Read Online The Girl Who Loved Animals and Other Stories by Bruce McAllister - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bruce McAllister
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—a short story and novel that showed me at an early age the power of first-person fiction, especially “naïve” first-person-voiced fiction should be obvious. “The Man Inside” was not my first story and it wouldn’t be my last using such a voice. This story appeared originally in Fred Pohl’s Galaxy in 1969, and went on to see reprinting, thanks to Harry Harrison, in the Harrison/Aldiss “year’s best” volume, the Asimov/Greenberg/Olander 100 Great Science Fiction Short Short Stories, and two college readers.
Kin
The alien and the boy, who was twelve, sat in the windowless room high above the city that afternoon. The boy talked and the alien listened.
The boy was ordinary—the genes of three continents in his features, his clothes cut in the style of all boys in the vast housing project called LAX. The alien was something else, awful to behold; and though the boy knew it was rude, he did not look up as he talked.
He wanted the alien to kill a man, he said. It was that simple.
As the boy spoke, the alien sat upright and still on the one piece of furniture that could hold him. Eyes averted, the boy sat on the stool, the one by the terminal where he did his schoolwork each day. It made him uneasy that the alien was on his bed, though he understood why. It made him uneasy that the creature’s strange knee was so near his in the tiny room, and he was glad when the creature, as if aware, too, shifted its leg away.
He did not have to look up to see the Antalou’s features. That one glance in the doorway had been enough, and it came back to him whether he wanted it to or not. It was not that he was scared, the boy told himself. It was just the idea—that such a thing could stand in a doorway built for humans, in a human housing project where generations had been born and died, and probably would forever. It did not seem possible.
He wondered how it seemed to the Antalou.
Closing his eyes, the boy could see the black synthetic skin the alien wore as protection against alien atmospheres. Under that suit, ropes of muscles and tendons coiled and uncoiled, rippling even when the alien was still. In the doorway the long neck had not been extended, but he knew what it could do. When it telescoped forward—as it could instantly—the head tipped up in reflex and the jaws opened.
Nor had the long talons—which the boy knew sat in the claws and even along the elbows and toes—been unsheathed. But he imagined them sheathing and unsheathing as he explained what he wanted, his eyes on the floor.
When the alien finally spoke, the voice was inhuman—filtered through the translating mesh that covered half its face. The face came back: The tremendous skull, the immense eyes that could see so many kinds of light and make their way in nearly every kind of darkness. The heavy welts—the auxiliary gills—inside the breathing globe. The dripping ducts below them, ready to release their jets of acid.
“Who is it . . . that you wish to have killed?” the voice asked, and the boy almost looked up. It was only a voice—mechanical, snakelike, halting—he reminded himself. By itself it could not kill him.
“A man named James Ortega-Mambay,” the boy answered.
“Why?” The word hissed in the stale apartment air.
“He is going to kill my sister.”
“You know this . . . how?”
“I just do.”
The alien said nothing, and the boy heard the long whispering pull of its lungs.
“Why,” it said at last, “did you think . . . I would agree to it?”
The boy was slow to answer.
“Because you’re a killer.”
The alien was again silent.
“So all Antalou,” the voice grated, “are professional killers?”
“Oh, no,” the boy said, looking up and trying not to look away. “I mean. . . .”
“If not . . . then how . . . did you choose me?”
The boy had walked up to the creature at the great fountain by the Cliffs of Monica—a landmark any
Kin
The alien and the boy, who was twelve, sat in the windowless room high above the city that afternoon. The boy talked and the alien listened.
The boy was ordinary—the genes of three continents in his features, his clothes cut in the style of all boys in the vast housing project called LAX. The alien was something else, awful to behold; and though the boy knew it was rude, he did not look up as he talked.
He wanted the alien to kill a man, he said. It was that simple.
As the boy spoke, the alien sat upright and still on the one piece of furniture that could hold him. Eyes averted, the boy sat on the stool, the one by the terminal where he did his schoolwork each day. It made him uneasy that the alien was on his bed, though he understood why. It made him uneasy that the creature’s strange knee was so near his in the tiny room, and he was glad when the creature, as if aware, too, shifted its leg away.
He did not have to look up to see the Antalou’s features. That one glance in the doorway had been enough, and it came back to him whether he wanted it to or not. It was not that he was scared, the boy told himself. It was just the idea—that such a thing could stand in a doorway built for humans, in a human housing project where generations had been born and died, and probably would forever. It did not seem possible.
He wondered how it seemed to the Antalou.
Closing his eyes, the boy could see the black synthetic skin the alien wore as protection against alien atmospheres. Under that suit, ropes of muscles and tendons coiled and uncoiled, rippling even when the alien was still. In the doorway the long neck had not been extended, but he knew what it could do. When it telescoped forward—as it could instantly—the head tipped up in reflex and the jaws opened.
Nor had the long talons—which the boy knew sat in the claws and even along the elbows and toes—been unsheathed. But he imagined them sheathing and unsheathing as he explained what he wanted, his eyes on the floor.
When the alien finally spoke, the voice was inhuman—filtered through the translating mesh that covered half its face. The face came back: The tremendous skull, the immense eyes that could see so many kinds of light and make their way in nearly every kind of darkness. The heavy welts—the auxiliary gills—inside the breathing globe. The dripping ducts below them, ready to release their jets of acid.
“Who is it . . . that you wish to have killed?” the voice asked, and the boy almost looked up. It was only a voice—mechanical, snakelike, halting—he reminded himself. By itself it could not kill him.
“A man named James Ortega-Mambay,” the boy answered.
“Why?” The word hissed in the stale apartment air.
“He is going to kill my sister.”
“You know this . . . how?”
“I just do.”
The alien said nothing, and the boy heard the long whispering pull of its lungs.
“Why,” it said at last, “did you think . . . I would agree to it?”
The boy was slow to answer.
“Because you’re a killer.”
The alien was again silent.
“So all Antalou,” the voice grated, “are professional killers?”
“Oh, no,” the boy said, looking up and trying not to look away. “I mean. . . .”
“If not . . . then how . . . did you choose me?”
The boy had walked up to the creature at the great fountain by the Cliffs of Monica—a landmark any
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