"Sure, Mr. Larkin," he said, forcing his eagerness.
Half an hour later, they were assembled on the huge lawn outside of the
main building of Roverwood Home for Boys. The long row of PF's, looking
like chrome-plate pot-bellied stoves, gleamed in the morning sun. The
boys began to run when they saw their Flyers, and Ron found his arm
taken by the freckled youth who had entered his room.
"Hoy," he said. "Follow me. I'll pick you out a lively one!"
The redhead clambered inside a machine marked Seven, and Ronnie
followed his instructions by choosing the vehicle marked Nine. They
secured themselves inside, and tested the jet tube set in front of the
Flyer. The boys took off from the ground in perfect unison, the redhead
bellowing out an introduction over the sound of the wind roaring past
their ears.
The PF's descended on a blast from Mr. Larkin's whistle, congregating
in the center of the field. Teams were chosen, and Andy was picked as
Captain of the Odds. A coin was tossed to decide the playing sequence,
and they were ready.
Larkin released the first airball, and the two teams streamed up after
it. Andy gunned the engine and reached the ball first. He sent it
scooting thirty yards ahead of him with the blast of the airjet pipe,
but a member of the Evens team was there to veer it off to the left.
Another Evens man, a burly youth of fourteen, took command of it,
neatly getting the airball in the sight of his airjet and cork-screwing
it towards the goalpost. Ron had grown too old before the game of
airball had become popular with the nation's youngsters, but he had
seen enough action to have learned some tricks. He pointed his PF
directly for the Even machine, and kept coming. The burly youth looked
up, startled at the onslaught, and pulled his Flyer away. The fact that
the PF's were magnetically collision-proof didn't matter; it was pure
instinct. Ron captured the ball in his airjet pipe, and shouted for
Andy to block his path towards the goal.
The Odds scored, and the two teams descended for a rest. Andy, the
grin wide on his brown-spotted face, said: "You're okay, Ronnie! Hoy, I
mean it. You're okay!"
"Thanks," Ron said. He found himself panting.
The game resumed. It ended in a 3-2 score, favor of the Odds. Andy and
Ron were cheered as they left the Flyers and headed for the communal
showers of the Roverwood Home for Boys.
In the stall, Ron Carver looked down at the spindly frame that was now
his body, and began to weep. Andy heard him, but said nothing. Then
they dressed and ambled back to the main house, sharing the awkward
silence of new friends.
Finally, the older boy said: "I don't mean to butt in, Ronnie. But is
somethin' the matter?"
"I--I don't know, Andy. I'm all mixed up. I don't even know how I got
here."
"That's easy. Dr. Minton brought you."
"But where is he now, Andy? Dr. Minton? It's very important that I see
him."
Andy shrugged. "Not much chance of that. Dr. Minton only comes around
once, twice a year.
"But I have to see him! Right away! Will they call him for me?"
"Gosh. I don't think so. He's some kind of big shot in the government
now."
They flopped on the grass, and Andy tore out a ragged clump and chewed
on it blankly. Ron said: "Andy, I'm in trouble. I need some help."
"No kidding?"
"Yes!" He brought his voice to a whisper. "Andy--what if I told you
that I was really--" He stopped, and examined the open, innocent face
in front of his eyes. He knew that it would be useless to tell the
truth. "Skip it," he said.
"I don't get you. What's on your mind, Ronnie?"
"Nothing, Andy. I just have to get away from here."
"But you can't. I mean, not until they let you. It's the rules."
"Andy--how long have you been here?"
The boy thought a moment. "Almost nine years," he said blissfully.
"Since my folks got killed."
"How long do you have to stay?"
"Why, 'til I'm old enough to work. Eighteen, I guess."
_Only six years to go_, Ron thought sourly.
He stood up.
"Andy--where do they put the PF's?"
"In the shed."
"Is it possible to get one out?"
"'Course not. Only when we play the game."
"And when will we play another game?"
"Dunno. Tomorrow maybe. It's Sunday."
_Play the game._ Ron said to himself.
* * * * *
The Evens team member caught the spinning, gas-filled airball in the
path of his airjet and kept it moving in front of his Flyer. Andy was
after him in a flash, shouting for Ron to join him. But Ron's daring
tactics of yesterday seemed to have deserted him. He steered the PF out
of the path of the Evens man, and the goal was scored.
On the ground, Andy said: "What's the trouble, Ronnie? Didn't you hear
me?"
"Yes, I heard you. Andy, listen. I'm taking off--"
"Sure, in just a minute," the freckled boy said. "But, look, the next
time you see me cut across the--"
"You don't understand!" Ron said intensely. "I'm running away!"
"What?"
Larkin's whistle sounded the signal to resume play. The airball shot
into the sky, and the two teams sped after it. Andy was late getting
started. He looked at Ron and gasped: "You can't do that--"
But Ron Carver was already in flight, and his PF was heading away from
the center of the action, heading over the jagged pinetree tops that
surrounded the Roverwood Home for Boys, heading for the misty green
hills beyond.
Larkin saw what was happening, and he blew his whistle shrilly. The
teams descended, thinking a foul had been called. Larkin shouted a
command towards the burly youth who had played so aggressively the day
before, but then realized it was far too late to stop the swift passage
of the PF now disappearing behind the trees.
* * * * *
Ron dropped the PF to earth as soon as his eyes spotted the first sign
of a settled community. He landed the small machine in the shadow of
a hillside, and dragged it into the thick underbrush for concealment.
Then he trekked to the main highway, until he reached a road sign that
informed him of his location. He was in a town called Spring Harbor,
just fifteen miles outside of the city.
He looked down at the waxy newness of his gray Roverwood coverall, and
wondered if it was a familiar uniform to the residents. But he had to
take the chance. He covered the cloth with dust, and rolled up the
trouser legs almost to his knees. Then he broke off a long branch from
a sapling and used it as a walking stick. Casually, he strolled into
the town proper.
The pose worked. Some people on the porches looked after him with mild
curiosity, but no one stopped him. Then he paused at a gas station,
and asked the owner of the automatic pump if there was transportation
available to the city.
The owner scratched his face and looked at the boy curiously. Ron told
a plausible story about being separated from a scouting group, and the
man seemed satisfied. He had a pick-up copter going into the city at
ten o'clock; he invited Ron to wait inside his house, and even served
him a sandwich.
The copter pilot, a genial red-faced man, asked him some gentle
questions. Ron answered them guardedly, and told him that his
destination was Fordham Terrace. The copter dropped him on the rooftop
of the massive office building, and the pilot left with a friendly wave
of his hand.
When he was gone, Ron rolled down his trouser legs, brushed his uniform
clean, and descended to the fourteenth floor of the building. He
walked rapidly along the corridors until he came to the door marked: