Galactic Dreams

Don unbent the piece of wire that sealed the cage and opened the top. The chameleon rolled one eye up at him and looked at the opening with the other. 17 watched in awed silence and the time vehicle bobbed closer.

“Get going,” Don said, and shook the lizard out into the grass.

This time the chameleon took the hint and scuttled away among the bushes, vanishing from sight.

“That takes care of the future,” Don said. “Or the past from your point of view.”

17 and the time machine vanished silently and Don was alone again on the path.

“Well you could of at least said thanks before taking off like that. People have more manners than lizards any day I’ll tell you that.”

He picked up the now-empty cage and his schoolbag and started for home.

He had not heard the quick rustle in the bushes, nor did he see the prowling tomcat with the limp chameleon in its jaws.

MUTE MILTON

With ponderous smoothness the big Greyhound bus braked to a stop at the platform and the door swung open.

“Springville,” the driver called out. “Last stop!”

The passengers stirred in the aisle and climbed down the steps into the glare of the sun. Sam Morrison sat patiently, alone, on the wide rear seat, waiting until the last passengers were at the door before he put the cigar box under his arm, rose, and followed them. The glare of the sunlight blinded him after the tinted-glass dimness of the bus, and the moist air held the breathless heat of Mississippi summer. Sam went carefully down the steps one-at-a-time, watching his feet, and wasn’t aware of the man waiting there until something hard pushed at his stomach.

“What business yuh got in Springville, boy?”

Sam blinked through his steel-rimmed glasses at the big man in the gray uniform who stood before him, prodding him with a short, thick nightstick. He was fat as well as big, and the smooth melon of his stomach bulged out over his belt, worn low about his hips.

“Just passing through, sir,” Sam Morrison said and took his hat off with his free hand, disclosing his cut-short grizzled hair.

He let his glance slide across the flushed reddened face and the gold badge on the shirt before him, then lowered his eyes.

“An just where yuh goin’ to boy? Don’t keep no secrets from me …” the voice rasped again.

“Carteret, sir, my bus leaves in an hour.”

The only answer was an uncommunicative grunt. The leadweighted stick tapped on the cigar box under Sam’s arm. “What yuh got in there — a gun?”

“No, sir, I wouldn’t carry a gun.”

Sam opened the cigar box and held it out: it contained a lump of metal, a number of small electronic components and a two-inch speaker, all neatly wired and soldered together. “It’s a … a radio, sir.”

“Turn it on.”

Sam threw a switch and made one or two careful adjustments. The little speaker rattled and there was the squeak of tinny music barely audible above the rumble of bus motors. The red-faced man laughed.

“Now that’s what Ah call a real nigger radio … piece uh trash.”

His voice hardened again. “See that you’re on that bus, hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said to the receding, sweat-stained back of the shirt, then carefully closed the box. He started toward the colored waiting room but when he passed the window and looked in he saw that it was empty. And there were no dark faces visible anywhere on the street. Without changing pace Sam passed the waiting room and threaded his way between the buses in the cinder parking lot and out of the rear gate. He had lived all of his sixty-seven years in the State of Mississippi so he knew at once that there was trouble in the air — and the only thing to do about trouble was to stay away from it. The streets became narrower and dirtier and he trod their familiar sidewalks until he saw a field-worker in patched overalls turn in to a doorway ahead under the weathered BAR sign. Sam went in after him; he would wait here until a few minutes before the bus was due.

“Bottle of Jax, please.”

He spread his coins on the damp, scratched bar and picked up the cold bottle. There was no glass. The bartender said nothing. After ringing up the sale he retired to a chair at the far end of the bar with his head next to the murmuring radio and remained there, dark and impenetrable. The only light came from the street outside, and the high-backed booths in the rear looked cool and inviting. There were only a few other customers here, each of them sitting separately with a bottle of beer on the table before him. Sam threaded his way through the close-spaced tables and had already started to slide into the booth near the rear door when he noticed that someone was already there, seated on the other side of the table.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” he said and started to get up, but the man waved him back onto the bench and took an airline bag with “TWA” on it from the table and put it down beside him.

“Plenty of room for both,” he said and raised his bottle of beer. “Here’s looking at you.”