Charlie answered, “Uh…his name is ‘Spot.”
“So?” The stranger said sharply, “Nixie!”
Nixie had been keeping his eyes elsewhere, in order not to distract his ears, his nose, and the inner sense with which he touched people’s feelings. But he was so startled at hearing this stranger call him by name that he turned his head and looked at him.
“His name is ‘Spot,’ is it?” the policeman said quietly. “And mine is Santa Claus. But you’re Charlie Vaughn and you’re going home.” He spoke into his helmet phone: “Nelson, reporting a pickup on that Vaughn missing-persons flier. Send a car. I’m in front of the new supermarket.”
Nixie had trouble sorting out Charlie’s feelings; they were both sad and glad. The stranger’s feelings were slightly happy but mostly nothing; Nixie decided to wait and see. He enjoyed the ride in the police car, as he always enjoyed rides, but Charlie did not, which spoiled it a little.
They were taken to the local Justice of the Peace. “You’re Charles Vaughn?”
Nixie’s boy felt unhappy and said nothing.
“Speak up, son,” insisted the old man. “If you aren’t, then you must have stolen that dog.” He read from a paper ” — accompanied by a small brown mongrel, male, well trained, responds to the name ‘Nixie.’ Well?”
Nixie’s boy answered faintly, “I’m Charlie Vaughn.”
“That’s better. You’ll stay here until your parents pick you up.” The judge frowned. “I can’t understand your running away. Your folks are emigrating to Venus, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re the first boy I ever met who didn’t want to make the Big Jump.” He pointed to a pin on the boy’s lapel. “And I thought Scouts were trustworthy. Not to mention obedient. What got into you, son? Are you scared of the Big Jump? ‘A Scout is Brave.’ That doesn’t mean you don’t have to be scared — everybody is at times. ‘Brave’ simply means you don’t run even if you are scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Charlie said stubbornly. “I want to go to Venus.”
“Then why run away when your family is about to leave?”
Nixie felt such a burst of warm happy-sadness from Charlie that he licked his hand. “Because Nixie can’t go!”
“Oh.” The judge looked at boy and dog. “I’m sorry, son. That problem is beyond my jurisdiction.” He drummed his desk top. “Charlie…will you promise, Scout’s honor, not to run away again until your parents show up?”
“Uh…yes, sir.”
“Okay. Joe, take them to my place. Tell my wife she had better see how recently they’ve had anything to eat.”
The trip home was long. Nixie enjoyed it, even though Charlie’s father was happy-angry and his mother was happy-sad and Charlie himself was happy-sad-worried. When Nixie was home he checked quickly through each room, making sure that all was in order and that there were no new smells. Then he returned to Charlie.
The feelings had changed. Mr. Vaughn was angry, Mrs. Vaughn was sad, Charlie himself gave out such bitter stubbornness that Nixie went to him, jumped onto his lap, and tried to lick his face. Charlie settled Nixie beside him, started digging fingers into the loose skin back of Nixie’s neck. Nixie quieted at once, satisfied that he and his boy could face together whatever it was — but it distressed him that the other two were not happy. Charlie belonged to him; they belonged to Charlie; things were better when they were happy, too.
Mr. Vaughn said, “Go to bed, young man, and sleep on it. I’ll speak with you again tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”
“Kiss your mother goodnight. One thing more — Do I need to lock doors to be sure you will be here in the morning?”
“No, sir.”
Nixie got on the foot of the bed as usual, tromped out a space, laid his tail over his nose, and started to go to sleep. But his boy was not sleeping; his sadness was taking the distressing form of heaves and sobs. So Nixie got up, went to the other end of the bed and licked away tears — then let himself be pulled into Charlie’s arms and tears applied directly to his neck. It was not comfortable and too hot, besides being taboo. But it was worth enduring as Charlie started to quiet down, presently went to sleep.