sk.dreamcatcher-第44部分

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l。　They　say　it　was　a　stroke！　Mr　Rapeloew　called。　St　Mary's　Memorial！　Tell　your　mother；　Owen！　And　then　he　climbed　into　the　back　of　the　ambulance　and　the　ambulance　drove　away。　For　the　next　five　minutes　or　so　Owen　continued　to　play　with　his　hall；　throwing　it　up　and　catching　it；　but　in　between　throws　and　catches　he　kept　looking　at　the　door　Mr　Rapeloew　had　left　open　and　thinking　he　ought　to　close　it。　That　closing　it　would　be　what　his　mother　called　a　Christian　Act　of　Charity。
　　　　Finally　he　got　up　and　crossed　to　the　Rapeloews'　lawn。　The　Rapeloews　had　been　good　to　him。　Nothing　really　special　（'Nothing　to　get　up　in　the　night　and　write　home　about；'　his　mother　would　have　said）；　but　Mrs　Rapeloew　made　lots　of　cookies　and　always　remembered　to　save　him　some；　many　were　the　bowls　of　frosting　and　cookie…dough　he　had　scraped　clean　in　chubby；　cheery　Mrs　Rapeloew's　kitchen。　And　Mr　Rapeloew　had　shown　him　how　to　make　paper　airplanes　that　really　flew。　Three　different　kinds。　So　the　Rapeloews　deserved　charity；　Christian　charity；　but　when　he　stepped　through　the　open　door　of　the　Rapeloews'　house；　he　had　known　perfectly　well　that　Christian　charity　wasn't　the　reason　he　was　there。　Doing　Christian　charity　did　not　make　your　dingus　hard。
　　　　For　five　minutes　…　or　maybe　it　was　fifteen　minutes　or　half　an　hour；　the　time　passed　like　time　in　a　dream　…　Owen　had　just　walked　around　in　the　Rapeloews'　house；　doing　nothing；　but　all　the　time　his　dingus　had　been　just　as　hard　as　a　rock；　so　hard　it　throbbed　like　a　second　heartbeat；　and　you　would　think　something　like　that　would　hurt；　but　it　hadn't；　it　had　felt　good；　and　all　these　years　later　he　recognized　that　silent　wandering　for　what　it　had　been：　foreplay；　The　fact　that　he　had　nothing　against　the　Rapeloews；　that　he　in　fact　liked　the　Rapeloews；　somehow　made　it　even　better。　If　he　was　caught　（he　never　was）；　he　could　say　I　dunno　if　asked　why　he　did　it；　and　be　telling　the　God's　honest。
　　　　Not　that　he　did　so　much。　In　the　downstairs　bathroom　he　found　a　toothbrush　with　Dick　printed　on　it。　Dick　was　Mr　Rapeloew's　name。　Owen　tried　to　piss　on　the　bristles　of　Mr　Rapeloew's　toothbrush；　that　was　what　he　wanted　to　do；　but　his　dingus　was　too　hard　and　no　piss　would　e　out；　not　a　single　drop。　So　he　spat　on　the　bristles　instead；　then　rubbed　the　；pit　in　and　put　the　brush　back　in　the　toothbrush　holder。　In　the　kitchen；　he　poured　a　glass　of　water　over　the　electric　stove…burners。　Then　he　took　a　large　china　serving　platter　from　the　sideboard。　'They　said　it　was　the　stork；'　Owen　said；　holding　the　platter　over　his　head。　'It　must　be　a　baby；　because　he　said　it　was　a　stork。'　And　then　he　heaved　the　platter　into　the　er；　where　it　shattered　into　a　thousand　pieces。　Once　that　was　done　he　had　fled　from　the　house。　Whatever　had　been　inside　him；　the　thing　that　had　made　his　dingus　hard　and　his　eyeballs　feel　too　big　for　their　sockets；　the　shattering　sound　of　the　plate　had　broken　it；　popped　it　like　a　pimple；　and　if　his　parents　hadn't　been　so　worried　about　Mrs　Rapeloew；　they　almost　certainly　would　have　seen　something　wrong　with　him。　As　it　was；　they　probably　just　assumed　that　he　was　worried　about　Mrs　R。；　too。　For　the　next　week　he　had　slept　little；　and　what　sleep　he　did　get　had　been　haunted　by　bad　dreams。　In　one　of　these；　Mrs　Rapeloew　came　home　from　the　hospital　with　the　baby　the　stork　had　brought　her；　only　the　baby　was　black　and　dead。　