Read Online Pecked to death by ducks by Tim Cahill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tim Cahill
Tags: American, Adventure stories
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the sky. There the great mass of stars are concentrated, and gravity sends them spinning in various figures about one another. If there are planets, they may spin around one sun for a time until the gravity of another takes them on a quick do-si-do.
And if there is intelligent extraterrestrial life, surely it evolved in that galactic center rather than out here in the boondocks of a spiral arm. Life-forms waving at one another as their planets go square dancing around the spinning stars, a federation perhaps, feeding on technical cooperation: Intelligent gas clouds swooping down with visiting comets to see how we're doing here in the
PECKED TO DEATH BY DUCKS A $6
outback, thinking we're just as cute and cunning as can be with our hydrogen bombs, waiting for us to finally come to it, the insight that unites life, the Universal Principle that, I imagined, could be deduced in the similarity of shape between galaxies and hurricanes.
The note in my journal about this little flight of science-fiction fancy is a drawing of a pinwheel and the words "galaxy" and "hurricane" followed by several emphatic exclamation points (!!!!!!!!!). Which, apparently, indicated that this concept, whatever it was, when properly elucidated, would change the face of physical and astronomical science as we know it. Without putting too fine a point on it, I have to report that the face of physical and astronomical science remains unchanged. On the other hand, three days later, back home, I started the book, working from my finished outline.
The writing went well, better than it had in months, and it occurred to me that my trip to the Beartooths had helped. Helped a lot. Some folks sleep on a problem, but you can camp on one as well. Camping is for the mind what a high-speed run on the highway is for a car. It tends to blow out all the sludge that accumulates in the type of urban driving most of us are forced to do in order to earn a living.
PECKED TO DEATH BY DUCKS ▲ 60
But here it was, and I was holding it in my hands at four in the morning with a cool Montana wind beating against the windows and one dim lamp burning against the night. I emptied the cylinder, cocked the hammer, and aimed at the light. "This is stupid," I said aloud. "Useless." I locked the gun away and walked into the living room. My pack and boots were laid out on the floor, where I'd put them the night before.
What I needed was a few more hours of sleep, but even the TV at 4:00 a.m. didn't have its usual somnambulant effect. There was a man selling financial security through real estate, another selling salvation through Jesus, and a cartoon about a boy with large, perfectly round eyes and no pupils who could fly. I flicked off the set and sat on the couch in the darkness for two hours, fully dressed.
Tom Murphy rang the bell promptly at six, as I knew he would. We got into his car and drove south, through Paradise Valley, toward Yellowstone Park, fifty miles away.
"I thought about bringing my pistol," I said.
"What have you got?"
"A .38."
"Not much use."
"I know."
The sun was rising over the Absaroka Mountains, rising behind some high, thin clouds so that the light that spilled into the valley was shadowed and broken. It was a moving watercolor of a morning: Waves of subtle pastels were flowing gently across golden August pastures.
"Nice sunrise," I said.
"It's pretty," Tom allowed.
"Should we tell someone where we're going? I mean exactly. In case he leaves us bleeding."
"Bonnie knows," Tom said. Bonnie is Tom's wife, and she's used to this sort of thing. We drove in silence. The light reached the river, and for a moment the living expanse of water was a rippling mirror of shimmering pink and gold.
"For bleeding," Tom said, "you know about pressure points?"
"I don't know where they are."
"Well, the best thing is direct pressure. If that doesn't stop it, press on the pressure points."
He showed me where they were as he drove: under the arm, up by the armpit.
And if there is intelligent extraterrestrial life, surely it evolved in that galactic center rather than out here in the boondocks of a spiral arm. Life-forms waving at one another as their planets go square dancing around the spinning stars, a federation perhaps, feeding on technical cooperation: Intelligent gas clouds swooping down with visiting comets to see how we're doing here in the
PECKED TO DEATH BY DUCKS A $6
outback, thinking we're just as cute and cunning as can be with our hydrogen bombs, waiting for us to finally come to it, the insight that unites life, the Universal Principle that, I imagined, could be deduced in the similarity of shape between galaxies and hurricanes.
The note in my journal about this little flight of science-fiction fancy is a drawing of a pinwheel and the words "galaxy" and "hurricane" followed by several emphatic exclamation points (!!!!!!!!!). Which, apparently, indicated that this concept, whatever it was, when properly elucidated, would change the face of physical and astronomical science as we know it. Without putting too fine a point on it, I have to report that the face of physical and astronomical science remains unchanged. On the other hand, three days later, back home, I started the book, working from my finished outline.
The writing went well, better than it had in months, and it occurred to me that my trip to the Beartooths had helped. Helped a lot. Some folks sleep on a problem, but you can camp on one as well. Camping is for the mind what a high-speed run on the highway is for a car. It tends to blow out all the sludge that accumulates in the type of urban driving most of us are forced to do in order to earn a living.
PECKED TO DEATH BY DUCKS ▲ 60
But here it was, and I was holding it in my hands at four in the morning with a cool Montana wind beating against the windows and one dim lamp burning against the night. I emptied the cylinder, cocked the hammer, and aimed at the light. "This is stupid," I said aloud. "Useless." I locked the gun away and walked into the living room. My pack and boots were laid out on the floor, where I'd put them the night before.
What I needed was a few more hours of sleep, but even the TV at 4:00 a.m. didn't have its usual somnambulant effect. There was a man selling financial security through real estate, another selling salvation through Jesus, and a cartoon about a boy with large, perfectly round eyes and no pupils who could fly. I flicked off the set and sat on the couch in the darkness for two hours, fully dressed.
Tom Murphy rang the bell promptly at six, as I knew he would. We got into his car and drove south, through Paradise Valley, toward Yellowstone Park, fifty miles away.
"I thought about bringing my pistol," I said.
"What have you got?"
"A .38."
"Not much use."
"I know."
The sun was rising over the Absaroka Mountains, rising behind some high, thin clouds so that the light that spilled into the valley was shadowed and broken. It was a moving watercolor of a morning: Waves of subtle pastels were flowing gently across golden August pastures.
"Nice sunrise," I said.
"It's pretty," Tom allowed.
"Should we tell someone where we're going? I mean exactly. In case he leaves us bleeding."
"Bonnie knows," Tom said. Bonnie is Tom's wife, and she's used to this sort of thing. We drove in silence. The light reached the river, and for a moment the living expanse of water was a rippling mirror of shimmering pink and gold.
"For bleeding," Tom said, "you know about pressure points?"
"I don't know where they are."
"Well, the best thing is direct pressure. If that doesn't stop it, press on the pressure points."
He showed me where they were as he drove: under the arm, up by the armpit.
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