Sleepside: The Collected Fantasies by Greg Bear Page A

the kitchen and sniffed. Karen had popped homemade chicken pies into the oven. Walks along the beach made him ravenous, especially after long days at the board.
    He looked out the front window. Karen was at the gate, hair blowing in the evening breeze and knit sweater puffing out across her pink and white blouse. She turned, saw Thomas in the window and waved, saying something he couldn’t hear.
    He shrugged expressively and went to open the door. He saw something small on the porch and jumped in surprise. Richie stood on the step, smiling up at him, eyes the color of the sunlit sea, black hair unruly.
    â€œDid I scare you, Mr. Harker?” the boy asked.
    â€œNot much. What are you doing here this late? You should be home for dinner.”
    Karen kicked her shoes off on the porch. “Richie! When did you get here?”
    â€œJust now. I was walking up the sand hills and wanted to say hello.” Richie pointed north of the house with his long, unchildlike fingers. “Hello.” He looked at Karen with a broad grin, head tilted.
    â€œNo dinner at home tonight?” Karen asked, totally vulnerable. “Maybe you can stay here.” Thomas winced and raised his hand.
    â€œCan’t,” Richie said. “Everything’s just late tonight. I’ve got to be home soon. Hey, did you see the whale?”
    â€œYeah,” Thomas said. “Sheriff is going to have a fun time moving it.”
    â€œNext tide’ll probably take it out,” Richie said. He looked between them, still smiling broadly. Thomas guessed his age at nine or ten but he already knew how to handle people.
    â€œTide won’t be that high now,” Thomas said.
    â€œI’ve seen big things wash back before. Think he’ll leave it overnight?”
    â€œProbably. It won’t start stinking until tomorrow.”
    Karen wrinkled her nose in disgust.
    â€œThanks for the invitation anyway, Mrs. Harker.” Richie put his hands in his shorts’ pockets and walked through the picket fence, turning just beyond the gate. “You got any more old clothes I can have?”
    â€œNot now,” Thomas said. “You’ve taken all our castoffs already.”
    â€œI need more for the rag drive,” Richie said. “Thanks anyway.”
    â€œWhere does he live?” Thomas asked after closing the door.
    â€œI don’t think he wants us to know. Probably in town. Don’t you like him?”
    â€œOf course I like him. He’s only a kid.”
    â€œYou don’t seem to want him around.” Karen looked at him accusingly.
    â€œNot all the time. He’s not ours, his folks should take care of him.”
    â€œThey obviously don’t care much.”
    â€œHe’s well-fed,” Thomas said. “He looks healthy and he gets along fine.”
    They sat down to dinner. Wisps of Karen’s hair still took the shape of the wind. She didn’t comb it until after the table was cleared and Thomas was doing the dishes. His eyes traced endless circuit diagrams in the suds. “Hey,” he shouted to the back bathroom. “I’ve been working too much.”
    â€œI know,” Karen answered. “So have I. Isn’t it terrible?”
    â€œLet’s get to bed early,” he said. She walked into the kitchen wrapped in a terry-cloth bathrobe, pulling a snarl out of her hair. “Must get your sleep,” she said.
    He aimed a snapped towel at her retreating end but missed. Then he leaned over the sink, rubbed his eyes and looked at the suds again. No circuits, only a portrait of Richie. He removed the last plate and rinsed it.
    The next morning Thomas awoke to the sound of hammering coming from down the beach. He sat up in bed to receive Karen’s breezy kiss as she left for the University, then hunkered down again and rolled over to snooze a little longer. His eyes flew open a few minutes later and he cursed. The racket was too much. He rolled out of