of the year favored
rain, so Yulie was just as glad to be up early, almost on schedule,
the gray cat having forgotten to wake. Just as well, a few extra
minutes was good, and he'd been a little tense anyway, when he came
in, and the single glass he allowed himself did help . . . but he'd
been a few minutes late getting to bed. The little
Blair Road
Booster
news-sheet yesterday's visitors left him was a curiosity --
he mostly didn't take any of the radio feeds, and now this: talk
about a clinic going to full-time, all day, all night, all the
time, and something that made him laugh -- an image of road sign
they called a stop sign that drivers were supposed to pay attention
to even if there weren't a tollbooth and a gunman behind
it.
But there was more interesting news: a new
bakery, and a new school, and a meeting of the Bosses about a
general safety patrol to take care of the road. And an events
listing, which looked like so many times and days and things going
on that it couldn't be his Surebleak.
He'd gone to sleep with a twitch of irony.
That safety patrol was good from the port all the way out to the
third Blair road intersection. But the road, the big road, it came
all the way out to him. Was he gonna end up with more
cat-hunters?
That germ of an idea had brought nightmares
to wake him up -- flashbacks, Rollie'd call them -- ten of the cats
from the greens field, laid out neat in a row, mostly shot, like
they was food, laying on a bag. The sight of them made him throw
up. Then he'd heard another shot and gone back to the house.
He'd always liked to shoot -- it relaxed him
immensely. This time though, he'd brought out the rounds Grampa
called Military Tops and loaded up, and walked calm as could be
back past the dead cats, and found another one, along with some of
the skulk rats it had taken, and so then he went to hunt mode.
Wasn't much to hunt, really: six of them, a couple with
pistols, stupid about moving. He was going to try to stop them,
that was his idea, but he come on them when two were sighting on a
hunter-cat at work, and there, clear as could be, was
his
shot.
Five of them were dead where they fell; the
sixth tried to pull a hideaway on him, way too late.
He'd gone back to the house with the dead
cats, planning to bury them, and roused Rollie -- who'd been late
getting back from a jaunt to The Easiery -- and told him he'd got
himself some bad varmints, and Rollie'd better look, which Rollie
did.
Eventually a couple of city-types claiming
kin and friend came looking, and Rollie'd pointed out the signs
about no hunting and told them there'd been a hunting accident that
got out of hand, told them the farm didn't have any food animals no
how.
Rollie'd already sold the intruder's guns to
Boss Ira, anyhow, and wasn't much to show them, and that had been
that, except of course Yulie'd spent every day for a year walking
that route, back and forth, counting the cats, and some nights took
the rifle out, waiting for people. Nobody else came, and eventually
he'd learned to sleep again.
And so he'd got up, last night, and walked
out to the disguised grow-house. He talked to a couple of the cats
who guarded the coffee plants there in the cavern, told them he was
sorry for not doing better by them. If they didn't say nothing
back, at least they listened to his apology; then he slept well and
woke up sharp, and ready to work.
The morning wake-up being what it was, he was standing at
the window watching the gray horizon verging on pink, his coffee
just warming his hands, gray cat leaning companionably against the
back of his legs, when this
thing
appeared in the sky, dusty bright in the
coming sunlight, unscheduled.
No meteor. No spaceship he knew of. Not even
a Korval spaceship, big as Grampa had made them sound -- this thing
looked like it had craters on it…and then it was out of sight.
He stood there for some time, feeling the gray cat against
the back of his legs. He sighed, wondering if that hadn't been
rain, so Yulie was just as glad to be up early, almost on schedule,
the gray cat having forgotten to wake. Just as well, a few extra
minutes was good, and he'd been a little tense anyway, when he came
in, and the single glass he allowed himself did help . . . but he'd
been a few minutes late getting to bed. The little
Blair Road
Booster
news-sheet yesterday's visitors left him was a curiosity --
he mostly didn't take any of the radio feeds, and now this: talk
about a clinic going to full-time, all day, all night, all the
time, and something that made him laugh -- an image of road sign
they called a stop sign that drivers were supposed to pay attention
to even if there weren't a tollbooth and a gunman behind
it.
But there was more interesting news: a new
bakery, and a new school, and a meeting of the Bosses about a
general safety patrol to take care of the road. And an events
listing, which looked like so many times and days and things going
on that it couldn't be his Surebleak.
He'd gone to sleep with a twitch of irony.
That safety patrol was good from the port all the way out to the
third Blair road intersection. But the road, the big road, it came
all the way out to him. Was he gonna end up with more
cat-hunters?
That germ of an idea had brought nightmares
to wake him up -- flashbacks, Rollie'd call them -- ten of the cats
from the greens field, laid out neat in a row, mostly shot, like
they was food, laying on a bag. The sight of them made him throw
up. Then he'd heard another shot and gone back to the house.
He'd always liked to shoot -- it relaxed him
immensely. This time though, he'd brought out the rounds Grampa
called Military Tops and loaded up, and walked calm as could be
back past the dead cats, and found another one, along with some of
the skulk rats it had taken, and so then he went to hunt mode.
Wasn't much to hunt, really: six of them, a couple with
pistols, stupid about moving. He was going to try to stop them,
that was his idea, but he come on them when two were sighting on a
hunter-cat at work, and there, clear as could be, was
his
shot.
Five of them were dead where they fell; the
sixth tried to pull a hideaway on him, way too late.
He'd gone back to the house with the dead
cats, planning to bury them, and roused Rollie -- who'd been late
getting back from a jaunt to The Easiery -- and told him he'd got
himself some bad varmints, and Rollie'd better look, which Rollie
did.
Eventually a couple of city-types claiming
kin and friend came looking, and Rollie'd pointed out the signs
about no hunting and told them there'd been a hunting accident that
got out of hand, told them the farm didn't have any food animals no
how.
Rollie'd already sold the intruder's guns to
Boss Ira, anyhow, and wasn't much to show them, and that had been
that, except of course Yulie'd spent every day for a year walking
that route, back and forth, counting the cats, and some nights took
the rifle out, waiting for people. Nobody else came, and eventually
he'd learned to sleep again.
And so he'd got up, last night, and walked
out to the disguised grow-house. He talked to a couple of the cats
who guarded the coffee plants there in the cavern, told them he was
sorry for not doing better by them. If they didn't say nothing
back, at least they listened to his apology; then he slept well and
woke up sharp, and ready to work.
The morning wake-up being what it was, he was standing at
the window watching the gray horizon verging on pink, his coffee
just warming his hands, gray cat leaning companionably against the
back of his legs, when this
thing
appeared in the sky, dusty bright in the
coming sunlight, unscheduled.
No meteor. No spaceship he knew of. Not even
a Korval spaceship, big as Grampa had made them sound -- this thing
looked like it had craters on it…and then it was out of sight.
He stood there for some time, feeling the gray cat against
the back of his legs. He sighed, wondering if that hadn't been