and their friends or family, sitting in rows in front of a television set, did not even look in his direction. The message on the VDU warned that there was a waiting time of up to three hours.

  Patrick walked right across the waiting room and out through the swing doors into the hospital corridor. He passed an orderly pushing an old man in a wheelchair. The orderly was vaguely aware of someone passing by but did not look his way. It was not necessary for Patrick to be invisible. He was not invisible. He was simply unobserved.

  The nurse at the desk in the children's ward did not observe the late-night visitor. The nurse's aide attending a patient in one of the cots did not observe him.

  Thomas was in a deep sleep, dreaming of walking with his father up a snow-clad hill and seeing the field where the barn burned down. They were well wrapped up and cozy together, looking forward to a nice hot dinner on a cold, cold day. There was a lot of laughter in that walk and an overspill of happiness. So when some sound outside the dream brought him back to wakefulness he yearned to stay safely asleep.

  Then he became aware of what had disturbed him.

  The curtain round his alcove was moving. Cornelia coming to see him again? He closed his eyes and kept his arms still and tucked under the blankets. He did not want to talk about the dreadful decision he had made.

  “Thomas,” said Patrick quietly, coming close to him and sitting on the edge of his bed. “Thomas.”

  “Father!” said Thomas, sitting bolt upright. “You've come!”

  “I've come, Tonitheen,” said Patrick. “Did you not know I would?”

  Thomas clung round his father's shoulders, hugging him and sobbi
ng.

  “Oh, Vateelin, Vateelin, Vateelin mesht,” he cried.

  Patrick stroked his son's head and murmured, “There, there. It will be all right. Don't worry, Tonitheen ban.”

  For a few seconds, or maybe minutes, nothing more was said. Then Thomas remembered his betrayal. “I told them I was Thomas Derwent,” he said. “I didn't mean to, but I thought …”

  “It doesn't matter,” said Patrick. “After all, you are Thomas Derwent. You have been Thomas Derwent for five years. It will soon be sorted out.”

  Thomas was bewildered.

  “You'll explain to Stella?” he said. “You'll tell the nurses? And everybody?”

  “Not quite,” said Patrick. “Not in the way you mean. Do you not wonder why no one is here asking me who I am? Do you not wonder how I got in here tonight?”

  Thomas gave him a puzzled look. “What about Cornelia?” he said. “She must know you are here.”

  “No one knows, Thomas Tonitheen,” said Patrick, “and no one ever shall know. That is how it has been arranged. I am here in secret.”

  Thomas gave a worried look at the curtain and whispered, “They'll hear us.”

  “They won't,” said Patrick. “We can leave here together, totally undetected. That is the power of Ormingat.”

  “But Stella will be coming for me tomorrow to take me home,” said Thomas, struggling to make sense of everything. “What will she think?”

  “Would you rather go with her, son?” said Patrick softly. “It is a possibility. It can be arranged. I can leave without you, but then we would never meet again, not in this life.”

  Thomas did not speak and Patrick realized how difficult this was for a child to understand—Earth child, Ormingat child, any child at all.

  “I want you to make a free choice,” he said. “I want to be completely fair to you. Once I said I would never lead you into harm's way. I have learned what a false and dangerous promise that was. If you come with me, you take all the risks I take. If you come with me, you face a life such as you have never known, and you might even have to face death. I will not pretend to offer you safety. All I can offer is love.”