Owen　had　been　all　but　consumed　with　guilt　and　shame　（never　to　the　point　of　confessing；　however；　what　in　God's　name　would　he　have　said　when　his　Baptist　mother　asked　him　what　had　possessed　him）；　and　yet　he　never　forgot　the　blind　pleasure　of　standing　in　the　bathroom　with　his　shorts　down　around　his　knees；　trying　to　piss　on　Mr　Rapeloew's　toothbrush；　or　the　thrill　that　had　gusted　through　him　when　the　serving　platter　shattered。　If　he　had　been　older；　he　would　have　e　in　his　pants；　he　supposed。　The　purity　was　in　the　senselessness；　the　joy　was　in　the　sound　of　the　shatter；　the　afterglow　was　the　slow　and　pleasurable　wallow　in　remorse　for　having　done　it　and　the　fear　of　being　caught。　Mr　Rapeloew　had　said　it　was　a　stork；　but　when　Owen's　father　came　in　that　night；　he　told　him　it　was　a　stroke。　That　a　blood…vessel　in　Mrs　Rapeloew's　brain　had　sprung　a　leak　and　that　was　a　stroke。
　　　　And　now　here　it　was　again；　all　of　that。
　　　　Maybe　this　time　I　will　e；　he　thought。　It'll　certainly　be　a　lot　goddam　grander　than　trying　to　piss　on　Mr　Rapeloew's　toothbrush。　And　then；　as　he　turned　his　own　hat　around：　Same　basic　concept；　though。
　　　　'Owen？'　Kurtz's　voice。　'Are　you　there；　son？　If　you　don't　roger　me　right　now；　I'm　going　to　assume　you　either　can't　or　won't…'
　　　　'Boss；　I'm　here。'　Voice　steady。　In　his　mind's　eye　he　saw　a　sweaty　little　boy　holding　a　china　serving　platter　over　his　head。　'Boys；　are　you　ready　to　kick　a　little　interstellar　ass？'
　　　　A　roar　of　affirmation　that　included　one　goddam　right　and　one　let's　tear　em　up。
　　　　'What　do　you　want　first；　boys？'
　　　　Squad　Anthem　and　Anthem　and　Fucking　Stones；　right　now！
　　　　'Anyone　want　out；　sing　out。'
　　　　Radio　silence。　On　some　other　frequency　where　Owen　would　never　go　again；　the　grayboys　were　pleading　in　famous　voices。　Starboard　and　below　was　the　little　Kiowa　OH…58。　Owen　didn't　need　binoculars　to　see　Kurtz　with　his　own　hat　now　turned　around；　Kurtz　watching　him。　The　newspaper　was　still　on　his　lap；　now　for　some　reason　folded　into　a　triangle。　For　six　years　Owen　Underhill　had　needed　no　second　chances；　which　was　good　because　Kurtz　didn't　give　them　…　in　his　heart　Owen　supposed　he　had　always　known　that。　He　would　think　about　that　later；　however。　If　he　had　to。　One　final　coherent　thought　flared　in　his　mind　…　You're　the　cancer；　Kurtz；　you　…　and　then　died。　Here　was　a　fine　and　perfect　darkness　in　its　place。
　　　　'Blue　Group；　this　is　Blue　Boy　Leader。　e　in　on　me。　mence　firing　at　two　hundred　yards。　Avoid　hitting　the　Blue　Boy　if　possible；　but　we　are　going　to　sweep　those　motherfuckers　clean。　Conk；　play　the　Anthem。'
　　　　Gene　Conklin　flicked　a　switch　and　racked　a　CD　in　the　Discman　sitting　on　the　floor　of　Blue　Boy　Two。　Owen；　no　longer　inside　himself；　leaned　forward　in　Blue　Boy　Leader　and　cranked　the　volume。
　　　　Mick　Jagger；　the　voice　of　the　Rolling　Stones；　filled　his　earphones。　Owen　raised　his　hand；　saw　Kurtz　snap　him　a　salute　…　whether　sarcastic　or　sincere　Owen　neither　knew　nor　cared　…　and　then　Owen　brought　his　arm　down。　As　Jagger　sang　it　out；　sang　the　Anthem；　the　one　they　always　played　when　they　went　in　hot；　the　helicopters　dropped；　tightened；　and　flew　to　target。


8

The　grayboys　…　the　ones　that　were　left　…　stood　beneath　the　shadow　of　their　ship　which　lay　in　turn　at　the　end　of　the　shattered　aisle　of　trees　it　had　destroyed　in　its　final　descent。　They　made　no　initial　effort　to　run　or　hide；　in　fact　half　of　them　actually　stepped　forward　on　their　naked　toeless　feet；　squelching　in　the　melted　snow；　the　muck；　and　the　scattered　fuzz　of　reddish…gold　moss。　These　faced　the　oning　line　of　gunships；　long…fingered　hands　raised；　showing　that　they　were　empty。　Their　huge　black　eyes　gleamed　in　the　dull　daylight。
