little girl."
Reb looked at him with shining eyes, barely focused. "Ohhh, Bud, the things we go through to just plain live . Sometimes, I... I don’t think I understand what it’s all for... I felt sad, seeing you unconscious in the back of the van. But guilt—no no, I was never guilty. No."
She paused. Silence hung. "I’m so sorry," Bud said to her, earnestly.
"Oh? Why?"
"For what I did to you. You needed me to help you, Reb. Back then. Now I understand."
"No, I don’t think so," she faintly replied. "No, you’re very far from being an understander, BB. I understand love. You don’t. You can’t . Even when you have it, even when you feel it, you don’t understand it. Now listen—that’s very profound . It’s what Friendly Village taught me, down here, with you, our last dredge of time together. Deadbolts!— that’s Bud Barclay."
Baxx sneered. "Rebby needs protection, bo. That’s what I can give her. You—what can you do, little flyboy?"
"I’ve faced death and made death blink," grated Bud.
"We really shouldn’t wink at death," said Reb vaguely. "You always make your jokes, but Death shouldn’t be made fun of. Death should be welcome at our table. The blackness is all around us, always, so we have to be all the brighter."
"Rose Reb, please listen—"
She smiled warmly. "Oh, I’ve been listening all along. Escape! Tom Swift! —mm-hmm. You’ll always be just a little boy flying after the moon."
Rose Reb climbed into the jeep as Baxx waved Bud back with his handgun. The gun seemed to be growing bigger and deadlier with each tick of time. "By the way, Barclay, two things," he chuckled. "First, Mr. Eck wants you to know how much he enjoyed talkin’ to you the other day on the phone. Made him smile. Guess he forgot the office number’d been posted in the phone booth. Other thing?" Baxx swung hand and gun into position like an expert marksman. He fired. Bud felt the wake of the bullet as it tore by his neck. Behind him a sporting goods shop gained a hole and lost a plate glass window. "Real bullets in this gun. In case you wondered. Yep, a few real things in Friendly Village."
Baxx gunned the engine, and Reb suddenly turned to search for Bud’s eyes, the expression on her face as ambiguous as always—perhaps scorn, perhaps longing. "Wait, Gar," she said. "Just a sec."
She jumped down and approached Bud, Baxx keeping his gun at ready. She seized Bud’s wrist, and in a moment his wristwatch was looped in her grasp. She gazed at it luminously, turning it over. "Thank you," she whispered. "Tom gave it to you, and you—now you’ve given it to me. Thank you so much. What a wonderful thought. It means forgiveness. It moves me. I’d hoped you’d feel good about my happiness. Whenever I wear it, even when I’m sleeping, I’ll think of you, Bud, little-boy Bud."
Her lips said something unheard, and she climbed back up next to Baxx, the watch dangling from her thin white fingers. They roared away, around the corner. By the time Bud reached the intersection, they had taken another corner and were lost to sight.
"That’s one way to get out, Rose Reb," Bud said. "But there are others. There are always others! If it takes a day or a week or a month of Sundays, I’ll get out of here! "
But as the days passed, many days, weeks alone wandering through the vacancy of a town without time, Bud Barclay began to wonder if he could keep his promise to himself. And if sad little Friendly Village might be able to claim him in a way the moon never could.
CHAPTER 12
TIME OUT OF HAND
"SAY THERE, boss—"
"Hi, Chow."
"Kin I talk to you? Jest fer a second?"
Tom’s pushed his wheeled chair back from his office desk. "Sure." But something in Tom’s expression was uninviting, and Chow Winkler felt like clomping away down the hall in his cowboy boots.
But he stood in the office doorway, a wide and robust figure in a chef’s hat and shirt of many a western sunset. "Guess mebbe it’s none o’ my
Reb looked at him with shining eyes, barely focused. "Ohhh, Bud, the things we go through to just plain live . Sometimes, I... I don’t think I understand what it’s all for... I felt sad, seeing you unconscious in the back of the van. But guilt—no no, I was never guilty. No."
She paused. Silence hung. "I’m so sorry," Bud said to her, earnestly.
"Oh? Why?"
"For what I did to you. You needed me to help you, Reb. Back then. Now I understand."
"No, I don’t think so," she faintly replied. "No, you’re very far from being an understander, BB. I understand love. You don’t. You can’t . Even when you have it, even when you feel it, you don’t understand it. Now listen—that’s very profound . It’s what Friendly Village taught me, down here, with you, our last dredge of time together. Deadbolts!— that’s Bud Barclay."
Baxx sneered. "Rebby needs protection, bo. That’s what I can give her. You—what can you do, little flyboy?"
"I’ve faced death and made death blink," grated Bud.
"We really shouldn’t wink at death," said Reb vaguely. "You always make your jokes, but Death shouldn’t be made fun of. Death should be welcome at our table. The blackness is all around us, always, so we have to be all the brighter."
"Rose Reb, please listen—"
She smiled warmly. "Oh, I’ve been listening all along. Escape! Tom Swift! —mm-hmm. You’ll always be just a little boy flying after the moon."
Rose Reb climbed into the jeep as Baxx waved Bud back with his handgun. The gun seemed to be growing bigger and deadlier with each tick of time. "By the way, Barclay, two things," he chuckled. "First, Mr. Eck wants you to know how much he enjoyed talkin’ to you the other day on the phone. Made him smile. Guess he forgot the office number’d been posted in the phone booth. Other thing?" Baxx swung hand and gun into position like an expert marksman. He fired. Bud felt the wake of the bullet as it tore by his neck. Behind him a sporting goods shop gained a hole and lost a plate glass window. "Real bullets in this gun. In case you wondered. Yep, a few real things in Friendly Village."
Baxx gunned the engine, and Reb suddenly turned to search for Bud’s eyes, the expression on her face as ambiguous as always—perhaps scorn, perhaps longing. "Wait, Gar," she said. "Just a sec."
She jumped down and approached Bud, Baxx keeping his gun at ready. She seized Bud’s wrist, and in a moment his wristwatch was looped in her grasp. She gazed at it luminously, turning it over. "Thank you," she whispered. "Tom gave it to you, and you—now you’ve given it to me. Thank you so much. What a wonderful thought. It means forgiveness. It moves me. I’d hoped you’d feel good about my happiness. Whenever I wear it, even when I’m sleeping, I’ll think of you, Bud, little-boy Bud."
Her lips said something unheard, and she climbed back up next to Baxx, the watch dangling from her thin white fingers. They roared away, around the corner. By the time Bud reached the intersection, they had taken another corner and were lost to sight.
"That’s one way to get out, Rose Reb," Bud said. "But there are others. There are always others! If it takes a day or a week or a month of Sundays, I’ll get out of here! "
But as the days passed, many days, weeks alone wandering through the vacancy of a town without time, Bud Barclay began to wonder if he could keep his promise to himself. And if sad little Friendly Village might be able to claim him in a way the moon never could.
CHAPTER 12
TIME OUT OF HAND
"SAY THERE, boss—"
"Hi, Chow."
"Kin I talk to you? Jest fer a second?"
Tom’s pushed his wheeled chair back from his office desk. "Sure." But something in Tom’s expression was uninviting, and Chow Winkler felt like clomping away down the hall in his cowboy boots.
But he stood in the office doorway, a wide and robust figure in a chef’s hat and shirt of many a western sunset. "Guess mebbe it’s none o’ my
Similar Books
