and if someone else showed up who could do it, the powers in his brain were just too valuable.
Two … if he was needed. Needed “real bad,” as he had put it. It was understood that “real bad” meant something on the order of an alien invasion. Some situation that only he might be able to solve in some unknowable last throw of the dice in the hope that he could pull a third miracle out of the hat that covered that special brain.
Travis had a longer list of circumstances that would bring him out of the bubble. Most importantly, he was to be released every five years. Travis had gone into his bubble for the first time when I was four. I have only vague memories of him from that time.
I was nine when he came out again, and I remember that visit clearly. I was there with a small number of family members. That’s when we first started calling Uncle Travis’s days of arrival “Groundhog Day.” Travis would stick his head out, look around for a month to get the lay of the land and catch up on current world affairs and family events, then retreat to his burrow for five more years of winter.
Next time I was fourteen. I was appointed to be his guide, and naturally Mike, six at the time, came with me, and the two of us showed him all the new things from the last five years and filled him in on happenings on Earth in the evenings.
Now here he was again, just under a year early, looking exactly the same as he had the last time I saw him, four years earlier.
Travis wasn’t slow. From the number of people there, he instantly took in that something special was going on. The date and time were posted on the wall, as they were in all these rooms, as a quick aid to orientation.
He knew that among the parameters for waking him up was the death or critical illness of a small number of people close to him, and his mind put it together quickly that this was the most likely reason he wasn’t seeing the date he expected. I saw his face fall, and his eyes darted around, looking for the faces he hoped would be there.
Gran had anticipated this, and she stepped forward and smiled at him.
“I ain’t dead yet, Travis, but all this fuss is for me. But since I’m the next thing to dead, and I’m on your list, we figured you might want to stick your furry little head out of your hole and see me one last time before I join you in the hole next door.”
Travis jumped down from the small platform and tenderly took Gran in his arms. They stood that way for a while, and soon people began to clap, possibly because they were at a loss for any other way of showing their approval.
I had to get out my hankie before my mascara started to run.
THE NEXT HOUR was a bit of a blur. Gran had insisted she wanted no more tributes, no more formalities, and that if this was to be a semiwake, it would be a semi-Irish wake, so let the singing and dancing and feasting and drinking begin.
Grandma Kelly took the demolition of all her planning in good humor and immediately began organizing the merriment along new lines. Those of us who played an instrument were pressed into service as an impromptu band. It was pretty good, though most of them were friends, rather than family. Food was consumed, and more rolled out, and the bar was open and doing a good business.
Tides of humanity shifted and eddied, as they do at these things. I hung back as much as I could, watching, nursing a Shirley Temple and smiling at all the faces, half of whom I didn’t even know. I don’t favor crowds, have never liked large, noisy parties. My idea of a good time is more like three or four or five good friends and just a whiff of Phobos Red to loosen me up a little.
Travis was looking more than a bit overwhelmed, a really unusual position for him. Normally, he’s the most unflappable man I’ve ever met, and one of the most cheerful. That’s from personal experience; the tales of his calm under fire are legendary. But this mob meeting him when he really wanted some peace and
Two … if he was needed. Needed “real bad,” as he had put it. It was understood that “real bad” meant something on the order of an alien invasion. Some situation that only he might be able to solve in some unknowable last throw of the dice in the hope that he could pull a third miracle out of the hat that covered that special brain.
Travis had a longer list of circumstances that would bring him out of the bubble. Most importantly, he was to be released every five years. Travis had gone into his bubble for the first time when I was four. I have only vague memories of him from that time.
I was nine when he came out again, and I remember that visit clearly. I was there with a small number of family members. That’s when we first started calling Uncle Travis’s days of arrival “Groundhog Day.” Travis would stick his head out, look around for a month to get the lay of the land and catch up on current world affairs and family events, then retreat to his burrow for five more years of winter.
Next time I was fourteen. I was appointed to be his guide, and naturally Mike, six at the time, came with me, and the two of us showed him all the new things from the last five years and filled him in on happenings on Earth in the evenings.
Now here he was again, just under a year early, looking exactly the same as he had the last time I saw him, four years earlier.
Travis wasn’t slow. From the number of people there, he instantly took in that something special was going on. The date and time were posted on the wall, as they were in all these rooms, as a quick aid to orientation.
He knew that among the parameters for waking him up was the death or critical illness of a small number of people close to him, and his mind put it together quickly that this was the most likely reason he wasn’t seeing the date he expected. I saw his face fall, and his eyes darted around, looking for the faces he hoped would be there.
Gran had anticipated this, and she stepped forward and smiled at him.
“I ain’t dead yet, Travis, but all this fuss is for me. But since I’m the next thing to dead, and I’m on your list, we figured you might want to stick your furry little head out of your hole and see me one last time before I join you in the hole next door.”
Travis jumped down from the small platform and tenderly took Gran in his arms. They stood that way for a while, and soon people began to clap, possibly because they were at a loss for any other way of showing their approval.
I had to get out my hankie before my mascara started to run.
THE NEXT HOUR was a bit of a blur. Gran had insisted she wanted no more tributes, no more formalities, and that if this was to be a semiwake, it would be a semi-Irish wake, so let the singing and dancing and feasting and drinking begin.
Grandma Kelly took the demolition of all her planning in good humor and immediately began organizing the merriment along new lines. Those of us who played an instrument were pressed into service as an impromptu band. It was pretty good, though most of them were friends, rather than family. Food was consumed, and more rolled out, and the bar was open and doing a good business.
Tides of humanity shifted and eddied, as they do at these things. I hung back as much as I could, watching, nursing a Shirley Temple and smiling at all the faces, half of whom I didn’t even know. I don’t favor crowds, have never liked large, noisy parties. My idea of a good time is more like three or four or five good friends and just a whiff of Phobos Red to loosen me up a little.
Travis was looking more than a bit overwhelmed, a really unusual position for him. Normally, he’s the most unflappable man I’ve ever met, and one of the most cheerful. That’s from personal experience; the tales of his calm under fire are legendary. But this mob meeting him when he really wanted some peace and
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