A pleasant smile on his cliff of features. Wasn't that a symbol of nonaggression? And she was curious as well; she'd seen him approach, heard him sit on the surface above her head. He'd been solitary; why was it, then, that he was communicating with an ent.i.ty he kept referring to as Scooter?

Daufin crawled out. Sarge saw that her clothes were covered with dust, her hands and arms dirty, her sneaker laces untied and dragging. "Your mama's gonna tan your hide!" he told her. "You're a walkin' dustball!"

"I thought I was a daugh-ter," Daufin said, newly puzzled.

"Well... yeah, you are. I just meant... aw, forget it." He touched the whitewashed plank at his side.

"Take a seat."

Daufin didn't fully understand what he meant, since she saw no chair, bench, or stool for the purpose of resting the rump of the human body, so she simply decided he was inviting her to imitate his position. She started to sit down.

"Hold it! Don't sit on Scooter!"

"Scoot-er?" she inquired.

"Sure! He's right here! Scooter, move your b.u.t.t and give the little girl room. You 'member her, don't you? Stevie Hammond?"

Daufin tracked Sarge's line of sight, saw he was talking to what she perceived as empty s.p.a.ce.

"There y'go," Sarge said. "He's moved now."

"I pre-fer to..." What was the term? "To take the up-right po-si-tion."

"Huh?" Sarge frowned. "What kinda talk is that?"

"Web-ster," came the reply.

Sarge laughed, scratched his head. His fingers made a grainy noise in the stubble of his hair. "You're a card, Stevie!" She watched the fingers move across his skull, then she plucked up a bit of her own hair and examined the difference. Whatever these life forms called human beings were composed of, they certainly had very few common characteristics. "So why are you hidin' under the bandstand?" Sarge asked, his right hand rubbing Scooter's muzzle; Daufin's eyes followed the wavelike movements. He took her silence as sullen. "Oh. Did'ja run away from home?"

No reply.

He went on. "Ain't much to run to when you run away from home around here, is there? Bet your folks are kinda worried about you, huh? 'Specially with that big booger sittin' over there?"

Daufin gave the towering object a quick, cold glance, and a shudder pa.s.sed through her host body.

"Is that what you call it?" she asked. "A big..." This term was not in Webster language. "Boo-ger?"

"Sure is, ain't it?" He grunted, shook his head. "Never seen the like. Scooter ain't either. You could just about put the whole town inside that thing and still have room left over, I'll bet."

"Why would you?" she asked him.

"Why would I what?"

She was patient, sensing that she was dealing with a life form with minimal capabilities. "Why would you want to put the whole town in-side that big boo-ger?"

"I didn't mean really. I just meant... y'know, for instance." He regarded the skygrid. "I saw a plane hit up there and blow- boom! just like that and gone. Sittin' on my porch, I saw it happen. Talkin' to the reverend a little while ago. The reverend says it's like a gla.s.s bowl turned upside down over Inferno. Says nothin' can get in, and nothin' can get out. Says it's somethin' from..." He motioned with a wave of his hand toward the night. "Out there, a long ways off." His hand reached back to touch Scooter. "But me and Scooter'll make out all right. Yessir. We've been together a long time. We'll make out all right."

De-lu-sion, she thought. A persistent belief in something false (opposite of true) typical of some mental (of or relating to the mind) disorders. "What is Scoot-er?" she asked. He looked up at her, as if startled by the question. His mouth opened; for a few seconds his face seemed to sag on the bones, and his eyes glazed over. He stayed that way as she waited for an answer. Finally: "My friend," he said. "My best friend."

There was a growl, a noise of a kind Daufin had never experienced before. It seemed to gain volume, a harsh rolling and tumbling of tones that she could feel at her very center.

"You must be hungry." Sarge's eyes had cleared. He was smiling again. "Your stomach's talkin'."

"My... sto-mach?" This was a new and astounding revelation. "What mes-sage does it send?"

"You need food, that's what! You sure talk funny! Don't she, Scooter?" He stood up. "Better get on home now. Your folks'll be huntin' you."

"Home," Daufin repeated. That concept was clear. "My home is..." She searched the sky. The grid and the smoke clouds blocked off her reference points, and she could not see the star corridor. "Out there, a long way off." She mimicked his gesture, because it seemed an appropriate way to demonstrate great distance.

"Aw, you're joshin' me now!" he chided her. "Your house is just up the street. Come on, I'll walk you home."

