DAVID ROME
It depressed him; the long swaying tunnel of the train carriage—in one far-back corner of his mind was an immigrants’ journey with his mother and father, brother and sister, by train from the coast to the farming country where they had settled. And the smell! He slumped deeper into his seat and watched the night-blur of lights through the window. He supposed he would get used to it; maybe it would be better, away from the cities.
His arm was aching again. They’d warned him about that; ache and itch, keeping him awake nights, even though it wasn’t there anymore. He flexed the fingers of the hand. Carefully, he brought the tip of his forefinger to the ball of his thumb. Not bad. He opened the fingers again. Looked at the back of his new hand. Whatever it was they used, looked shinier than real skin, smoother.
The train stopped. It was a scheduled stop. He sat looking out. It was a clear night, full of stars. And hardware: a slow procession of pin-point lights arcing over the train; bands of scrap metal, human-made, most of it containing human scrap too. The train lurched. A door at the end of the carriage opened and a man entered.
The train began moving. The man moved towards the empty seat next to Robinson. Robinson stared at him coldly, trying to scare him off, but then the seat springs creaked and he was there; big, half of his warm behind spilling over into Robinson’s side of the seat. Robinson watched the window as the train picked up speed.
“Serviceman?”
“What?” Robinson turned his head.
“I saw the bag.” The fat man nodded towards Robinson’s Navy bag riding the rack above them.
“Oh.”
“How long’ve you been...?”
“Ashore?”
“Yes.”
“Five hours.”
Robinson sat, and waited. The night sleeked past the window; red, green, yellow lights. We owe you a lot... Robinson thought.
“We owe you a lot,” the fat man said.
Robinson moved his hand on his knee—his left hand. The fat man’s eyes fell to it.
“Don’t think we’ll ever forget it,” he said.
“Have you got kids?” Robinson asked.
“Boy and a girl. My boy’ll be old enough for the draft this year. If the war’s still on.”
Robinson said nothing.
“He wants to go Navy. Maybe you’ll watch out for him…”
“I won’t be going back.”
“Oh—no, I guess not. The hand ...”
“Not just the hand.”
“What, then?”
“I’ve done my three-year hitch.”
“Hell. You don’t look—”
“Old enough?”
The fat man said nothing.
“I am,” Robinson said.
* * * *
It was dawn when they reached Freeman County. The fat man was asleep, and Robinson was glad to leave him—never having known his name.
He hadn’t expected any brass bands, and there weren’t any. But his father, and his two sisters were waiting. He lugged his Navy bag down the train steps. He stood for a moment, watching them. And they stood watching him.
“There he is!”
Alicia ran forward.
“Johnny!”
“Hi, honey!”
He kissed Alicia, and then Patti, and then shook hands with his father.
“Son.”
“Dad.” He realised it was raining.
Christmas, Robinson thought. He’s ancient.
“Car’s waiting. Your Mum’s at home.”
“How is she?”
“Better. Having you back’s going to make all the difference.”
They plodded down the platform. Nobody had mentioned his hand. He knew they’d be curious later, Alicia, anyway. She’d want him to show her how it worked; you couldn’t beat a girl-mechanic for curiosity. The rain fell. The smell was better here, the air clearer: he’d get used to it. Splash, splash, splash. Rain falling from the eaves of the old station.
Jack wouldn’t be at home, waiting. He’d got used to that, which meant you could get used to anything. And then, right overhead, there was a great sizzling flash of greenish-blue light. It filled the sky; slowly it dwindled and died. They all stood watching the small orange speck that was left fall and tilt away over the horizon.
“Oh ...” Patti said.
“That was one of theirs,” Alicia said, quickly.
In the car, they swept furiously along, Alicia at the wheel. She pointed out the places that were the same and the faces that had changed; a warm tin world racing across the flat country; they hadn’t believed he was really back, and safe, and neither had he until now. Now they relaxed. Talked all at once. The rain stopped and the wintry sun broke over the hills far off.
The big house had been painted, for his homecoming. On the step, he held his mother close, surprised that she didn’t cry.
“What about you?” she said.
“What’s that, Mum?”
“Big strapping man.”
“No,” he laughed.
“Yes,” she said. “You’re a man. And they can’t ever take you back there again.” She looked at the sky and he saw her eyes fill with emotion. Then she laughed quickly.
“Lemonade.”
“No!”
“Yes. Big glass jug of it, ice-cold, waiting inside.”
“In this weather!”
“It’s summer,” she said. And to all of them: “Oh dear God, it’s summer again.”
They’d shared the room. He and Jack. Now there was just John Robinson, dumping bis Navy bag down on the quilted bed under the eaves’ window—and waiting for it to bounce right back up again.
Things like that: and the smell—of earth, when he was used to the pure canned air of the warships—they’d take some getting used to again.
They’d given him this time alone, knowing he would want it—maybe wanting it themselves. Robinson opened his Navy bag, laid out clean clothes; he washed in the bathroom and came back to dress.
There was a picture of big-brother Jack on the wall. Dark-haired, long-jawed, the front tooth missing after a forgotten fight or fall. He’d been twelve years old when the picture was taken.
They came upstairs.
“Johnny . . . ,” they said—his sisters. “What’s it like?”
“Well—it’s good not to be going back.”
“Is it really so terrible that grown-ups can’t—?”
He nodded. “Vertigo; space-fright; whatever you call it, they can’t go out there. Only a few—only those who’re highly trained. But not in thousands, not the way they’re needed to fight the war. That’s why—”
The wintry sky outside the window was split by a distant thunder.
P33 Spacebird, Robinson thought. Sounds like she’s going into action.
Then he thought, Christmas! I’ve just remembered. Tomorrow it’s my birthday.
Fifteen would sure seem old.