“For God’s sake! What are you doing?”
Carl studied her evenly. “Was that you out in the water? I see you got to shore all right. I thought for a little while you were in some sort of trouble.”
He did not seem embarrassed at all. Barbara felt confused. She shook her head, trying to clear it. “If I had drowned would you have pulled me out? Or would you just have stood here, watching?” Her voice was low. She was shaking all over. Carl had been watching all the time! It was impossible. And now he stood quite calmly, not at all embarrassed.
“I would have pulled you out,” Carl said. He folded his arms. His sleeves were rolled up. His arms were big and bare, furred with reddish fur.
“I don’t understand. What are you doing here?” She was nettled and puzzled. Her head ached. Down the back of her neck the slimy water still dripped. “Why were you watching me? What’s the matter with you?”
Early that morning the sun had wakened Carl out of his usual deep sleep. He opened his eyes, blinking at the sunlight pouring through the window. He reached up and pulled the shade back. Sunlight burst into the room, streaming over everything, across his bed, across the floor, onto the dresser and the chair with Verne’s clothes piled on it.
Verne stirred in his bed, opening his eyes. “For God’s sake. Let the shade down.” He turned over, pulling the covers up around him.
Carl was sitting up in bed, gazing out the window. He could see buildings and machinery, and gravel paths running here and there, back and forth between the buildings. Beyond the buildings were the hills, and the woods. And beyond that were the mountains, blue and cold.
“Will you let the shade down?” Verne muttered from under the covers.
“Sorry.” Carl let the shade back in place. He slid out of the bed and onto the floor. The floor was warm where the sunlight had touched it. He began to dress, climbing into his clothes, whistling under his breath.
“What’s going on?” Verne raised his head, peering out from under the covers. He felt around on the floor and found his glasses. “What the hell time is it?” He put his glasses on and examined the clock. “Seven-thirty! My God.”
“It’s a wonderful day.”
Verne grunted, turning toward the wall.
“If you’re going back to sleep you should take off your glasses,” Carl said. “Otherwise they might break.”
Verne did not answer.
Carl held out his hand. “Give them to me and I’ll put them under the bed for you.”
Presently Verne’s hand came out, holding onto the glasses. Carl took them and laid them carefully on the floor.
“They’re right by the bed. Just reach over when you want them. I’m going out for a stroll. I’ll see you later.”
He finished dressing and then trotted down the hall to the bathroom. He washed and cleaned vigorously, combing his blond hair back in place. Then he stood before the mirror, looking at his reflection.
“Well, Carl Fitter!” he said. “What do you have on your mind today?”
His image, blond and blue-eyed, stared back at him. It was the face of a boy, young and strong and full of great enthusiasm. But still a boy. Carl sighed. When would he look in the mirror and see a man’s face? How long would it be? He rubbed his chin. What was lacking? Something was lacking. He had begun to shave; he had been shaving now for several years. His voice had deepened. It was even lower than Verne’s. Verne’s voice was squeaky.
Yet he was still a boy. For all his big shoulders, his good-natured smile, his booming voice. Carl’s happiness faded. He gazed at his reflection forlornly, drooping sadly.
But after a while some of his spirits returned. He straightened up. Someday it would change. Someday it would be different. There would be a flash of fire, a burst of white flame from heaven, and there he would be, a man.
Carl walked down the stairs to the ground floor and outside onto the porch. He leaped from the porch onto the gravel path, scattering gravel into the grass and bushes that grew around the side of the building.
In the early morning sunlight the grass was still wet with tiny beads of moisture. They glinted up at him, like globes of crystal. Or perhaps they were drops of perspiration, sweated up from the ground during the night. But why should the ground labor during the dark hours? What kind of activity was in progress, when the sun had gone and the long shadows were over everything?
The activity of growth, of course. The beginnings of life, the first stirrings down in the soil. Tiny things pushing their way up. All this began in the darkness of the night, and when the sun came the plants were ready to break through the skin of the earth to come out into the heat and warmth. That was the way it was: life came into being in the dim darkness of night, and the ground perspired from the labor of it.
Carl walked gingerly along the gravel walk, feeling the small stones breaking under his shoes. Everything seemed wonderful on a day like this. The world was full of wild and exciting objects. What he crushed under his feet might be rough diamonds, diamonds that had not been stolen from the stone yet, diamonds that were still dark and coated with the dirt and grime in which they had lain for centuries.
A road of breaking diamonds, shattering under his shoes! He increased his pace, kicking the gravel as he went, sending waves of stones flying up into the air. There was mica in the gravel, and the sun caught the bits of mica and made them sparkle. Carl laughed in excited wonder. Maybe he was right. Maybe there were precious stones under him.
He entered the commissary. It was cool and deserted. No one had been there since dinner the night before. There was no sound except the tap-tapping of the water as it dripped in the sink. He opened the window above the table and gusts of fresh air came sweeping in, blowing the curtains back and forth. Carl took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
He began to assemble a meal. What did he want? He looked in the refrigerators. There were so many things to choose from. What would it be? He considered. If he were going to do a lot of things he would need a big meal. What was he going to be doing?
Today he would wander around. He would go off and walk by himself, as far as he could, until he was too tired to walk any farther. He would be alone. Everyone was still sound asleep in bed. There was no time more exciting, no time more strange and wonderful than the early morning, when people were silent and asleep, and he had the great bright world all to himself. This time of morning, before the dew on the lawns dried up, before the bees began to come out, when his footsteps echoed among the buildings—this was his favorite time. Then, the world was entirely his personal property. There was no one to dispute his ownership, to try to inhabit it or take it away from him. Everyone was turned to stone, the people quiet and immobile in their beds, enchanted by magic. He only, could walk about and inspect the world, his land, his buildings, his silent stone people.
Thinking of this, Carl turned the fire on under the frying pan and began to lay strips of bacon into it. He got eggs and milk from the refrigerator, humming to himself as he worked.
When he had finished eating he carried the dishes to the sink and carefully stacked them up. Then he left the building, going back out of doors again. The day was still bright, but it was not so cool, now. Time had passed. It was later. Subtle changes were already coming over the day.
Carl started up the road, his hands in his pockets, whistling to himself. Presently he began to sing, not loudly, but in a deep low voice, like a concert baritone. It all had a strange effect on him, the warm motionless day, the unmoving buildings and trees and bushes. It made him foolish. But he did not care. He could be as foolish as he wanted. No one could stop him. And after all, it was his morning, his day, his world. Everything belonged to him. He glanced up at the women’s dorm as he passed by it. The shades were all down. He smiled to himself. Barbara was asleep. Verne and Barbara. Sound asleep in their beds. And down below them, in the warm sunlight, he moved happily through his great warm world, completely alone.