His intention was to escort her back to the box where Stevie, Jessie, Tom, and Ray dwelled, she realized. There was no reason to hide anymore; there was no exiting this planet. The next move was not hers. She stood up on stalks that still felt gangly and precarious, and began to follow this creature across a fantasy landscape. Nothing in her deepest dreams had prepared her for the sights on this planet: rows of insanely built boxes brooding on either side of a flat, brutally hard surface; towering, ugly-hued growths studded with fearsome-looking daggers; the people's means of conveyance smaller boxes that jarred along the hard surfaces with sickening gravitational pressures and made noises like the destruction of worlds. She knew the terms-houses, cactus, automobiles-from that nightmarish collection called Britannica, but absorbing the written descriptions and flat images was far less disturbing than the realities. As they walked along and Daufin struggled with gravity, she heard the Sarge Dennison creature talking: "Come on, Scooter! Don't run off and get all dirty, now! No, I ain't gonna throw you a stick!"

She wondered if there was a dimension here of which she was unaware-another world, hidden beyond the one she saw. Oh, there was much here to study and contemplate, but there was no time. Her head swiveled back over her shoulder. The pain of unyielding structures stopped her head from a full rotation. Bones, she knew they were termed. The bones of her host body's arms and legs still throbbed from her contortions. She understood that bones were the framework of these creatures, and she recognized them as marvels of engineering to withstand this gravity and absorb the stunning punishment that came with "walking." These creatures, she mused, must have a deep kinship with pain, because it was ever-present. Surely they were a hardy species, to endure such tortures as "automobiles" and "streets" and "sneakers."

She stared for a moment at the big booger and the violet grid, and if Sarge Dennison had seen the angle of her neck, he would've thought, correctly, that it was on the verge of snapping. The trap is set, she thought in her language of chimes. Already there had been hurting. Soon the trap would spring, and here in this lifepod called In-fer-no there would be extinction. Much extinction. In her chest there was a crushed sensation, more painful than even the gravity. These human beings were primitive and innocent, and they did not know what was ahead. Daufin's steps faltered. It will happen because of me, she thought. Because I came here, to this small planet on the edge of the star corridor-a young civilization, still a distance away from the technology to take them into deep s.p.a.ce where a million worlds and cultures yearned for freedom. She'd hoped to learn their language, stay long enough to tell them about herself and why she was racing along the star corridor, and leave long before this; it had never occurred to her that they wouldn't have interstellar vehicles, since most of the civilizations she was familiar with did. The trap is about to spring, she thought-but I must not throw myself into it. Not yet, not until there is no more chance. She had promised this daughter would be safe, and she kept her promises. Her head swiveled away from the skygrid and the black pyramid, but they remained as ugly as open wounds behind her eyes.

They reached the Hammond house. Sarge knocked at the door, waited, knocked again when there was no response. "n.o.body to home," he said. "Think they're out lookin' for you?"

"I am here," she answered, not fully understanding. This Sarge creature was a disrupter of language.

"I know you're here, and Scooter knows you're here, but... little lady, you sure know how to throw a curveball, don't you?"

"Curve-ball?"

"Yeah. Y'know. Fastball, curveball, spitball-baseball."

"Ah." A smile of recognition skittered across her mouth. She remembered the spectacle on the teeah-veeah. "Safe!"

"Right." Sarge tried the doork.n.o.b, and the door opened. "Looky here! They must've left in a mighty big hurry!" He poked his head in. "Hey, it's Sarge Dennison! Anybody to home?" He didn't figure there was going to be a reply, and there was none. He closed the door and looked up and down the street. Candles flickered in a few windows. There was no telling where the Hammonds might be, with all the confusion of the last hour. "You want to go lookin' for your folks?" he asked her. "Maybe we can track 'em do-"

His voice was drowned out by the rotors of the helicopter as it flashed past overhead, going west, sixty or seventy feet off the ground. The noise shot Daufin off her feet and propelled her forward. She clamped both hands to one of Sarge's and stood close, her body shivering. Child's scared to death, Sarge thought. Skin's cold too, and... Lord, she's got a strong grip for a kid! He could feel his fingers p.r.i.c.kling with a needles-and-pins sensation, as if his hand was snared by a low-voltage electric cable. The feeling wasn't unpleasant, just strange. He saw Scooter running around in circles, also spooked by the 'copter's pa.s.sage. "Ain't nothin' to be scared of. Just a machine," he said.

"Your folks oughta be home pretty soon."

Daufin hung on to his hand. The electric tingling was moving up Sarge's forearm. He heard her stomach growl again, and he asked, "You had any dinner?" She was still too skittish to speak. "I don't live too far from here. Just up Brazos Street a ways. Got some pork 'n beans and some 'tater chips."

The tingling had advanced to his elbow. She wouldn't let go. "You want to have a bowl of pork 'n beans? Then I'll bring you back here and we'll wait for your folks?" He couldn't tell if that was okay by her or not, but he took the first step and she did too. "Anybody ever tell you you walk funny?" he asked. They continued toward Brazos, Daufin's hands latched to Sarge's. The steady pulse of energy she emitted continued through Sarge Dennison's nerves, into his shoulder and neck, along his spine, and up into his cerebral cortex. He had a mild headache; the steel plate's playin' its tune again, he thought. Scooter trotted alongside. Sarge said to the animal, "You're a mighty prancy thing, ain't-"

There was a pain in his head. Just a little one, as if a spark plug had fired. Scooter vanished.

