Facing him, balanced on a broken wall, a light-colored boy of eleven or twelve, wearing dark woolen pants and a parka and offering a tin cup that steamed like a geyser.
"Like some soup?"
Pete's stomach reminded him suddenly that he'd been on the point of eating when he left home. He dropped his shovel.
"Sure would," he agreed. This was no place for a kid-no telling what horrors he might see-but getting food down him was a good idea.
It was bound to be a long job. He took the cup and made to sip, but the soup was hotter even than it looked. The kid was carrying a big vacuum-jug behind him on a strap. Must be efficient.
"You found many dead people?" the boy inquired.
"A few," Pete muttered.
"I never saw anybody dead before. Now I've seen maybe a dozen."
His tone was matter-of-fact, but Pete was shocked. After a pause he said, "Uh-I guess your mom knows you're here?"
"Sure, that's her soup. When she heard about the accident she put on a big pan of it and told us all to wrap up warm and come and help."
Well, okay; you don't tell other people what's good and what's bad for their kids. And it was kind of a constructive action. Pete tried the soup again, found it had cooled quickly in the bitter wind, and swallowed greedily. It was delicious, with big chunks of vegetables in it and strong-scented herbs.
"I was interested to see the dead people," the kid said suddenly.
"My father was killed the other day."
Pete blinked at him.
"Not my real father. I called him that because he adopted me. And my two sisters. It was in the papers, and they even put his picture on TV."
"What does your mom use for this soup?" Pete said, thinking to change a ghoulish subject. "It's great."
"I'll tell her you said so. It's like yeast extract, and any vegetables around, and"-the boy gave a strangely adult shrug-"water, boiled up with marjoram and stuff…Finished?"
"Not quite."
"I only have this one cup, you see, so after it's been drunk from I have to clean it in the snow to kill the germs and go find someone else."
The boy's tone was virtuous. "Did you see my dad's picture on TV?"
"Ah…" Pete's mind raced. "Well, I don't get to watch it too much, you know. I'm pretty tied up with my job."
"Yeah, sure. Just thought you might have seen him." A hint of unhappiness tinged the words. "I miss him a lot…Finished now?"
Pete drained the mug and gave it back. "You tell your mom she makes great soup, okay?" he said, and clapped the boy's shoulder. At the back of his mind he was thinking about Jeannie; she being so much lighter than he, their kids ought to come out just about the same shade as this boy here. If only they were equally bright, equally healthy…
"Sure will," the boy said, and added, struck by a thought, "Say, you need anyone else up here? You're working pretty much on your own, aren't you?"
"Well, we have to spread out because there are so many places to dig," Pete said. He was never at ease talking to children, having had problems when he was a kid himself. His father hadn't died and made the papers, but simply vanished.
"Well, there's lots of us down by the ambulances."
"Us?"
"Sure. We're from the Trainite wat my dad used to run before he died. I'll send someone up to help you-Harry, maybe. He's big. What's your name, so he'll know who to come to?"
"Uh…I'm Pete. Pete Goddard."
"I'm Rick Jones. Okay, someone will be along in a minute!"
"Hey!"
But the kid had gone scrambling and leaping down the trenched mounds of snow. Pete reclaimed his shovel, alarmed. Only this morning at the wat he'd had to guard the occupants as they stood out in the cold while detectives searched for drugs. Having a Trainite partner him…
The hell with it. What mattered was to pull out any more poor bastards who might be buried under this load of white shit.
It was okay. Harry wasn't one of the people he'd met this morning.
He wasn't too much bigger than Pete, but he was fresher. He hardly said more than hello before he started shifting
"Like some soup?"
Pete's stomach reminded him suddenly that he'd been on the point of eating when he left home. He dropped his shovel.
"Sure would," he agreed. This was no place for a kid-no telling what horrors he might see-but getting food down him was a good idea.
It was bound to be a long job. He took the cup and made to sip, but the soup was hotter even than it looked. The kid was carrying a big vacuum-jug behind him on a strap. Must be efficient.
"You found many dead people?" the boy inquired.
"A few," Pete muttered.
"I never saw anybody dead before. Now I've seen maybe a dozen."
His tone was matter-of-fact, but Pete was shocked. After a pause he said, "Uh-I guess your mom knows you're here?"
"Sure, that's her soup. When she heard about the accident she put on a big pan of it and told us all to wrap up warm and come and help."
Well, okay; you don't tell other people what's good and what's bad for their kids. And it was kind of a constructive action. Pete tried the soup again, found it had cooled quickly in the bitter wind, and swallowed greedily. It was delicious, with big chunks of vegetables in it and strong-scented herbs.
"I was interested to see the dead people," the kid said suddenly.
"My father was killed the other day."
Pete blinked at him.
"Not my real father. I called him that because he adopted me. And my two sisters. It was in the papers, and they even put his picture on TV."
"What does your mom use for this soup?" Pete said, thinking to change a ghoulish subject. "It's great."
"I'll tell her you said so. It's like yeast extract, and any vegetables around, and"-the boy gave a strangely adult shrug-"water, boiled up with marjoram and stuff…Finished?"
"Not quite."
"I only have this one cup, you see, so after it's been drunk from I have to clean it in the snow to kill the germs and go find someone else."
The boy's tone was virtuous. "Did you see my dad's picture on TV?"
"Ah…" Pete's mind raced. "Well, I don't get to watch it too much, you know. I'm pretty tied up with my job."
"Yeah, sure. Just thought you might have seen him." A hint of unhappiness tinged the words. "I miss him a lot…Finished now?"
Pete drained the mug and gave it back. "You tell your mom she makes great soup, okay?" he said, and clapped the boy's shoulder. At the back of his mind he was thinking about Jeannie; she being so much lighter than he, their kids ought to come out just about the same shade as this boy here. If only they were equally bright, equally healthy…
"Sure will," the boy said, and added, struck by a thought, "Say, you need anyone else up here? You're working pretty much on your own, aren't you?"
"Well, we have to spread out because there are so many places to dig," Pete said. He was never at ease talking to children, having had problems when he was a kid himself. His father hadn't died and made the papers, but simply vanished.
"Well, there's lots of us down by the ambulances."
"Us?"
"Sure. We're from the Trainite wat my dad used to run before he died. I'll send someone up to help you-Harry, maybe. He's big. What's your name, so he'll know who to come to?"
"Uh…I'm Pete. Pete Goddard."
"I'm Rick Jones. Okay, someone will be along in a minute!"
"Hey!"
But the kid had gone scrambling and leaping down the trenched mounds of snow. Pete reclaimed his shovel, alarmed. Only this morning at the wat he'd had to guard the occupants as they stood out in the cold while detectives searched for drugs. Having a Trainite partner him…
The hell with it. What mattered was to pull out any more poor bastards who might be buried under this load of white shit.
It was okay. Harry wasn't one of the people he'd met this morning.
He wasn't too much bigger than Pete, but he was fresher. He hardly said more than hello before he started shifting
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