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diff --git a/58743-0.txt b/58743-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f1b44de --- /dev/null +++ b/58743-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,706 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 58743 *** + + + + + + + + + + + + + LITTLE BOY + + BY HARRY NEAL + + _There are times when the animal in Mankind + savagely asserts itself. Even children become + snarling little beasts. Fortunately, however, + in childhood laughter is not buried deep._ + + [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from + Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1954. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that + the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + +He dropped over the stone wall and flattened to the ground. He looked +warily about him like a young wolf, head down, eyes up. His name was +Steven--but he'd forgotten that. His face was a sunburned, bitter, +filthy eleven-year-old face--tight lips, lean cheeks, sharp blue +eyes with startlingly clear whites. His clothes were rags--a pair of +corduroy trousers without any knees; a man's white shirt, far too big +for him, full of holes, stained, reeking with sweat; a pair of dirty +brown sneakers. + +He lay, knife in hand, and waited to see if anyone had seen him coming +over the wall or heard his almost soundless landing on the weedgrown +dirt. + +Above and behind him was the grey stone wall that ran along Central +Park West all the way from Columbus Circle to the edge of Harlem. +He had jumped over just north of 72nd Street. Here the park was +considerably below street level--the wall was about three feet high on +the sidewalk side and about nine feet high on the park side. From where +he lay at the foot of the wall only the jagged, leaning tops of the +shattered apartment buildings across the street were visible. Like the +teeth of a skull's smile they caught the late afternoon sunlight that +drifted across the park. + +For five minutes Steven had knelt motionless on one of the cement +benches on the other side of the wall, just the top of his head and his +eyes protruding over the top. He had seen no one moving in the park. +Every few seconds he had looked up and down the street behind him to +make sure that no one was sneaking up on him that way. Once he had +seen a man dart out halfway across the street, then wheel and vanish +back into the rubble where one whole side of an apartment house had +collapsed into 68th Street. + +Steven knew the reason for that. A dozen blocks down the street, from +around Columbus Circle, had come the distant hollow racket of a pack of +dogs. + +Then he had jumped over the wall--partly because the dogs might head +this way, partly because the best time to move was when you couldn't +see anyone else. After all, you could never be _sure_ that no one was +seeing _you_. You just moved, and then you waited to see if anything +happened. If someone came at you, you fought. Or ran, if the other +looked too dangerous. + +No one came at him this time. Only a few days ago he'd come into the +park and two men had been hidden in the bushes a few yards from the +wall. They'd been lying very still, and had covered themselves with +leaves, so he hadn't seen them; and they'd been looking the other way, +waiting for someone to come along one of the paths or through the +trees, so they hadn't seen him looking over the wall. + +The instant he'd landed, they were up and chasing him, yelling that if +he'd drop his knife and any food he had they'd let him go. He dropped +the knife, because he had others at home--and when they stopped to paw +for it in the leaves, he got away. + +Now he got into a crouching position, very slowly. His nostrils dilated +as he sniffed the breeze. Sometimes you knew men were near by their +smell--the ones who didn't stand outside when it rained and scrub the +smell off them. + +He smelled nothing. He looked and listened some more, his blue eyes +hard and bright. He saw nothing except trees, rocks, bushes, all +crowded by thick weeds. He heard nothing except the movement of +greenery in the afternoon breeze, the far off baying of the dog pack, +the flutter of birds, the scamper of a squirrel. + +He whirled at the scamper. When he saw that it was a squirrel, he +licked his lips, almost tasting it. But it was too far away to kill +with the knife, and he didn't want to risk stoning it, because that +made noise. You stoned squirrels only after you'd scouted all around, +and even then it was dangerous--someone might hear you anyway and sneak +up and kill you for the squirrel, or for anything else you had, or just +kill you--there were some men who did that. Not for guns or knives or +food or anything else that Steven could see ... they just killed, and +howled like dogs when they did it. He'd watched them. They were the men +with the funny looks in their eyes--the ones who tried to get you to +come close to them by pretending to offer you food or something. + +In a half-crouch Steven started moving deeper into the park, pausing +each time he reached any cover to look around. He came to a long green +slope and went down it soundlessly, stepping on rocks whenever he +could. He crossed the weedgrown bridle path, darting from the shelter +of a bush on one side to press against the trunk of a tree on the other. + +He moved so silently that he surprised another squirrel on the tree +trunk. In one furious motion Steven had his knife out of his belt, and +sliced it at the squirrel so fast the blade went _whuh_ in the air--but +the squirrel was faster. It scurried up out of reach, and the knife +just clipped off the end of its tail. It went higher, and out onto a +branch, and chittered at him. It was funny about squirrels--they didn't +seem to feel anything in their tails. Once he'd caught one that way, +and it had twisted and run off, leaving the snapped-off tail in his +hand. + +Dogs weren't that way--once he'd fought a crippled stray from a pack, +and he'd got it by the tail and swung it around and brained it on a +lamppost. + +Dogs ... squirrels.... + + * * * * * + +Steven had some dim, almost dreamlike memory of dogs that acted +friendly, dogs that didn't roam the streets in packs and pull you +down and tear you apart and eat you alive; and he had a memory of the +squirrels in the park being so tame that they'd eat right out of your +hand.... + +But that had been a long, long time ago--before men had started hunting +squirrels, and sometimes dogs, for food, and dogs had started hunting +men. + +Steven turned south and paralleled the bridle path, going always +wherever the cover was thickest, moving as silently as the breeze. +He was going no place in particular--his purpose was simply to see +someone before that someone saw him, to see if the other had anything +worth taking, and, if so, take it if possible. Also, he'd try to get a +squirrel. + +Far ahead of him, across the bridle path and the half-mile or so of +tree-clumped park that lay beyond, was Central Park South--a sawtoothed +ridge of grey-white rubble. And beyond that lay the ruin of midtown +Manhattan. The bomb had exploded low over 34th Street and Seventh +Avenue that night six years ago, and everything for a mile in every +direction had been leveled in ten seconds. The crater started at around +26th and sloped down to where 34th had been and then up again to 40th, +and it glowed at night. It wasn't safe to go down around the crater, +Steven knew. He'd heard some men talking about it--they'd said that +anyone who went there got sick; something would go wrong with their +skin and their blood, and they'd start glowing too, and die. + +Steven had understood only part of that. The men had seen him and +chased him. He'd gotten away, and since then had never ventured below +Central Park South. + +It was a "war", they'd said. He didn't know much about that either ... +who was winning, or had won, or even if it was still being fought. He +had only the vaguest notion of what a war was--it was some kind of +fight, but he didn't think it was over food. Someone had "bombed" the +city--once he had heard a man call the city a "country"--and that was +about as early as he could remember anything. In his memory was the +flash and roar of that night and, hours before that, cars with loud +voices driving up and down the streets warning everybody to get out of +the city because of the "war". But Steven's father had been drunk that +night, lying on the couch in the living room of their apartment on the +upper west side, and even the bomb hadn't waked him up. The cars with +the voices had waked Steven up; he'd gone back to sleep after a while, +and then the bomb had waked him up again. He'd gone to the window and +climbed out onto the fire escape, and seen the people running in the +street, and listened to all the screaming and the steady rumble of +still-falling masonry, and watched the people on foot trample each +other and people in cars drive across the bodies and knock other people +down and out of the way, and still other people jump on the cars and +pull out the drivers and try to drive away themselves until someone +pulled _them_ out.... Steven had watched, fascinated, because it was +more exciting than anything he'd ever seen, like a movie. Then a man +had stood under the fire escape, holding up his arms, and shouted up +at Steven to jump for God's sake, little boy, and that had frightened +Steven and he went back inside. His father had always told him never to +play with strangers. + +Next afternoon Steven's father had gotten up and gone downstairs to +get a drink, and when he saw what had happened, he'd come back making +choked noises in his throat and saying over and over again, "Everybody +worth a damn got out ... now it's a jungle ... all the scum left, like +me--and the ones they hurt, like you, Stevie...." He'd put some cans of +food in a bag and started to take Steven out of the city, but a madman +with a shotgun had blown the side of his head off before they'd gone +five blocks. Not to get the food or anything ... looting was going on +all over, but there wasn't any food problem yet ... the man was just +one of the ones who killed for no reason at all. There'd been a lot +like that the first few weeks after the bomb, but most of them hadn't +lasted