"Uh-uh-uh..." Sarge muttered; the spark plug short-circuited. And there was Scooter again. A mighty prancy thing.

Sarge's face was sweating. Something had happened; he didn't know what, but something. The child's hand clung tight, and his head was hurting. Scooter ran ahead, to wait on the front porch, pink tongue hanging out.

The door was unlocked; it always was. Sarge let Scooter in first, and then Daufin finally released his hand as he searched for an oil lamp and matches. But the spark plug kept sputtering in his brain, and one side of his body-the side she'd been standing on-was full of p.r.i.c.kly fire. Sarge got the lamp lit, and the glow chased some of the shadows away-but they were tricky shadows, and sometimes Scooter was there and the next second he wasn't.

"Little lady," he said as he sank into a chair in the immaculate room with its swept and mopped floor, "I'm... not feelin' so good." Scooter jumped into his lap and licked his face. He put his arms around Scooter. The little girl was watching him, standing just at the edge of the lamplight. "Lord... my head. Really beatin' the band in-" He blinked.

His arms were enfolded around nothing.

His brain sizzled. Cold sweat trickled down his face. "Scooter?" he whispered. His voice cracked, went haywire; his face contorted. "Scooter? Oh Jesus... oh Jesus... don't bring the stick." His eyelids fluttered. "Don't bring the stick. Don't bring the stick! "

Daufin stood at his side. She realized he was seeing into that dimension that she could not, and she said, very softly, "Tell me. What is Scoot-er?"

He moaned. The spark plug fired, sputtered, fired; ghostly images of Scooter faded in and out on his lap, like scenes caught in a strobe light. His hands clutched at empty air. "Oh dear G.o.d... don't... don't bring the stick," he pleaded.

"Tell me," she said.

His head turned. Saw her there. Scooter. Where was Scooter? The dark things in his mind were lurching toward the light.

Tears burned his eyes. "Scooter... brought the stick," he said-and then he began to tell her the rest of it.

26 The Creech House

"Found her walkin' right in the middle of the street, a block south of the church," Curt Lockett explained.

"Just about knocked her flyin', but I put on the brakes in time."

Sheriff Vance regarded Ginger Creech again; she was standing barefoot in his office, and from the door she'd left b.l.o.o.d.y prints. Must've slashed her feet on broken gla.s.s, he figured. Lord, she's ready for the funny farm!

Ginger's eyes stared straight ahead, a few remaining curlers drooping in her hair, her face a pale mask of dust.

"Swear to G.o.d, she scared s.h.i.t out of me," Curt said, glancing at Danny Chaffin. The deputy made another circle of Ginger. "I was on my way to the liquor store. Know where a man can get a drink?"

"Liquor store's locked up," Vance told him, rising from his chair. "That was one of the first things we did."

"Reckon so." Curt rubbed his mouth and gave a nervous smile; he felt as if he were shaking to pieces, and finding Ginger Creech walking like a brain-blasted zombie hadn't helped his jitters any, either. "It's just... y'know, I kinda need somethin' to take me through the night." From the open collar of his wrinkled white shirt hung his newly discovered necktie.

"Ginger?" Vance waved his hand in front of her face. She blinked but did not speak. "Can you hear me?"

"I'm lookin' for my boy," Curt said. "Either of you seen Cody?"

Vance had to laugh. He felt like he'd gone ten rounds with Celeste Preston thirty minutes ago, when he'd driven over to the Chaffin house on Oakley Street to pick up his deputy. He'd wound up explaining about the s.p.a.ceship to Vic and Arleen Chaffin too, and Arleen had begun crying and moaning about it being the end of the world. Vance had returned Celeste to her car, and the last he'd seen of her she was driving westward in that big yellow Cadillac. Probably headin' for her hacienda and gonna hide under her bed, he thought. Well, n.o.body wanted her hangin' around here anyway!

"Curt," he said, "if you didn't sleep twenty hours out of the day, you'd be dangerous. Your boy raised h.e.l.l at the Warp Room around nine-thirty, started a gang fight that put a bunch of kids in the clinic-which, with all these hurt people we've got, Doc McNeil sure as s.h.i.t don't need."

"Cody... in a fight?" Time was all screwed up for Curt. He glanced at the clock, saw it had stopped at two minutes after ten. "Is he all right? I mean..."

"Yeah, he's okay. Busted up some, though. He headed over to the clinic."

Which meant a doctor's bill, Curt thought. d.a.m.ned fool kid! He didn't have the sense G.o.d gave a bug!

