Gary made absolutely sure he could see it perfectly, wiping a bit of gunk from his eye. He walked carefully, moving from tree to tree, until he was underneath it. It was reflecting the light of the low autumn sun. It was a perfect silver teardrop, sideways, suspended in the sky. That, Gary was sure, was exactly what the driver had wanted to do. It had stopped like a car skidding to a halt right on a kerb. The silver shape flashed back above the trees.Įverything in it should have gone splat against the insides. That thing would be all the way to London by now, it was moving so. He dropped the piece of wood he was holding and started to run in the direction the thing had gone. Then it had gone.īecause he was sure that hadn’t been a jet. He’d just caught the silver thing flashing overhead. He liked doing stuff like this, on his own, without a lot of people talking at him. He’d tried it before, but he’d never got it exactly right. He’d pull out the central stick, and then the water would burst out. The dam would stop the stream, then the water on this side would build up. He’d been throwing stuff into the stream, bigger and bigger sticks, making a dam. She’d said something in reply, he hadn’t caught it, but it had sounded okay, and she hadn’t followed him out of the door, so he probably wasn’t in trouble. He’d gone home, chucked his bag onto the bed, told Mum he was going back out. He was in the woods at the back of the school. He liked to wear the collar of his blazer up. He was twelve, always carefully scruffy, with a tie as thin as he could get it, a number two haircut, and his shirt always falling out of his school trousers. The silver thing shot over the trees and vanished into the distance. “You’ve got a wife and kids, haven’t you?” “I’m just going to make a phone call,” said the senior officer. No… human pilot.” He looked up and met Devereux’s stern gaze. “Mach Eight… Nine… I swear it’s hit Mach Ten on some of those turns. “But the really weird thing, sir… It’s the speed.” “Or… not.” Devereux suddenly sounded very interested. The thing on the screen suddenly changed course. It’s got a radar signature like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” Like an aircraft with engine trouble, looking for a place to land.” Alan was experienced enough to recognise aircraft behaviour, even particular types of aircraft and species of bird. “Problem?”Īlan put his finger on the green streak that was moving towards the South Coast of England. He’d been poking his nose into everyone’s business, without anyone seeming to know why he was here. The new officer, Wing Commander Devereux, appeared at his shoulder. That’s when the amazing thing had appeared. A flight of E–3 Sentry aircraft had been testing new anti–submarine gear by trying to find a Royal Navy submarine that was doing its best to get lost. He’d been watching a series of RAF exercises over the English Channel. He’d stood up, just a little, as if he could get a better view by being half out of his chair. Right now, he was staring in shock at the green trace on the screen in front of him. He’d worked in RAF control towers for twenty years. He knew the shapes of aircraft, advertising balloons, and birds. If you have come to Uncanny Magazine for the first time to read this story, please note that the rest of the stories, essays, and poems in Uncanny contain very adult elements.)Īlan Thompson was used to looking at radar displays. ( Editors’ Note: This is a Middle–Grade story written for children of all ages. In her bracelets of grass and a belt of wild honey. Remember me kindly in my fur–gown of rust,Īsleep in my shoes of well–worn brown leather.Ī dance of skylarks and a river that leaps silver,Īnd a summer that comes in her linden leaf dress Later, much later, when the rivers slow down,Īnd the rainbow has frozen in a lattice of sweetwater, Repay me with pears that run with buckwheat honey. So adorn me with ribbons and raspberry beads, My likeness a gift of all that has been golden: Oh, I will bake for you with my own good brown handsĪn effigy of autumn under an egg–yolk sun, I am in need of your burned groats of buckwheat. I am in need of your sweet cream and green tea, In need of your baked pumpkin and barley malt syrup I speak honey, but don’t let the bees buzz my name,įor the secrets of spring have swelled and overflown,Īnd the secrets of summer have made my fur–gown gleam.Īnd now I’m in need of your cinnamon and clove, You’ll know me by my walk between the market stalls,īy my shambling gait and by my fur–gown of rustĮmbroidered with nettle and seedpods of dandelion,īuttoned in sweet clover from the riverbanks.
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