long--they wanted to die, it looked like, about as much as they +wanted to kill. + +Steven had gotten away. He was five years old and small and fast on his +feet, and the madman missed with the other barrel. + +Steven had fled like an animal, and since then had lived like one. He'd +stayed away from the men, remembering how his father had looked with +half a head--and because the few times men had seen him, they'd chased +him; either they were afraid he'd steal from them, or they wanted his +knife or belt or something. Once or twice men had shouted that they +wouldn't hurt him, they only wanted to help him--but he didn't believe +them. Not after seeing his father that way, and after the times they +had tried to kill him. + +He watched the men, though, sneaking around their fires at +night--sometimes because he was lonely and, later on, hoping to find +scraps of food. He saw how they lived, and that was the way he lived +too. He saw them raid grocery stores--he raided the stores after they +left. He saw them carrying knives and guns--he found a knife and +carried it; he hadn't yet found a gun. They ran from the dogs; he +learned to run from them, after seeing them catch a man once. The men +raided other stores, taking clothes and lots of things whose use Steven +didn't understand. Steven took some clothes at first, but he didn't +care much about what he wore--both his shirt and his heavy winter coat +had come from dead men. He found toy stores, and had a lot of toys. The +men collected and hoarded wads of green paper, and sometimes fought +and killed each other over it. Steven vaguely remembered that it was +called "money", and that it was very important. He found it too, here +and there, in dead men's pockets, in boxes with sliding drawers in +stores--but he couldn't find any use for it, so his hoard of it lay +hidden in the hole in the floor under the pile of blankets that was his +bed. + +Eventually he saw the men begin to kill for food, when food became +scarce. When that happened--the food scarcity, and the killing--many +of the men left the city, going across the bridges and through the +tunnels under the rivers, heading for the "country". + +He didn't follow them. The city was all he'd ever known. + +He stayed. Along with the men who said they'd rather stay in the city +where there was still plenty of food for those who were willing to hunt +hard and sometimes kill for it, and, in addition, beds to sleep in, +rooms for protection from the weather and dogs and other men, all the +clothes you could wear, and lots of other stuff just lying around for +the taking. + +He stayed, and so he learned to kill, when necessary, for his food. +He had six knives, and with them he'd killed men higher than he could +count. He was good at hiding--in trees, in hallways, behind bushes, +under cars--and he was small enough to do a good job of trailing when +he saw somebody who looked as though they were carrying food in their +pockets or in the bags almost everyone carried. And he knew where to +strike with the knife. + +His home was the rubble of an apartment building just north of Columbus +Circle, on Broadway. No one else lived there; only he knew the way +through the broken corridors and fallen walls and piles of stone to +his room on the seventh floor. Every day or so he went out into the +park--to get food or anything at all he could get that he wanted. He +was still looking for a gun. Food was the main thing, though; he had +lots of cans up in his room, but he'd heard enough of the men's talk to +know that it was wise to use them only when you didn't have anything +else, and get what you could day by day. + +And, of course, there was water--when it didn't rain or snow for a +while, he had to get water from the lakes in the park. + +That was hard sometimes. You could go two or three days without water, +even if you went to one of the lakes and stayed hidden there all day, +because it might be that long before a moment came when no one was near +enough to kill you when you made your dash from the bushes and filled +your pail and dashed back. There were more skeletons around the lakes +than anyplace. + + * * * * * + +The dogs were coming up Central Park West. Their racket bounced off the +broken buildings lining the street, and came down into the park, and +even the squirrels and birds were quieter, as if not wanting to attract +attention. + +Steven froze by the bole of a tree, ready to climb if the dogs came +over the wall at him. He'd done that once before. You climbed up and +waited while the dogs danced red-eyed beneath you, until they heard or +smelled someone else, and then they were off, bounding hungrily after +the new quarry. They'd learned that men in trees just didn't come down. + +The dogs passed the point in the park where Steven waited. He knew from +the sound that they weren't after anybody--just prowling. The howls and +snarls and scratchy sounds of nails on concrete faded slowly. + +Steven didn't move until they were almost inaudible in the distance. + +Then, when he did move, he took only one step--and froze again. + +Someone was coming toward him. + +Just a shadow of a motion, a whisper of