Chapter VI

Indian summer now lay softly upon the land.

On a wooded rise ten miles from the outskirts of the town, close by a bluff overlooking the bushland, the tan walls of a small tent warmed to the late afternoon sun. Here and there beyond the bushland the supper-smoke of scattered farms stood columned and motionless. The only sound on the still air was the harsh, labored breathing of the dying Homer.

The dog lay in the open near the edge of the bluff, his eyes closed, his companions seated nearby. Phil had brought Timmy on a week-end camping trip that now appeared spoiled at the outset, for the short, steep climb up the bluff had unexpectedly proven too much for old gray-muzzle. His trembling legs had barely carried him to the top before he collapsed, and now it was only a question of how long he must suffer before release. Phil glanced toward a .22 rifle lying with their gear. It would be more merciful.

“No, Uncle Phil. He’ll live until sundown at least. Let him have that much.”

“I’m sorry this happened, Timmy, but now that it has I think we should make it easier for him.”

“You liked him, didn’t you, Uncle Phil?”

“Yes, Tim ... I’m a bit surprised to find that I really did. I can’t say that I’m much of an animal-lover, but in his way Homer was the perfect Old Faithful. No beauty and not very bright, you must admit, but he never left your side. It won’t seem the same.”

“It won’t be the same, Uncle Phil.” The boy raised his head to look over the distant bushland. His face was composed.

“Timmy, I hesitate to say this, but--”

“I don’t seem very upset about it?”

“Well, yes. Did you really care much for Homer? You never paid any attention to him, never petted or played with him, just let him tag along.”

“I had no need to pet or play with him, and it was enough that he give me all of his attention. I should have spared a thought for him, his needs and limitations, but it’s too late now.” The answering voice was subtly changed from that of a boy, and strangely gentle. “A dog’s life is so short, hardly more than today and tomorrow. A breath or two, and it has begun and ended. When Homer dies he will be free, and I will no longer exist.”

A chill slid over the man.

What makes a voice? Air and musculature and tissue, but what more? A brain, a mind--a life. An accumulative series of reactive patterns called Life grows like a fragile crystal around a seeding impulse that lacks a name acceptable to all, and the resulting structure is called “personality” or “character” and it influences what it touches in a manner peculiar to itself alone. Given the crude tools of a sound-producing mechanism it will, if it chooses and has the skill, disclose some trifle of its own true nature. Phil heard words that should have sounded idiotic coming from a boy, but they carried complete and instant conviction. Without elocutionary tricks, without fire and oratory, the boy-voice had changed in timbre, acquired a quality that could sway multitudes--the wild thought crossed Phil’s mind that what it had acquired was the quality of complete sanity.

A suspicion, planted deliberately and nurtured through the years, matured on the triggered instant. Phil twisted around--alert, wary, almost hostile, his eyes searching the somewhat bony young face. His gaze was returned steadily, with assured composure.

“Who are you?” he demanded bluntly. “What are you?”

Timmy laughed lightly, patently at ease.

“I am nothing, Phil. Nothing at all.”

“Rot. You are flesh and blood, human, and were born to Helen and Jerry. What else?”

“Is there more?”

“Stop playing!” Phil jumped up angrily, standing tall over the seated figure. “I’ve watched you for years. You’ve given yourself away repeatedly.”

“Ah, that ‘advanced scientific knowledge’ worried you badly, didn’t it?”

“I ... see. You revealed it deliberately. There are other things. Your aversion to crowds--”

“Their thinking confused me. They were dangerous.”

“Were?”

“After tonight, crowds will not matter.”

“Because Homer will be dead?”

“Because Homer will be dead, poor beast. My conscience will be dead.”

“What on earth does that mean? I find it impossible either to doubt you or to think of you as a boy any longer.”

“That is because your mind is filled with uncertainties, mine with certainties. You have never before met anyone in whom certainty was a clear truth unquestioned on any level of any remote corner of the mind. I am such a one.”

Phil sat down helplessly. There was no point in standing. Whatever Tim was, he was not going to be dominated by tricks.

“What are you?“

“What can I say? I am a book that is being read, yet I am neither the pages nor the printing on the pages, but only the meaning inherent in the shapes and sequences of the letters that comprise the printing.”

“Can’t you give me a straight answer?”

“It is difficult. You must think about what I say.”

“But the ideas recorded in a book are merely--thoughts. They have no tangible existence.”

“Nor have I.”

“You’re not a product of my imagination!”

“Hardly.”

“Are you giving me that line about ‘All is Illusion’?”

“No,” the boy laughed spontaneously.

“Are you a mutant, a new evolutionary development?”

“No, nor am I a machine or a monster.”

“At least you’re alive!”

“That, I think, is a matter of definition.”

“Then, for the third time, what are you! Stop baiting me!”

Timmy’s hand closed on Phil’s--a firm, warm, dirty and somewhat calloused boy’s hand that was unquestionably flesh, blood and bone.