and books.
To his surprise, he found Heinlein and Clarke to be entertaining and thought-provoking. He preferred the crustiness of the former to the sometimes naive humanism of the latter, but they both had value.
He wasn't sure what he hoped to discover in their books that would help him to deal with the phenomenon in the woods. Had he harbored, in the back of his mind, the absurd expectation that one of these writers had produced a story about an old man who lived in an isolated place and who made contact with something not of this earth? If such was the case, then he was so far around the bend that he would meet himself coming the other way at any moment.
Nevertheless, it was more likely that the presence he sensed beyond the phantom fire and pulsating sound was extraterrestrial rather than hell-born.
The universe contained an infinite number of stars. An infinite number of planets, circling those stars, might have provided the right conditions for life to have arisen. That was scientific fact, not fantasy.
He might also have imagined the whole business. Hardening of the arteries that supplied blood to the brain. An Alzheimer-induced hallucination. He found it easier to believe in that explanation than in demons or aliens.
He had bought the video camera more to assuage self-doubt than to gather evidence for the authorities. If the phenomenon could be captured on tape, he wasn't dotty, after all, and was competent to continue to live alone. Until he was killed by whatever finally opened that doorway in the night.
On the fifteenth of April, he drove into Eagle's Roost to buy fresh milk and produce-and a Sony Discman with quality headphones.
Custer's Appliance also had a selection of audiotapes and compact discs..Eduardo asked the Mozart lookalike for the loudest music to which teenagers were listening these days.
"Gift for your grand-kid?" the clerk asked.
It was easier to agree than to explain. "That's right."
"Heavy metal."
Eduardo had no idea what the man was talking about.
"Here's a new group that's getting really hot," the clerk said, selecting a disc from the display bins. "Call themselves Wormheart."
Back at the ranch, after putting away the groceries, Eduardo sat at the kitchen table to listen to the disc. He installed batteries in the Discman, inserted the disc, put on the headphones, and pressed the Play button. The blast of sound nearly burst his eardrums, and he hastily lowered the volume.
He listened for a minute or so, half convinced he'd been sold a faulty disc.
But the clarity of the sound argued that he was hearing exactly what Wormheart had intended to record. He listened for another minute or two, waiting for the cacophony to become music, before realizing it apparently was music by the modern definition.
He felt old.
He remembered, as a young man, necking with Margaret to the music of Benny Goodman, Frank Sinatra, Mel Torme, Tommy Dorsey. Did young people still neck? Did they know what the word meant? Did they cuddle? Did they pet? Or did they just get naked and tear at each other straightaway?
It sure didn't sound like music you'd play as background to lovemaking.
What it sounded like, to him anyway, was music you'd play as background to violent homicide, maybe to drown out the victim's screams.
He felt ancient.
Aside from not being able to hear music in the music, he didn't understand why any group would call itself Wormheart. Groups should have names like The Four Freshmen, The Andrews Sisters, The Mills Brothers. He could even handle The Four Tops or James Brown and the Famous Flames. Loved James Brown. But Wormheart? It brought disgusting images to mind.
Well, he wasn't hip and didn't try to be. They probably didn't even use the word "hip" any more. In fact, he was sure they didn't. He hadn't a clue
To his surprise, he found Heinlein and Clarke to be entertaining and thought-provoking. He preferred the crustiness of the former to the sometimes naive humanism of the latter, but they both had value.
He wasn't sure what he hoped to discover in their books that would help him to deal with the phenomenon in the woods. Had he harbored, in the back of his mind, the absurd expectation that one of these writers had produced a story about an old man who lived in an isolated place and who made contact with something not of this earth? If such was the case, then he was so far around the bend that he would meet himself coming the other way at any moment.
Nevertheless, it was more likely that the presence he sensed beyond the phantom fire and pulsating sound was extraterrestrial rather than hell-born.
The universe contained an infinite number of stars. An infinite number of planets, circling those stars, might have provided the right conditions for life to have arisen. That was scientific fact, not fantasy.
He might also have imagined the whole business. Hardening of the arteries that supplied blood to the brain. An Alzheimer-induced hallucination. He found it easier to believe in that explanation than in demons or aliens.
He had bought the video camera more to assuage self-doubt than to gather evidence for the authorities. If the phenomenon could be captured on tape, he wasn't dotty, after all, and was competent to continue to live alone. Until he was killed by whatever finally opened that doorway in the night.
On the fifteenth of April, he drove into Eagle's Roost to buy fresh milk and produce-and a Sony Discman with quality headphones.
Custer's Appliance also had a selection of audiotapes and compact discs..Eduardo asked the Mozart lookalike for the loudest music to which teenagers were listening these days.
"Gift for your grand-kid?" the clerk asked.
It was easier to agree than to explain. "That's right."
"Heavy metal."
Eduardo had no idea what the man was talking about.
"Here's a new group that's getting really hot," the clerk said, selecting a disc from the display bins. "Call themselves Wormheart."
Back at the ranch, after putting away the groceries, Eduardo sat at the kitchen table to listen to the disc. He installed batteries in the Discman, inserted the disc, put on the headphones, and pressed the Play button. The blast of sound nearly burst his eardrums, and he hastily lowered the volume.
He listened for a minute or so, half convinced he'd been sold a faulty disc.
But the clarity of the sound argued that he was hearing exactly what Wormheart had intended to record. He listened for another minute or two, waiting for the cacophony to become music, before realizing it apparently was music by the modern definition.
He felt old.
He remembered, as a young man, necking with Margaret to the music of Benny Goodman, Frank Sinatra, Mel Torme, Tommy Dorsey. Did young people still neck? Did they know what the word meant? Did they cuddle? Did they pet? Or did they just get naked and tear at each other straightaway?
It sure didn't sound like music you'd play as background to lovemaking.
What it sounded like, to him anyway, was music you'd play as background to violent homicide, maybe to drown out the victim's screams.
He felt ancient.
Aside from not being able to hear music in the music, he didn't understand why any group would call itself Wormheart. Groups should have names like The Four Freshmen, The Andrews Sisters, The Mills Brothers. He could even handle The Four Tops or James Brown and the Famous Flames. Loved James Brown. But Wormheart? It brought disgusting images to mind.
Well, he wasn't hip and didn't try to be. They probably didn't even use the word "hip" any more. In fact, he was sure they didn't. He hadn't a clue
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