sound, a breath--someone was +coming along the path on the other side of the bushes. + +Steven's lips curled back to reveal decayed teeth. He brought out his +knife from his belt and stood utterly still, waiting for the steps +to go on so he could trail along behind his quarry, off to one side, +judging the other's stature from glimpses through the bushes, and +ascertaining whether he was carrying anything worth killing him for. + +But the footsteps didn't pass. They stopped on the other side of the +bushes. Then leaves rustled as whoever it was bent to come through +the bushes. Steven hugged his tree trunk, and saw a short thin figure +coming toward him through the green leaves, a bent-over figure. He +raised the knife, started to bring its point down in the short arc that +would end in the back of the other's neck... + +He dropped the knife. + +Wide-eyed, not breathing, he stared at her. + +Knife in hand, its point aimed at his belly, she stared back. + +She was dressed in a man's trousers, torn off at the ankles, and a +yellow blouse that might have belonged to her mother, and new-looking +shoes she must have found, or killed for, only a week or so ago. Her +face was as sunburned and dirty as his. + +A squirrel chittered over their heads as they stared at each other. + +Steven noted expertly that she seemed to be carrying no food and had +no gun. No one with a gun would carry a drawn knife. + +She still held the knife ready, though the point had drooped. She +moistened her lips. + +He wondered if she would attack. He obviously didn't have any food +either, so maybe she wouldn't. But if she did--well, she was only a +little larger than he was; he could probably kill her with her own +knife, though he might even get his own knife from the ground before +she got to him. + +But it was a _woman_, he knew ... without knowing exactly what a woman +was, or how he knew. The hair was long--but then, some of the men's +hair was long too. It was something different--something about the face +and body. He hadn't seen many women, and certainly never one as little +as this, but he knew that's what it was. A _woman_. + +Once he'd seen some men kill another man who'd killed a woman for her +food. By their angry shouts he knew that killing a woman was different +somehow. + +And he remembered a woman. And a word: mother. A face and a word, a +voice and a warmth and a not-sour body smell ... she was dead. He +didn't remember who had killed her. Somehow he thought she had been +killed _before_ everything changed, _before_ the "bomb" fell; but he +couldn't remember very well, and didn't know how she'd been killed or +even why people had killed each other in those days.... Not for food, +he thought; he could remember having plenty to eat. Another word: +cancer. His father had said it about his mother. Maybe somebody had +killed her to get that, instead of food. Anyway, somebody had killed +her, because she was dead, and people didn't just _die_. + +Seeing a _woman_, and such a little one ... it had startled him so much +he had dropped his knife. + +But he could still kill her if he had to. + +She stirred, her eyes wide on his. She moved just an inch or so. + +Steven crouched, almost too fast to see, and his knife was in his hand, +ready from this position to get in under her stab and cut her belly +open. + +She made a strangled sound and shook her head. + +Steven pulled his swing, without quite knowing why. He struck her knife +out of her hand with his blade, and it went spinning into the leaves. + +He took a step toward her, lips curled back. + +She retreated two steps, and her back was against a tree trunk. + +He came up to her and stood with his knife point pressing into her +belly just above where the blouse entered the man's pants. + +She whimpered and shook her head and whimpered again. + +He scowled at her. Looked her up and down. She was wearing a tarnished +ring on her right hand, with a stone that sparkled. He liked it. He +decided to kill her. He pressed the knifepoint harder, and twisted. + +She said, "Little boy--" and started to cry. + +Memories assailed Steven: + +_Jump for God's sake, little boy...._ + +Distrust. Kill her. + +_My little boy ... my son...._ + +His knifepoint wavered. He scowled. + +_Don't run away, little boy--we won't hurt you...._ + +Kill. + +Tears were rolling down her cheeks. + +_My son, my baby ... I'm crying because I have to go away for a long +time...._ + +Steven stepped back. She was weaponless, and a _woman_--whatever that +was. + +Leaves rustled. Steven and the girl froze motionless. + +It was only a squirrel in the bushes. + +He bent silently, looked around under the leafy green bushes that +surrounded them, almost at ground-level. If there had been men nearby, +he could have seen their legs. He saw nothing. He kept one eye on the +girl as he bent. She wasn't crying, now that he'd taken the knife away. +She was watching him and rubbing her belly where he'd pressed it. + +When he straightened, she took a step away from the tree, moving as +silently as he ever had. Suddenly she stooped to pick up her knife, +made a slashing motion at the ground with it, looked up at him. + +He was