　　　　The　gunships　did　not　slow；　although　all　of　them　heard　the　final　transmissions　briefly　in　their　heads：　Please　don't　hurt　us；　we　are　helpless；　we　are　dying。　With　that；　twining　through　it　like　a　pigtail；　came　the　voice　of　Mick　Jagger：　'Please　allow　me　to　introduce　myself；　I'm　a　man　Of　wealth　and　taste；　I've　been　around　for　many　a　long　year；　stolen　many　man's　soul　and　faith　。　。　。'
　　　　The　gunships　heeled　around　as　briskly　as　a　marching　band　doing　a　square　turn　on　the　fifty…yard　line　of　the　Pose　Bowl；　and　the　。50s　opened　up。　The　bullets　plowed　into　the　snow；　struck　dead　branches　from　already　wounded　trees；　struck　pallid　little　sparks　from　the　edge　of　the　great　ship。　They　ripped　into　the　bunched　grayboys　standing　with　their　arms　upraised　and　tore　them　apart。　Arms　spun　free　of　rudimentary　bodies；　spouting　a　kind　of　pink　sap。　Heads　exploded　like　gourds；　raining　a　reddish　backsplash　on　their　ship　and　their　shipmates　…　not　blood　but　that　mossy　stuff；　as　if　their　heads　were　full　of　it；　not　really　heads　at　all　but　grisly　produce　baskets。　Several　of　them　were　cut　in　two　at　the　midsection　and　went　down　with　their　hands　still　raised　in　surrender。　As　they　fell；　the　gray　bodies　went　a　dirty　white　and　seemed　to　boil。
　　　　Mick　Jagger　confided：　'I　was　around　when　Jesus　Christ　had　His　moment　of　doubt　and　pain　。　。　。'
　　　　A　few　grays；　still　standing　under　the　lip　of　the　ship；　turned　as　if　to　run；　but　there　was　nowhere　to　go。　Most　of　them　were　shot　down　immediately。　The　last　few　survivors　…　maybe　four　in　all　…　retreated　into　the　scant　shadows。　They　seemed　to　be　doing　something；　fiddling　with　something；　and　Owen　had　a　horrible　premonition。
　　　　'I　can　get　them！'　came　crackling　over　the　radio。　That　was　Deforest　in　Blue　Boy　Four；　almost　panting　with　eagerness。　And；　anticipating　Owen's　order　to　go　for　it；　the　Chinook　dropped　almost　to　ground…level；　its　rotors　kicking　up　snow　and　muddy　water　in　a　filthy　blizzard；　battering　the　underbrush　flat。
　　　　'No；　negative；　belay　that；　back　off；　resume　station　plus　fifty！'　Owen　shouted；　and　whacked　Tony's　shoulder。　Tony；　looking　only　slightly　odd　in　the　transparent　mask　over　his　mouth　and　nose；　yanked　back　on　the　yoke　and　Blue　Boy　Leader　rose　in　the　unsteady　air。　Even　over　the　music　…　the　mad　bongos；　the　chorus　going　Hoo…hoo；　'Sympathy　for　the　Devil'　hadn't　played　through　to　its　conclusion　even　a　single　time；　at　least　not　yet　…　Owen　could　hear　his　crew　grumbling。　The　Kiowa；　he　saw；　was　already　small　with　distance。　Whatever　his　mental　peculiarities　might　be；　Kurtz　was　no　fool…　And　his　instincts　were　exquisite。
　　　　'Ah；　boss　'　Deforest；　sounding　not　just　disappointed　but　on　fire。
　　　　'Say　again；　say　again；　return　to　station；　Blue　Group；　return…'
　　　　The　explosion　hanmered　him　back　in　his　seat　and　tossed　the　Chinook　upward　like　a　toy。　Beneath　the　roar；　he　heard　Tony　Edwards　cursing　and　wrestling　with　the　yoke。　There　were　screams　from　behind　them；　but　while　most　of　the　crew　was　injured；　they　lost　only　Pinky　Bryson；　who　had　been　leaning　out　the　bay　for　a　better　look　and　fen　when　the　shockwave　hit。
　　　　'Got　it；　got　it；　got　it；'　Tony　yammered；　but　Owen　thought　it　was　at　least　thirty　seconds　before　Tony　actually　did；　seconds　that　felt　like　hours。　On　the　sound　systems；　the　Anthem　had　cut　off；　a　fact　that　did　not　bode　well　for　Conk　and　th