The next day the rain let up for perhaps an hour in the morning. Then a slow drizzle began; and it did not stop again. It went on to become a steady downpour by afternoon. The following day was Friday, which I always have off, and I was glad that it was. Put dittoes under Thursday’s weather report. That’s Friday. But I decided to do something anyway. I lived down in that section of town near the river. The Noble was swollen, and the rains kept adding to it. Sewers had begun to clog and back up; water ran into the streets. The rain kept coming down and widening the puddles and lakelets, and it was accompanied by drum solos in the sky and the falling of bright forks and sawblades. Dead skytoads were washed along the gutters, like burnt-out fireworks. Ball lightning drifted across Town Square; Saint Elmo’s fire clung to the flag pole, the Watch Tower, and the big statue of Wyeth trying to look heroic. I headed uptown to the library, pushing my car slowly through the countless beaded curtains. The big furniture movers in the sky were obviously non-union, because they weren’t taking any coffee breaks. Finally, I found a parking place and I umbrellaed my way to the library and entered. I have become something of a bibliophile in recent years. It is not so much that I hunger and thirst after knowledge, but that I am news-starved. It all goes back to my position in the big mixmaster. Admitted, there are _some_ things faster than light, like the phase velocities of radio waves in ion plasma, or the tips of the ion-modulated light-beams of Duckbill, the comm-setup back in Sol System, whenever the hinges of the beak snap shut on Earth–but these are highly restricted instances, with no application whatsoever to the passage of shiploads of people and objects between the stars. You can’t exceed lightspeed when it comes to the movement of matter. You can edge up pretty close, but that’s about it. Life can be suspended though, that’s easy–it can be switched off and switched back on again with no trouble at all. This is why _I_ have lasted so long. If we can’t speed up the ships, we _can_ slow down the people–slow them until they stop–and _let_ the vessel, moving at near-lightspeed, take half a century, or more if it needs it, to convey its passengers to where they are going. This is why I am very alone. Each little death means resurrection into both another land and another time. I have had several, and _this_ is why I have become a bibliophile: news travels slowly, as slowly as the ships and the people. Buy a newspaper before you hop aboard a ship and it will still be a newspaper when you reach your destination–but back where you bought it, it would be considered an historical document. Send a letter back to Earth and your correspondent’s grandson may be able to get an answer back to your great-grandson, if the message makes real good connections and both kids live long enough. All the little libraries Out Here are full of rare books–first editions of best sellers which people pick up before they leave Someplace Else, and which they often donate after they’ve finished. We assume that these books have entered the public domain by the time they reach here, and we reproduce them and circulate our own editions. No author has ever sued, and no reproducer has ever been around to _be_ sued by representatives, designates, or assigns. We are completely autonomous and are always behind the times, because there is a transit-lag which cannot be overcome. Earth Central, therefore, exercises about as much control over us as a boy jiggling a broken string while looking up at his kite. Perhaps Yeats had something like this in mind when he wrote that fine line, “Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.” I doubt it, but I still have to go to the library to read the news.
The day melted around me. The words flowed across the screen in my booth as I read newspapers and magazines, untouched by human hands, and the waters flowed across Betty’s acres, pouring down from the mountains now, washing the floors of the forest, churning our fields to peanut-butter, flooding basements, soaking its way through everything, and tracking our streets with mud. I hit the library cafeteria for lunch, where I learned from a girl in a green apron and yellow skirts (which swished pleasantly) that the sandbag crews were now hard at work and that there was no eastbound traffic past Town Square. After lunch I put on my slicker and boots and walked up that way. Sure enough, the sandbag wall was already waist high across Main Street; but then, the water _was_ swirling around at ankle level, and more of it falling every minute. I looked up at old Wyeth’s statue. His halo had gone away now, which was sort of to be expected. It had made an honest mistake and realized it after a short time. He was holding a pair of glasses in his left hand and sort of glancing down at me, as though a bit apprehensive, wondering perhaps, there inside all that bronze, if I would tell on him now and ruin his hard, wet, greenish splendor. Tell…? I guess I was the only one around who really remembered the man. He had wanted to be the father of this great new country, literally, and he’d tried awfully hard. Three months in office and I’d had to fill out the rest of the two-year term. The death certificate gave the cause as “heart stoppage”, but it didn’t mention the piece of lead which had helped slow things down a bit. Everybody involved is gone now: the irate husband, the frightened wife, the coroner. All but me. And I won’t tell anybody if Wyeth’s statue won’t, because he’s a hero now, and we need heroes’ statues Out Here even more than we do heroes. He _did_ engineer a nice piece of relief work during the Butler