in mid-air. On her. She flattened beneath him with a squeal. She +was stronger than he was, and experienced. She brought her knife back +over her shoulder, and if he hadn't ducked his head it would have laid +his face open. When she brought it down for another try, he clubbed the +back of her hand with the hilt of his knife, and she gasped and dropped +it. + +Astride her, he raised his knife to kill her. She was pointing with +her left hand, frantically, at something that lay on the ground +beside them, and saying, "No, no, little boy, no, no--" Then she just +whimpered, knowing that his knife was poised, and kept stabbing her +finger at the ground. Because she was helpless, he paused, looked, and +saw a squirrel lying there, head bleeding. + +He understood. She hadn't been trying to kill him. She had seen the +squirrel, and gotten it. + +He decided to kill her anyway. For the squirrel. + +"_No, little boy--_" + +He hesitated. + +"_Friends_, little boy...." + +After a moment he rolled off her. + +She sat up, cheeks tear-streaked. She pointed at the squirrel, then at +Steven, and shook her head violently. + +Knife threatening her, he reached out to pick up the squirrel. + +_Mine_, the knife said. + +At that point the squirrel, which had been only momentarily stunned by +her blow, shook itself and scrambled for the bushes. His hand missed +it by inches. He lunged for it, flat on his belly, and caught its tail +with one hand. + +As another squirrel's tail had done long ago, this one broke off. + +He lay there for a moment, snarling, the tail in his hand; and when +he turned over, the girl had her knife in her hand and her teeth were +bared at him. + +Blue eyes blazing, he got to his feet, expecting her to attack any +second. He dropped the tail. He crouched to fight. + +She didn't attack. + +Nor, for some reason, did he. + +The way her chapped lips were stretched back over her teeth disturbed +him ... or rather it unsettled him, because it _didn't_ disturb him. At +least not the way a snarl did. It didn't put him on guard, every muscle +tense; it didn't make him feel that he had to fight. She didn't look +angry or eager to have anything he had or ready to kill ... he didn't +know the word for how she looked. + +She weighed her knife in her hand. Then she struck it in her belt, and +said again, "_Friends_, little boy." + +He stared. At her strange snarl that wasn't a snarl. At the knife she +had put away. He had never seen anyone do that before. + +Slowly he felt his own lips curl back into an expression he could +hardly remember. He felt the way he felt sometimes late at night when, +safe and alone in his room, he would play a little with his toys. He +didn't feel like killing her any more. He felt like ... like _friends_. + +He looked at the squirrel tail lying on the ground. He worried it with +a foot, then kicked it away. It wasn't good to eat--and he thought of +how the squirrel had looked scrambling off, and felt his lips stretch +tighter. + +He tried to think of the word. Finally it came. + +"Funny squirrel," he said, through his tight lips. + +He stuck his knife in his belt. + +They stared at each other, feeling each other's pleasure at the +peacemaking. + +She bent, picked up a small stone and flipped it at him. He made no +attempt to catch it, and it struck him on the hip. He half-crouched, +instantly wary, hand on knife. A thrown stone had only one meaning. + +But she was still smiling, and she shook her head. "No, little boy," +she said. "_Play._" She tossed another stone, high in the air. + +He reached out and caught it as it descended. + +He started to toss it back to her, and remembered only at the last +moment not to hurl it at her head. + +He tossed it, and she missed it. + +He grinned at her. + +She tossed another one back at him, and he missed, and they both +grinned. + +Then he grunted, remembering something from the dim past. He picked up +a small fallen branch from the ground. + +When he looked up, she was poised to run. + +This time he shook his head, waving the stick gently. "Play," he said. + +She threw another stone, eyes warily on the stick. He swung, missed. + +He hit the next one, and the sharp crack, and the noise the stone +made rattling off into the bushes, flattened him to the ground, eyes +searching for sign of men. + +She was beside him. He smelled her body and her breath. + +They saw no one. + +He looked at her lying beside him. She was grinning again. + +Then she laughed; and, without knowing what he was doing or why--he +could hardly remember ever doing it before--he laughed too. + +It felt good. Like the snarl that wasn't a snarl, only better. It +seemed to come from way inside. He laughed again, sitting up. He +laughed a third time, tight hesitant sounds that came out of his throat +and stretched his lips until they wouldn't stretch any more. + +Tears were on his cheeks, and he was laughing very tightly, very +steadily, and she was laughing the same way, and they lay that way for +a few minutes until they were trembling and their stomachs ached, and +the laughter was almost crying. + +He saw her face, so close by, and felt an impulse. He rolled over and +started to