"Ginger? It's Ed Vance. Danny, hand me that flashlight on the desk." He gripped it, flicked it on, and aimed it at the woman's sightless eyes. She flinched just a fraction, her arms stiffening at her sides.

"Ginger? What happened? How come you're-"

She gave a terrible shudder, and her face strained as if its muscles were about to burst through the flesh.

"She's having a fit!" Curt squalled, and backed across the woman's b.l.o.o.d.y tracks toward the door. Her gray lips trembled and opened. "'The... Lord... is my shepherd, I shall not want,'" she whispered. "'He maketh me lie down in green pastures. He... He leadeth me beside still waters...'"

Tears broke and ran, and she stumbled on through the Twenty-third Psalm. Vance's heart was pounding. "Danny, we'd better get over to Dodge's house. I sure as h.e.l.l don't like the looks of this."

"Yes sir." Danny glanced at the gla.s.s-fronted cabinet that held the a.s.sortment of firearms, and Vance read his mind because he was thinking the same thing.

"Break out a shotgun for me," Vance said. "A rifle for you. Get 'em loaded." Danny took the key ring from him and unlocked the cabinet.

"'I will... fear no...'" The words gripped in her throat. "'Fear no... fear no...'" She couldn't make herself say it, and fresh tears streamed down her face.

"Curt, I want you to get Ginger to the clinic. Find Early and tell him-"

"Hold on!" Curt protested. He wanted nothing to do with this. "I ain't a deputy!"

"You are now. I'll swear you in later. Right now I want you to do what I say: take Ginger over there and tell Early how you found her." He took the shotgun Danny gave him and put a few extra sh.e.l.ls in his pockets.

"Uh... what do you think happened?" Curt's voice trembled. "To Dodge, I mean?"

"I don't know, but we're gonna find out. Ginger, I want you to go with Curt. Okay? Can you hear me?"

" 'Fear no...'" She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again. " 'Fear no...'"

"Ed, I don't know about this," Curt said. "I'm not deputy material. Can't you get somebody else to take her over?"

"Oh, Christ!" Vance shouted as his own raw nerves stretched toward the breaking point. Ginger jumped and whimpered and retreated from him. "Here! I'll pay you to do it!" He dug into his back pocket, brought out his wallet, and flipped it open. The only thing in there was a five-dollar bill. "Go on, take it! Go buy yourself a d.a.m.ned bottle at the Bob Wire Club, just move your a.s.s!"

Curt's licked his lower lip. His hand burrowed into the wallet and came out five dollars richer. Vance gently took Ginger's arm and led her out. She came along docilely, her feet leaving b.l.o.o.d.y prints and her strained whisper of "'Fear no... fear no...'" sending shivers down the sheriff's backbone. Danny locked the door behind them and Curt guided the madwoman to his Buick, got her inside, and drove away toward the clinic, the tailpipe dragging and scratching sparks off the pavement. Vance drove the patrol car while Danny sat in silence on the pa.s.senger side with his hands clamped like vises around the rifle. Dodge Creech's house, made of sand-colored stucco with a red slate roof, stood near the corner of Celeste and Brazos streets. The front door was wide open. The sheriff and deputy could see the faint glow of candles or lamps within the house, but there was no sign of Dodge. Vance pulled the car to the curb, and they got out and started up the pebbled walk. About eight feet from the door, Vance's legs seized up. He'd seen one of Ginger's slippers lying on the dry lawn. A coldness was writhing in his belly, and the doorway looked like a mouth, ready to crunch down on him as he entered. From a great distance he thought he heard brutal young voices taunting Burro! Burro! Burro!

"Sheriff?" Danny had stopped at the door. "You okay?" In the dim violet light Vance's face glittered with sweat.

"Yeah. Fine." He bent over and rubbed his knees. "Just old football knees. Sometimes they flare up on me."

"I didn't know you ever played football."

"It was a long time ago." He was perspiring everywhere: face, chest, back, a.s.s. A cold, oily sweat. His career as a sheriff had been limited to breaking up fights, investigating traffic accidents, and hunting down lost dogs. He'd never had to fire a gun in the line of duty, and the idea of going into that house and seeing what had made Ginger Creech go crazy made his b.a.l.l.s crawl as if they were packed full of spiders.

"Want me to go on in?" Danny asked.

Yes, he almost said. But as he stared at the doorway, he knew he had to go in first. He had to, because he was the sheriff. Besides, he had a shotgun and Danny had a rifle. Whatever it was in there, it could be shot full of holes just like anything else. "No," he said huskily. "I'll go first."

It took all his flabby willpower to start walking again. He entered the Creech house, flinching as he cleared the hungry doorway. A loose floorboard mewled under his right boot.

"Dodge!" he called. His voice cracked. "Dodge, where are you?"

They walked toward the light, through a foyer and into the living room, where a couple of oil lamps threw shadows and dust floated in layers from floor to ceiling.