All Flesh Is Grass (19 page)

And there was another thought that, underneath my thinking and my speculation, had kept hammering at me, pleading to be heard. And now I let it in: even if we could, should we keep them out? Even in the face of potential danger, should we bar the way to them? For here was an alien life, the first alien life we'd met. Here was the chance for the human race, if it would take the chance, to gain new knowledge, to find new attitudes, to fill in the gaps of knowing and to span the bridge of thought, to understand a non-human viewpoint, to sample new emotion, to face new motivation, to investigate new logic. Was this something we could shy away from? Could we afford to fail to meet this first alien life halfway and work out the differences that might exist between the two of us? For if we failed here, the first time, then we'd fail the second time, and perhaps forever.

Tupper made a noise like a ringing telephone and I wondered how a telephone had gotten in there with that lone, lost cat of his. Perhaps, I thought, the cat had found a telephone, maybe in a booth out in the dark and dripping woods, and would find out where it was and how it might get home.

The telephone rang again and there was a little wait. Then Tupper said to me, most impatiently, “Go ahead and talk. This call is for you.”

“What's that?” I asked, astonished.

“Say hello,” said Tupper. “Go ahead and answer.”

“All right,” I said, just to humor him. “Hello.”

His voice changed to Nancy's voice, so perfect an imitation that I felt the presence of her.

“Brad!” she cried. “Brad, where are you?”

Her voice was high and gasping, almost hysterical.

“Where are you, Brad?” she asked. “Where did you disappear to?”

“I don't know,” I said, “that I can explain. You see …”

“I've looked everywhere,” she said, in a rush of words. “We've looked everywhere. The whole town was looking for you. And then I remembered the phone in father's study, the one without a dial, you know. I knew that it was there, but I'd never paid attention to it. I thought it was a model of some sort, or maybe just a decoration for the desk or a gag of some sort. But there was a lot of talk about the phones in Stiffy's shack, and Ed Adler told me about the phone that was in your office. And it finally dawned on me that maybe this phone that father had was the same as those other phones. But it took an awful long time for it to dawn on me. So I went into his study and I saw the phone and I just stood and looked at it—because I was scared, you see. I was afraid of it and I was afraid to use it because of what I might find out. But I screwed my courage up and I lifted the receiver and there was an open line and I asked for you. I knew it was a crazy thing to do, but … What did you say, Brad?”

“I said I don't know if I can explain exactly where I am. I know where I am, of course, but I can't explain it so I'll be believed.”

“Tell me. Don't fool around. Just tell me where you are.”

“I'm in another world. I walked out of the garden …”

“You walked where!”

“I was just walking in the garden, following Tupper's tracks and …”

“What kind of track is that?”

“Tupper Tyler,” I said. “I guess I forgot to tell you that he had come back.”

“But he couldn't,” she told me. “I remember him. That was ten years ago.”

“He did come back,” I said. “He came back this morning. And then he left again. I was following his tracks …”

“You told me,” she said. “You were following him and you wound up in another world. Where is this other world?”

She was like any other woman. She asked the damndest questions.

“I don't exactly know, except that it's in time. Perhaps only a second away in time.”

“Can you get back?”

“I'm going to try,” I said. “I don't know if I can.”

“Is there anything I can do to help—that the town can do to help?”

“Listen, Nancy, this isn't getting us anywhere. Tell me, where is your father?”

“He's down at your place. There are a lot of people there. Hoping that you will come back.”

“Waiting for me?”

“Well, yes. You see, they looked everywhere and they know you aren't in the village and there are a lot of them convinced that you know all about this …”

“About the barrier, you mean.”

“Yes, that's what I mean.”

“And they are pretty sore?”

“Some of them,” she said.

“Listen, Nancy …”

“Don't say that again. I am listening.”

“Can you go down and see your father?”

“Of course I can,” she said.

“All right. Go down and tell him that when I can get back—if I can get back—I'll need to talk with someone. Someone in authority. Someone high in authority. The President, perhaps, or someone who's close to the President. Maybe someone from the United Nations …”

“But, Brad, you can't ask to see the President!”

“Maybe not,” I said. “But as high as I can get. I have something our government has to know. Not only ours, but all the governments. Your father must know someone he can talk to. Tell him I'm not fooling. Tell him it's important.”

“Brad,” she said. “Brad, you're sure you aren't kidding? Because if you are, this could be an awful mess.”

“Cross my heart,” I said. “I mean it, Nancy, it's exactly as I've said. I'm in another world, an alternate world …”

“Is it a nice world, Brad?”

“It's nice enough,” I said. “There's nothing here but flowers.”

“What kind of flowers?”

“Purple flowers. My father's flowers. The same kind that are back in Millville. The flowers are people, Nancy. They're the ones that put up the barrier.”

“But flowers can't be people, Brad.”

Like I was a kid. Like she had to humor me. Asking me if it was a nice world and telling me that flowers never could be people. All sweet reasonableness.

I held in my anger and my desperation.

“I know they can't,” I said. “But just the same as people. They are intelligent and they can communicate.”

“You have talked with them?”

“Tupper talks for them. He's their interpreter.”

“But Tupper was a drip.”

“Not back here he isn't. He's got things we haven't.”

“What kind of things? Brad, you have to be …”

“You will tell your father?”

“Right away,” she said. “I'll go down to your place …”

“And, Nancy …”

“Yes.”

“Maybe it would be just as well if you didn't tell where I am or how you got in touch. I imagine the village is pretty well upset.”

“They are wild,” said Nancy.

“Tell your father anything you want. Tell him everything. But not the rest of them. He'll know what to tell them. There's no use in giving the village something more to talk about.”

“All right,” she said. “Take care of yourself. Come back safe and sound.”