scuffle with her. When she realized that he wasn't trying to +kill her, that he was playing, she scuffled back, rubbing his face in +the dirt harder than he had hers, because she was stronger. + +He spat dirt and grass and grinned at her, and they fell apart. + +Footsteps. + + * * * * * + +His knife was out and ready, and so was hers. + +Legs moved on the other side of the bushes, stopped. + +Silently, almost stepping between the leaves on the ground, Steven and +the girl crawled out the other side of the bushes and took up positions +against treetrunks, just enough of their heads protruding to see around. + +A man came probing into the head-high bushes from the path side ... +stood there a moment looking around, only a vague brown shape through +the leaves. + +He grunted, went out to the path again, walked on. + +Steven and the girl followed him by his sounds, trailing about twenty +feet behind, until Steven got a good look at him when he passed an open +space between the bushes. + +He was a big man in brownish-green clothes--new-looking clothes, not +full of holes. He walked almost carelessly, as if he didn't care who +heard him. + +And Steven saw the reason for that. + +Men with guns always walked louder. This man wore a holstered gun at +his belt, and carried another one--a long gun something like a rifle, +only bulkier. + +Steven's lips curled. He darted a look at the girl. Across his mind +flashed the vague idea of sharing whatever the man had with her, but he +didn't know how to let her know. + +She was looking at the guns, eyes wide. Afraid. She shook her head. + +Steven snarled silently at her, put a hand on her chest, shoved gently. + +She stayed there as he moved on. + +Silently he drifted from tree to tree, bush to bush, getting ahead of +his quarry. The big man's shoes clumped noisily along. Steven had no +trouble telling where he was. + +At last Steven spotted a good tree, a thick-foliaged one about forty +feet up the path, where the sun would be in the man's eyes. + +If the man kept following the path-- + +He did. + +And when he passed below the tree, Steven was waiting on the low branch +that overhung the path--waiting with his face taut and his eyes staring +and his knife ready. One stab at the base of the skull, and the guns +would be his. + +He jumped. + + * * * * * + +They brought them into the camp. By this time Steven and the girl had +found that their captors were far too strong and too many to escape +from, and quite adept at protecting themselves from the foulest of +blows. But still the two of them struggled now and then, panting like +animals. + +Everything at the camp, which was over on Long Island, near Flushing +Bay, was neat and trim and olive-drab, and it was almost evening now, +and as the jeep rolled up the avenue between the rows of tents Steven +and the girl stopped struggling to blink at the first artificial lights +they'd seen in a very long time. + +In the lieutenant's tent, the big man Steven had tried to kill said to +the man behind the desk, "Like a jaguar, sir. Right out of the tree +he came. I had him spotted, of course, but he did a peach of a job of +trailing me. If I _hadn't_ been ready for him, I'd be a dogtag." + +The lieutenant looked at Steven and the girl, standing before him, and +the four soldiers who stood behind them, one to each strong dirty young +arm. + +"The others got the girl, eh?" he said. + +"Yessir. When we first heard 'em, I started making enough noise to +cover the rest of the boys." The sergeant grinned. "I swear, he came at +me as neat as any commando ever did." + +"God," said the lieutenant, and closed his eyes for a moment. "What +a thing. Let this war be the last one, Sipich. So _this_ is what +happened to New York in six years. Maniacs. Murderers. Worst of all, +wolf-children. And the rest of the country...." + +"Well, we're back now, sir. We can start putting it all back together--" + +"God," said the lieutenant again. "Do you think the pieces will fit?" +He looked at Steven. "What is your name, son?" + +Steven snarled. + +"Take them away," said the lieutenant wearily. "Feed them. Delouse +them. Send them to the Georgia camp." + +"They'll be okay, sir. In a year or so they'll be smiling all over the +place, taking an interest in things. Kids are kids, sir." + +"_Are_ they? _These_ kids, Sipich? ... I don't know. I just don't +know." + +The sergeant gave an order, and the four soldiers urged Steven and the +girl out of the tent. There was a bleat of pain as one of the children +placed a kick. + +The sergeant started to follow his men out. At the tent flaps he +paused. "Sir ... maybe you'd like to know: we found these two because +they were playing and laughing. We were scouting the park, and heard +them laughing." + +"They were?" said the lieutenant, looking up from the forms he was +filling out. "_Playing?_" + +"It's still there, sir. Deep down. It has to be." + +"I see," said the lieutenant slowly. "Yes, I suppose it is. And now +we've got to dig it up." + +"Well ... we buried it, sir." + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Little Boy, by Harry Neal + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 58743 *** |