Township floods, and he may as well be remembered for that. I winked at my old boss, and the rain dripped from his nose and fell into the puddle at my feet. I walked back to the library through loud sounds and bright flashes, hearing the splashing and the curses of the work crew as the men began to block off another street. Black, overhead, an eye drifted past. I waved, and the filter snapped up and back down again. I think H.C. John Keams was tending shop that afternoon, but I’m not sure. Suddenly the heavens opened up and it was like standing under a waterfall. I reached for a wall and there wasn’t one, slipped then, and managed to catch myself with my cane before I flopped. I found a doorway and huddled. Ten minutes of lightning and thunder followed. Then, after the blindness and the deafness passed away and the rains had eased a bit, I saw that the street (Second Avenue) had become a river. Bearing all sorts of garbage, papers, hats, sticks, mud, it sloshed past my niche, gurgling nastily. It looked to be over my boot tops, so I waited for it to subside. It didn’t. It got right up in there with me and started to play footsie. So, then seemed as good a time as any. Things certainly weren’t getting any better. I tried to run, but with filled boots the best you can manage is a fast wade, and my boots were filled after three steps. That shot the afternoon. How can you concentrate on anything with wet feet? I made it back to the parking lot, then churned my way homeward, feeling like a riverboat captain who really wanted to be a camel driver. It seemed more like evening that afternoon when I pulled up into my damp but unflooded garage. It seemed more like night than evening in the alley I cut through on the way to my apartment’s back entrance. I hadn’t seen the sun for several days, and it’s funny how much you can miss it when it takes a vacation. The sky was a stable dome, and the high brick walls of the alley were cleaner than I’d ever seen them, despite the shadows. I stayed close to the lefthand wall, in order to miss some of the rain. As I had driven along the river I’d noticed that it was already reaching after the high water marks on the sides of the piers. The Noble was a big, spoiled, blood sausage, ready to burst its skin. A lightning flash showed me the whole alley, and I slowed in order to avoid puddles. I moved ahead, thinking of dry socks and dry martinis, turned a corner to the right, and it struck at me: an org. Half of its segmented body was reared at a forty-five degree angle above the pavement, which placed its wide head with the traffic-signal eyes saying “Stop”, about three and a half feet off the ground, as it rolled toward me on all its pale little legs, with its mouthful of death aimed at my middle. I pause now in my narrative for a long digression concerning my childhood, which, if you will but consider the circumstances, I was obviously fresh on it an instant: Born, raised, educated on Earth, I had worked two summers in a stockyard while going to college. I still remember the smells and the noises of the cattle; I used to prod them out of the pens and on their way up the last mile. And I remember the smells and noises of the university: the formaldehyde in the Bio labs, the sounds of Freshmen slaughtering French verbs, the overpowering aroma of coffee mixed with cigarette smoke in the Student Union, the splash of the newly-pinned frat man as his brothers tossed him into the lagoon down in front of the Art Museum, the sounds of ignored chapel bells and class bells, the smell of the lawn after the year’s first mowing (with big, black Andy perched on his grass-chewing monster, baseball cap down to his eyebrows, cigarette somehow not burning his left cheek), and always, always, the _tick-tick-snick-stamp!_ as I moved up or down the strip. I had not wanted to take General Physical Education, but four semesters of it were required. The only out was to take a class in a special sport. I picked fencing because tennis, basketball, boxing, wrestling, handball, judo, all sounded too strenuous, and I couldn’t afford a set of golf clubs. Little did I suspect what would follow this choice. It was as strenuous as any of the others, and more than several. But I liked it. So I tried out for the team in my Sophomore year, made it on the epee squad, and picked up three varsity letters, because I stuck with it through my Senior year. Which all goes to show: Cattle who persevere in looking for an easy out still wind up in the abattoir, but they may enjoy the trip a little more. When I came out here on the raw frontier where people all carry weapons, I had my cane made. It combines the best features of the epee and the cattle prod. Only, it is the kind of prod which, if you were to prod cattle with it, they would never move again. Over eight hundred volts, max, when the tip touches, if the stud in the handle is depressed properly… My arm shot out and up and my fingers depressed the stud properly as it moved. That was it for the org. A noise came from beneath the rows of razor blades in its mouth as I scored a touch on its soft underbelly and whipped my arm away to the side–a noise halfway between an exhalation and “peep”–and that was it for the org (short for “organism-with-a-long-name-which-I-can’t-remember”). I switched off my cane and walked around it. It was one of those things which sometimes come out of the river. I remember that I looked back at it three times, then I switched the cane on again at max and kept it that way till I was inside my apartment with the door locked behind me and all the lights burning. Then I permitted myself to tremble, and after awhile I changed my socks and mixed my drink. May your alleys be safe from orgs.