“Sure,” Bright said, excited. He knew he should let uppretty soon Leandro was probably going to try to punch him in the mouth-but the guy just kept giving him openings. “Sure, that's gotta be part of it! Redford wouldn't take the part unless he could go it alone. The Lone Wolf! Klaatu barada nictu! Wow! Just remember to wear your special watch when you go down there.”

“What watch?” Leandro asked, his face still angry. Oh, he was pissed, all right, but he kept leading with his chin just the same.

“You know, the one that sends out an ultrasonic signal that only Superman can hear when you pull out the stem,” Bright said, demonstrating with his own watch (and spilling a fair amount of beer into his crotch). “It goes zeeeeeeeee-”

“I don't care what Peter Reynault thinks, and I don't care how many stupid jokes you make,” Leandro said. “You both just might get a big surprise.”

He started out, then turned back.

“And for the record, I think you're a cynical shithead with no imagination.”

Having delivered this valedictory, Johnny Leandro turned on his heel and stalked grandly out.

Bright lifted his glass and tipped it toward the bartender. “Let's drink to the cynical shitheads of the world,” he said. “We have no imagination, but we're remarkably resistant to twerpism.”

“Whatever you say,” the bartender said. He believed he had seen it all before… but then, he had never tended bar in Haven.

Tuesday, August 2nd:

There were six of them who met late that afternoon in Newt Berringer's office. It was going on five P. m., but the clock in the tower-a tower that looked real but which a bird could easily have flown through, if there had been any birds left in Haven Village-still read five past three. All six had spent some time in Bobbi's shed; Adley McKeen was the most recent addition to their number. The others included Newt, Dick Allison, Kyle, Hazel, and Frank Spruce.

They discussed the few things they had to discuss without talking aloud.

Frank Spruce asked how Bobbi was.

Still alive, Newt responded; no one knew any more. She might come out of the shed again. More likely she would not. Either way, they would know when it happened.

Discussion turned briefly to what Hank Buck had done the day before, and what Hank said he'd heard coming from that other world. None of them was much concerned with the late and not so great Pits Barfield. Perhaps the punishment had suited the crime; perhaps it had been a little too extreme. It didn't matter. It was over. Nothing had happened to Hank as a result of what he had done; he had given Randy Kroger a personal check for the broken display window and the goods that had been sucked through the hole Hank had spiked into reality. Kroger called Northern National in Bangor to verify the check. He found it was good, and that was all he cared about.

There was little they could have done about Hank even if they'd had a mind to; the town's one jail cell was in the town hall's basement, a converted storeroom where Ruth had jugged a few weekend drunks, and it might hold Hank Buck for all of ten minutes. A strong fourteen-year-old could, have broken out of it. And they couldn't very well have sent Hank up to county jail. The charge would have looked pretty odd. The alternatives available to them were simple-let him alone or pack him off to Altair-4. Luckily, they were able to look closely into Hank's mind and motivations. They saw that his anger and confusion were subsiding, as they were all over town. He was not apt to do anything radical again, so they took away his converted radio, asked him not to make another, and moved on to what concerned them a bit more… the voice he claimed to have heard.

It was David Brown, all right, Frank Spruce said now. Anybody doubt it?

No one did.

David Brown was on Altair-4.

No one knew exactly where Altair-4 was, or what it was, and they didn't much care. The words themselves came from some old movie and meant no more than the name Tommyknockers, which came from some old rhyme. What mattered (and even this didn't, much) was that Altair-4 was a kind of cosmic warehouse, a place where all sorts of things were stored. Hank had sent Pits there, but first he had put the smelly old son of a bitch through some half-assed sort of disintegration process.

This had apparently not been the case with David Brown.

Hazel asked if they could get him back.

Long, thoughtful silence.

(yes probably yes)

Ike

This last was not ascribable to any one person; it was group-think, hive. and complete in itself.

(but why why bother)

They looked at each other with no emotion. They could feel emotion, but not over such a minor matter as this.

Bring him back, Hazel said indifferently. It'll please Bryant and Marie. And Ruth. She would have wanted it. And we all did love her, you know. Her thought had the tone of a woman suggesting that a friend buy her son a soft drink as a treat for being good.

No, Adley said, and they all looked toward him. It was the first time he had entered their conversation. He looked embarrassed but pushed on anyway. Every paper and TV station in the state'd be down here to get a story on the “miracle return.” They think he must be dead, only four and gone over two weeks now. If he shows up, it'll make too much whoop-de-doo.

They were nodding now.

And what would he say? Newt put in. When they asked him where he'd been, what would he say?

We could blank his memories, Hazel said. That would be no problem at all, and the press people would accept amnesia as perfectly natural. Under the circumstances.

(yes but that's not the problem)

It was the many voices again, as one voice. They came together in a strange combination of words and images. The problem was that things had now gone too far to allow anyone in town except for the most transient through-travelers… and even most of them could be discouraged with fake road construction and detour signs. The last people they wanted in Haven was a bunch of reporters and TV camera crews. And the clock tower wouldn't show up on film; it was a mind-slide, really no more than a hallucination. No, David Brown was best left alone, all things considered. He would be all right for yet a while. They knew little about Altair-4, but they did know that time ran at a different speed there-on Altair-4, less than a year had passed since earth had been flung out of the sun. So David Brown had in fact just gotten there. Of course he still might die; strange microbes might invade his system, some strange Altair-4 warehouse-rat might gobble him up, or he might die of simple shock. But he probably wouldn't, and if he did, it really wasn't very important.

I've a feeling the boy might come in handy, Kyle said.

(how)

As a diversion.

(what do you mean)

Kyle didn't know exactly what he meant. It was only a feeling that if a spotlight were to be trained on Haven again-the way Ruth had tried to train one on the town with her damned exploding dolls, which had worked ever so much better than they were supposed to work-perhaps they could bring David Brown back and set him down somewhere else. If that was done in the right way, they might gain a little more time here. Time was always a problem. Time to “become.”

Kyle expressed these ideas in no coherent way, but the others nodded at the drift of his thoughts. It would be well to keep David Brown waiting in the wings, so to speak, a while longer.

(don't let Marie know-she hasn't gone far enough in the “becoming'-you must hide this from Marie yet a while)

All six looked around, eyes widening. That voice, weak but clear, belonged to none of them. It had come from Bobbi Anderson.

Bobbi! Hazel cried, half-rising from her seat. Bobbi, are you all right? How you doing?