having beenquestioned several times on his attitude toward revealing the parts ofhis research he had kept secret, he was transferred to a place thatlooked like a military jail, and left alone. He was not told what hisstatus was.
When someone came and asked him questions about his attitude, Purcellfelt quite sure that what they were doing to him was illegal. Hestated that he was going on a hunger strike until he was allowed tohave visitors and see a lawyer.
The next time the dinner hour arrived, they gave him nothing to eat.There had been no food in the cell since, and that was probably twoweeks ago. He was not sure just how long, for during part of thesecond week his memory had become garbled. He dimly rememberedsomething that might have been delirium, which could have lasted morethan one day.
Perhaps the military who wanted the antitoxins for germ warfare werewaiting quietly for him either to talk or die.
* * * * *
Ronny got up from the grass and went into the kitchen, stumbling inhis walk like a beginning toddler.
"Choc-mil?" he said to his mother.
She poured him some and teased gently, "What's the matter, Ronny--backto baby-talk?"
He looked at her with big solemn eyes and drank slowly, not answering.
In the cell somewhere distant, Dr. Purcell, famous biochemist, beganwaveringly trying to rise to his feet, unable to remember hunger asanything separate from him that could ever be ended, but weaklywanting a glass of water. Ronny could not feed him with the chocolatemilk. Even though this was another himself, the body that was drinkingwas not the one that was thirsty.
He wandered out into the backyard again, carrying the glass.
"Bang," he said deceptively, pointing with his hand in case his motherwas looking. "Bang." Everything had to seem usual; he was sure ofthat. This was too big a thing, and too private, to tell a grownup.
On the way back from the sink, Dr. Purcell slipped and fell and hithis head against the edge of the iron cot. Ronny felt the edge gashingthrough skin and into bone, and then a relaxing blankness inside hishead, like falling asleep suddenly when they are telling you a fairystory while you want to stay awake to find out what happened next.
"Bang," said Ronny vaguely, pointing at a tree. "Bang." He was ashamedbecause he had fallen down in the cell and hurt his head and becomejust Ronny again before he had finished sending out his equations. Hetried to make believe he was alive again, but it didn't work.
You could never make-believe anything to a real good finish. Theynever ended neatly--there was always something unfinished, andsomething that would go right on after the end.
It would have been nice if the jailers had come in and he had beenable to say something noble to them before dying, to show that he wasbrave.
"Bang," he said randomly, pointing his finger at his head, and thenjerked his hand away as if it had burned him. He had become the wrongperson that time. The feel of a bullet jolting the side of his headwas startling and unpleasant, even if not real, and the flash ofsomeone's vindictive anger and self-pity while pulling a trigger...._My wife will be sorry she ever...._ He didn't like that kind ofmake-believe. It felt unsafe to do it without making up a story first.
Ronny decided to be Indian braves again. They weren't very real, andwhen they were, they had simple straightforward emotions about courageand skill and pride and friendship that he would like.
* * * * *
A man was leaning his arms on the fence, watching him. "Nice day."_What's the matter, kid, are you an esper?_
"Hul-lo." Ronny stood on one foot and watched him. _Just makingbelieve. I only want to play. They make it too serious, having allthese troubles._
"Good countryside." The man gestured at the back yards, all opened intogether with tangled bushes here and there to crouch behind, whenother kids were there to play hide and seek, and with trees to climb._It can be the Universe if you pick and choose who to be, and don'tlet wrong choices make you shut off from it. You can make yourselflearn from this if you are strong enough. Who have you been?_
Ronny stood on the other foot and scratched the back of his leg withhis toes. He didn't want to remember. He always forgot right away, butthis grownup was confident and young and strong-looking, and meantsomething when he talked, not like most grownups.
"I was playing Indian." _I was an old chief, captured by enemies,trying to pass on to other warriors the wisdom of my life before Idied._ He made believe he was the chief a little to show the young manwhat he was talking about.
"Purcell!" The man drew in his breath between his teeth, and his facepaled. He pulled back from reaching Ronny with his feelings, likeholding his breath in. "Good game." _You can learn from him. Don'tleave him shut off, I beg you. You can let him influence you withoutbeing pulled off your own course. He was a good man. You were honored,and I envy the man you will be if you contacted him on resonantsimilarities._
The grownup looked frightened. _But you are too young. You'll blockhim out and lose him. Kids have to grow and learn at their own speed._
Then he looked less afraid, but uncertain, and his thoughts struggledagainst each other. _Their own speed. But there should be someonealive with Purcell's pattern and memories. We loved him. Kids shouldgrow at their own speed, but.... How strong are you, Ronny? Can youmove ahead of the normal growth pattern?_
Grownups always want you to do something. Ronny stared back, clenchinghis hands and moving his feet uneasily.
The thoughts were open to him. _Do you want to be the old chief again,Ronny? Be him often, so you can learn to know what he knew? (And feelas he felt. It would be a stiff dose for a kid.) It will be rich andexciting, full of memories and skills. (But hard to chew. I'm doingthis for Purcell, Ronny, not for you. You have to make up your ownmind.)_
"That was a good game. Are you going to play it any more?"
* * * * *
His mother would not like it. She would feel the difference in him, asmuch as if he had read one of the books she kept away from him, booksthat were supposed to be for adults only. The difference would hurther. He was being bad, like eating between meals. But to know whatgrownups knew....
He tightened his fists and looked down at the grass. "I'll play itsome more."
The young man smiled, still pale and holding half his feelings backbehind a dam. _Then mesh with me a moment. Let me in._
He was in with the thought, feeling Ronny's confused consent,reassuring him by not thinking or looking around inside while sendingout a single call, _Purcell, Doc_, that found the combination key toRonny's guarded yesterdays and last nights and ten minutes agos._Ronny, I'll set that door, Purcell's memories, open for you. Youcan't close it, but feel like this about it_--and he planted in astrong set, _questioning, cool, open, a feeling of absorbing withoutwords ... it will give information when you need it, like adictionary._
The grownup straightened away from the fence, preparing to walk off.Behind a dam pressed grief and anger for the death of the man hecalled Purcell.
"And any time you want to _be_ the old chief, at any age he lived,just make believe you are him."
Grief and anger pressed more strongly against the dam, and the manturned and left rapidly, letting his thoughts flicker and scatterthrough private memories that Ronny did not share, that no one shared,breaking thought contact with everyone so that the man could be alonein his own mind to have his feelings in private.
* * * * *
Ronny picked up the empty glass that had held his chocolate milk fromthe back steps where he had left it and went inside. As he steppedinto the kitchen, he knew what another kitchen had looked like for afive-year-old child who had been Purcell ninety years ago. There hadbeen an iron sink, and a brown-and-green-spotted faucet, and the glasshad been heavier and transparent, like real glass.
Ronny reached up and put the colored plastic tumbler down.
"That was a nice young man, dear. What did he say to you?"
Ronny looked up at his mamma, comparing her with the remembered mammaof fifty years ago. He loved the other one, too.
"He tol' me he's glad I play Indian."
--KATHERINE MacLEAN
* * * * *
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