Sleepside: The Collected Fantasies by Greg Bear Page B

the warmth and padded into the bathroom, wincing at the cold tiles. He turned the shower on to warm, brought his mug out to shave and examined his face in the cracked mirror. The mirror had been broken six months ago when he’d slipped and jammed his hand against it after a full night poring over the circuit diagrams in his office. Karen had been furious with him and he hadn’t worked that hard since. But there was a deadline from Peripheral Data on his freelance designs and he had to meet it if he wanted to keep up his reputation.
    In a few more months, he might land an exclusive contract from Key Business Corporation, and then he’d be designing what he wanted to design—big computers, mighty beasts. Outstanding money.
    The hammering continued and after dressing he looked out the bedroom window to see Thompson rebuilding his shed. The shed had gone unused for months after Thompson had lost his boat at the Del Mar trials, near San Diego. Still, Thompson was sawing and hammering and reconstructing the slope-roofed structure, possible planning on another boat. Thomas didn’t think much about it. He was already at work and he hadn’t even reached the desk in his office. There was a whole series of TTL chips he could move to solve the interference he was sure would crop up in the design as he had it now.
    By nine o’clock he was deeply absorbed. He had his drafting pencils and templates and mechanic’s square spread across the paper in complete confusion. He wasn’t interrupted until ten.
    He answered the door only half-aware that somebody had knocked. Sheriff Varmanian stood on the porch, sweating. The sun was out and the sky clearing for a hot, humid day.
    â€œHi, Tom.”
    â€œAl,” Thomas said, nodding. “Something up?”
    â€œI’m interrupting? Sorry—”
    â€œYeah, my computers won’t be able to take over your job if you keep me here much longer. How’s the whale?”
    â€œThat’s the least of my troubles right now.” Varmanian’s frizzy hair and round wire-rimmed glasses made him look more like an anarchist than a sheriff. “The whale was taken out with the night tide. We didn’t even have to bury it.” He pronounced “bury” like it was “burry” and studiously maintained a midwestern twang.
    â€œSomething else, then. Come inside and cool off?”
    â€œThanks. We’ve lost another kid—the Cooper’s four-year-old, Kile. He disappeared last night around seven and no one’s seen him since. Anybody see him here?”
    â€œNo. Only Richie was here. Listen, I didn’t hear any tide big enough to sweep the whale out again. We’d need another storm to do that. Maybe something freak happened and the boy was caught in it...a freak tide?”
    â€œThere isn’t any funnel in Placer Cove to cause that. Just a normal rise and the whale was buoyed up by gases, that’s my guess. Cooper kid must have gotten lost on the bluff road and come down to one of the houses to ask for help—that’s what the last people who saw him think. So we’re checking the beach homes. Thompson didn’t see anything either. I’ll keep heading north and look at the flats and tide pools again, but I’d say we have another disappearance. Don’t quote me, though.”
    â€œThat’s four?”
    â€œFive. Five in the last six months.”
    â€œPretty bad, Al, for a town like this.”
    â€œDon’t I know it. Coopers are all upset, already planning funeral arrangements. Funerals when there aren’t any bodies. But the Goldbergs had one for their son two months ago, so I guess precedent has been set.”
    He stood by the couch, fingering his hat and looking at the rug. “It’s damned hard. How often does this kid, Richie, come down?”
    â€œThree or four times a week. Karen’s motherly toward him, thinks his folks aren’t paying him