William Gerken - Stopover.pdf - William Gerken - widez2

Stopover

Gerken, William

Published: 1957

Type(s): Short Fiction, Science Fiction

Source: Feedbooks

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Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Uni-

verse September 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence

that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling

and typographical errors have been corrected without note.

HE HAD been living with us for a week before I found out he was a

Lifter. Even the discovery was an accident. I had started for the store, but

then remembered a chore I wanted him to do. I heard the sounds of

wood-chopping coming from the shed, so I went behind the house to the

small wooden structure. I must have gasped or something, because he

turned around to look at me, dropping the axe he had poised over a

block of wood as he turned. Only he hadn't been holding the axe; it had

been hanging in mid-air without support.

The first time I saw him was when he knocked on my door. I don't

think I'll ever forget how he looked—tall and thin, old clothes and older

shoes, an unruly mop of blond hair. It was only when I looked at his face

that I realized that he was more than a mere boy of eighteen or nineteen.

The tired lines around his mouth, the sad, mature look in his eyes, the

stoop already evident in his young shoulders; he had been forced to ma-

ture too quickly, and seemed to have knowledge a boy his age had no

right to be burdened with.

"I—I was wondering if I might get a bite to eat, sir," he said.

I grinned. No matter how he looked, he was no different from anyone

else his age where food was concerned. "Sure; come on in and rest a

spell," I told him. "Marty, can you fix a plate of something? We've got a

guest." Marty—my wife—glanced through the kitchen doorway. After a

cursory look at the boy, she smiled at him and went back to work.

"Sit down, son, you look pretty done-in. Come far today?"

He nodded. "Guess it shows, huh?" he said, brushing the road dust

from his trousers.

"Uh-huh. Where you from? Not around here, I know."

"Far back as I can remember, Oregon has been home."

It wasn't hard to guess why he was almost a thousand miles from

home. During the war, over ten million American families had been sep-

arated, their way of life destroyed by the hell of atomic bombings. Ever

since its end, people had been seeking their loved ones; many, only to

find them dead or dying. Sometimes the searches stretched across con-

tinents or oceans. In that respect the boy sitting opposite me was no dif-

ferent from hundreds of others I've seen in the past ten years. The only

difference was in his face.

"Looking for your family," I said, making it a statement.

"Yessir." He smiled, as though the sentence had double meaning.

After he had eaten, he went down to the town store to look through its

records. They all do. They turn the pages of the big stopover book, hop-

ing a relative or friend had passed through the same town. Then they

sign the book, put down the date and where they're headed, and set out

once more. Almost all towns have stopover books nowadays, and a good

thing, too. They helped me find Marty back in '63, when the truce was fi-

nally signed. In fact, I found her right here in this town. We got married,

settled down, and haven't been more than a hundred miles away since

then.

Martha called me into the kitchen almost as soon as he was gone. "He's

a nice boy."

"That he is," I agreed. "You know, I've been thinking; we could use a

young fella around here to help with the work."

"If he'll stay. There was something in his eyes; a sort of longing for

someone very close to him. That kind usually takes off after a night's

rest."

"I know. Guess I'll drop by the store; see if I can talk him into staying."

By the time I reached the store, school was out, and a group of kids

were gathered around him, listening to his description of the Rocky

Mountains, which he had crossed during the summer. The kids weren't

the only ones listening. Even the adults were standing around in the

store, remembering the places they had once seen themselves, and get-

ting such bits of news as he dropped about the other towns he had

passed through. The Searchers are, next to the town radio stations, the

only source of information we have now, so it's no wonder they're so

warmly greeted wherever they stop.

Soon as he'd finished telling about the Rockies, I said we'd appreciate

it if he would stay for supper. He said he would, and later, while he and

Tommy, my eight-year-old son, and I were walking home, I asked him if

he'd stay with us for a while.

For a moment he looked wistful, as if wishing he could stay here, and

forget whoever he was trying to find. Then he smiled and said, thanks,

he would stay for a week or so.

He was real helpful, too, cutting stove and fireplace wood for the com-

ing winter, running errands, hunting for game animals, and teaching at

the school. Almost all Searchers teach when they can be persuaded to

stay in town for a spell. Since there are no more colleges to produce

teachers, anyone who knows something useful takes a turn at teaching.

William Gerken - Stopover.pdf

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