“Sure,” I said.

“You can get back?”

“I think I can. I hope I can.”

“I'll tell Father what you said. Exactly what you said. He'll get busy on it.”

“Nancy. Don't worry. It'll be all right.”

“Of course I won't. I'll be seeing you.”

“So long, Nancy. Thanks for calling.”

I said to Tupper, “Thank you, telephone.”

He lifted a hand and stretched out a finger at me, stroking it with the finger of the other hand, making the sign for shame.

“Brad has got a girl,” he chanted in a sing-song voice. “Brad has got a girl.”

“I thought you never listened in,” I said, just a little nettled.

“Brad has got a girl! Brad has got a girl! Brad has got a girl!”

He was getting excited about it and the slobber was flying all about his face.

“Cut it out,” I yelled at him. “If you don't cut it out, I'll break your God damn neck.”

He knew I wasn't fooling, so he cut it out.

14

I woke in a blue and silver night and wondered, even as I woke, what had wakened me. I was lying on my back and above me the sky was glimmering with stars. I was not confused. I knew where I was. There was no blind groping back to an old reality. I heard the faint chuckling of the river as it ran between its banks and I smelled the wood smoke that drifted from the campfire.

Something had wakened me. I lay still, for it seemed important that whatever had wakened me, if it were close at hand, should not know that I was awake. There was a sense of fear, or perhaps of expectation. But if it were a sense of fear, it was neither deep nor sharp.

Slowly I twisted my head a bit and when I did I could see the moon, bright and seeming very near, swimming just above the line of scrubby trees that grew on the river bank.

I was lying flat upon the ground, with nothing under me but the hard-packed earth. Tupper had crawled into his hut to sleep, curling up so his feet did not stick out. And if he were still there and sleeping, he was very quiet about it, for I heard no sound from him.

Having turned my head, I lay quietly for a time, listening for a sound to tell me that something prowled the camp. But there was no sound and finally I sat up.

The slope of ground above the camp, silvered by the floodlight of the moon, ran up to touch the night-blue sky—a balanced piece of beauty hanging in the silence, so fragile that one was careful not to speak nor to make any sudden motion, for fear that one might break that beauty and that silence and bring it down, sky and slope together, in a shower of shards.

Carefully I got to my feet, standing in the midst of that fragile world, still wondering what had wakened me.

But there was nothing. The land and sky were poised, as if they stood on tiptoe in a single instant of retarded time. Here, it seemed, was the present frozen, with no past or future, a place where no clock would ever tick nor any word be spoken.

Then something moved upon the hilltop, a man or a manlike thing, running on the ridge crest, black against the sky, lithe and tall and graceful, running with abandon.

I was running, too. Without reason, without purpose, simply running up the slope. Simply knowing there was a man or a manlike thing up there and that I must stand face to face with it, hoping, perhaps, that in this land of emptiness and flowers, in this land of silence and of fragile beauty, it might make some sense, might lend to this strange dimension of space and time some sort of perspective that I could understand.

The manlike thing was still running on the hilltop and I tried to shout to it, but my throat would make no sound and so I kept on running.

The figure must have seen me, for suddenly it stopped and swung around to face me and stood there on the hilltop, looking down at me. And now I saw that while it undoubtedly was of human form, it had a crest of some sort above its head, giving it a birdlike look—as if the head of a cockatoo had been grafted on a human body.

I ran, panting, toward it, and now it moved down the hill to meet me, walking slowly and deliberately and with unconscious grace.

I stopped running and stood still, fighting to regain my breath. There was no need of running any more. I need not run to catch it.

It continued walking down the hill toward me and while its body still stayed black and featureless, I could see that the crest was white, or silver. In the moonlight it was hard to tell if it were white or silver.

My breath came more easily now and I climbed up the hill to meet it. We approached one another slowly, each of us, I suppose, afraid that any other manner of approach might give the other fright.

The manlike thing stopped ten feet or so away and I stopped as well, and now I saw that indeed it was humanoid and that it was a woman, either a naked or an almost naked woman. In the moonlight, the crest upon her head was a thing of shining wonder, but I could not make out if it were a natural appendage or some sort of eccentric hairdo, or perhaps a hat.

The crest was white, but the rest of her was black, a jet black with blue highlights that glinted in the moonlight. And there was about her body an alertness and an awareness and a sense of bubbling life that took my breath away.

She spoke to me in music. It must have been a music, for there seemed to be no words.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I do not understand.”

She spoke again and the trilling of the voice ran across the blue and silver world like a spray of crystal thought, but there was no understanding. I wondered, in despair, if any man of my race could ever understand a language that expressed itself in music, or if, in fact, it was meant to be understood as were the words we used.

I shook my head and she laughed, the laughter making her without any doubt a human—a low and tinkling laugh that was happy and excited.

She held out her hand and took a few quick steps toward me and I took the outstretched hand. And as I took her hand, she turned and ran lightly up the hill and I went running with her. We reached the top of the ridge and continued running, hand in hand, down the other slope, a wild, ecstatic running that was sheer youth and craziness—a running into nothing, for the utter joy of being alive in that heady moonlight.

We were young and drunk with a strange happiness for which there seemed no reason or accounting—drunk with, at least for me, a wild exuberance.

Her grip upon my hand was hard, with a lithe, young strength, and we ran together as if we were one person running—and it seemed to me, indeed, that in some awesome manner I had become a part of her, and that somehow I knew where we were going and why we were going there, but my brain was so seething with this strange happiness that it could not translate the knowledge into terms I understood.

We came down to the creek and splashed across, then ran around the mound where I had found the skulls and on up the second ridge and there, at the top of it, we came upon the picnic.