town. “Let’s hurry,” she begged, “
please!
Don’t you want to find Father?”
“Yes,” Charles Wallace said, “but not blindly. How can we help him if we don’t know what we’re up against? And it’s obvious we’ve been brought here to help him, not just to find him.” He walked briskly up the steps and knocked at the door. They waited. Nothing happened. Then Charles Wallace sawa bell, and this he rang. They could hear the bell buzzing in the house, and the sound of it echoed down the street. After a moment the mother figure opened the door. All up and down the street other doors opened, but only a crack, and eyes peered toward the three children and the woman looking fearfully out the door at them.
“What do you want?” she asked. “It isn’t paper time yet; we’ve hadmilk time; we’ve had this month’s Puller Prush Person; and I’ve given my Decency Donations regularly. All my papers are in order.”
“I think your little boy dropped his ball,” Charles Wallace said, holding it out.
The woman pushed the ball away. “Oh, no! The children in our section
never
drop balls! They’re all perfectly trained. We haven’t had an Aberration for three years.”
All up and downthe block, heads nodded in agreement.
Charles Wallace moved closer to the woman and looked past her into the house. Behind her in the shadows he could see the little boy, who must have been about his own age.
“You can’t come in,” the woman said. “You haven’tshown me any papers. I don’t have to let you in if you haven’t any papers.”
Charles Wallace held the ball out beyond the woman so thatthe little boy could see it. Quick as a flash the boy leaped forward and grabbed the ball from Charles Wallace’s hand, then darted back into the shadows. The woman went very white, opened her mouth as though to say something, then slammed the door in their faces instead. All up and down the street doors slammed.
“What are they afraid of?” Charles Wallace asked. “What’s the matter with them?”
“Don’t
you
know?” Meg asked him. “Don’t you know what all this is about, Charles?”
“Not yet,” Charles Wallace said. “Not even an inkling. And I’m trying. But I didn’t get through anywhere. Not even a chink. Let’s go.” He stumped down the steps.
After several blocks the houses gave way to apartment buildings; at least Meg felt sure that that was what they must be. They were fairly tall, rectangularbuildings, absolutely plain, each window, each entrance exactly like every other. Then, coming toward them down the street, was a boy about Calvin’s age riding a machine that was something like a combination of a bicycle and a motorcycle. It had the slimness and lightness of a bicycle, and yet as the foot pedals turned they seemed to generate an unseen source of power, so that the boy couldpedal very slowly and yet move along the street quite swiftly. As he reached each entrance he thrust one hand into a bag he wore slung over his shoulder, pulled out a roll of papers,and tossed it into the entrance. It might have been Dennys or Sandy or any one of hundreds of boys with a newspaper route in any one of hundreds of towns back home, and yet, as with the children playing ball and jumpingrope, there was something wrong about it. The rhythm of the gesture never varied. The paper flew in identically the same arc at each doorway, landed in identically the same spot. It was impossible for anybody to throw with such consistent perfection.
Calvin whistled. “I wonder if they play baseball here?”
As the boy saw them he slowed down on his machine and stopped, his hand arrested as itwas about to plunge into the paper bag. “What are you kids doing out on the street?” he demanded. “Only route boys are allowed out now, you know that.”
“No, we don’t know it,” Charles Wallace said. “We’re strangers here. How about telling us something about this place?”
“You mean you’ve had your entrance
please!
Don’t you want to find Father?”
“Yes,” Charles Wallace said, “but not blindly. How can we help him if we don’t know what we’re up against? And it’s obvious we’ve been brought here to help him, not just to find him.” He walked briskly up the steps and knocked at the door. They waited. Nothing happened. Then Charles Wallace sawa bell, and this he rang. They could hear the bell buzzing in the house, and the sound of it echoed down the street. After a moment the mother figure opened the door. All up and down the street other doors opened, but only a crack, and eyes peered toward the three children and the woman looking fearfully out the door at them.
“What do you want?” she asked. “It isn’t paper time yet; we’ve hadmilk time; we’ve had this month’s Puller Prush Person; and I’ve given my Decency Donations regularly. All my papers are in order.”
“I think your little boy dropped his ball,” Charles Wallace said, holding it out.
The woman pushed the ball away. “Oh, no! The children in our section
never
drop balls! They’re all perfectly trained. We haven’t had an Aberration for three years.”
All up and downthe block, heads nodded in agreement.
Charles Wallace moved closer to the woman and looked past her into the house. Behind her in the shadows he could see the little boy, who must have been about his own age.
“You can’t come in,” the woman said. “You haven’tshown me any papers. I don’t have to let you in if you haven’t any papers.”
Charles Wallace held the ball out beyond the woman so thatthe little boy could see it. Quick as a flash the boy leaped forward and grabbed the ball from Charles Wallace’s hand, then darted back into the shadows. The woman went very white, opened her mouth as though to say something, then slammed the door in their faces instead. All up and down the street doors slammed.
“What are they afraid of?” Charles Wallace asked. “What’s the matter with them?”
“Don’t
you
know?” Meg asked him. “Don’t you know what all this is about, Charles?”
“Not yet,” Charles Wallace said. “Not even an inkling. And I’m trying. But I didn’t get through anywhere. Not even a chink. Let’s go.” He stumped down the steps.
After several blocks the houses gave way to apartment buildings; at least Meg felt sure that that was what they must be. They were fairly tall, rectangularbuildings, absolutely plain, each window, each entrance exactly like every other. Then, coming toward them down the street, was a boy about Calvin’s age riding a machine that was something like a combination of a bicycle and a motorcycle. It had the slimness and lightness of a bicycle, and yet as the foot pedals turned they seemed to generate an unseen source of power, so that the boy couldpedal very slowly and yet move along the street quite swiftly. As he reached each entrance he thrust one hand into a bag he wore slung over his shoulder, pulled out a roll of papers,and tossed it into the entrance. It might have been Dennys or Sandy or any one of hundreds of boys with a newspaper route in any one of hundreds of towns back home, and yet, as with the children playing ball and jumpingrope, there was something wrong about it. The rhythm of the gesture never varied. The paper flew in identically the same arc at each doorway, landed in identically the same spot. It was impossible for anybody to throw with such consistent perfection.
Calvin whistled. “I wonder if they play baseball here?”
As the boy saw them he slowed down on his machine and stopped, his hand arrested as itwas about to plunge into the paper bag. “What are you kids doing out on the street?” he demanded. “Only route boys are allowed out now, you know that.”
“No, we don’t know it,” Charles Wallace said. “We’re strangers here. How about telling us something about this place?”
“You mean you’ve had your entrance
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