CHAPTER 1
the train slowed beside the woods, ready to enter the town of Skrimville. The door of one freight car stood open two inches, and in this crack a mouselike figure stood, knees bent, his body poised to jump. As the engine braked, his tail twitched and his ears flattened in readiness. He tossed out his canvas pack, watched it roll down the steep embankment, then suddenly he leaped after it, tail swinging.
He landed rolling, paws over whiskery face, and fetched up against some pinecones. He stood, brushed himself off, and watched the train roar by above him. When it had gone, dragging its noise behind, he retrieved his pack and climbed up the embankment, sneezing at the smoke and rubbing his bruised backside. "There ought to be a better way to travel," he muttered irritably. Well at least he'd had the boxcar all to himself, except for that stretch between Rutledge and Vicksville when those two tramps got on. Then he'd had to stay hidden under the straw so as not to call attention to himself. He'd like to have told those two what he thought of their tobacco chewing and spitting into the straw right beside him, but he never talked to people. Too risky.
He stood between the hot metal tracks staring toward the town ahead, then surveyed the countryside around him. His six-inch height didn't let him see too far, even from the raised embankment. He leaped up twice, as high as a man's head, and could see more. His leaps were like explosions, propelled by his strong hind legs.
He was much bigger than a mouse. He had hind legs like a kangaroo, and short front legs with sharp elbows. His fur was tan, his face tough and shrewd. His tail was extremely long and skinny, with a white tuft at the end like a dish mop. The old, worn pack he carried had obviously seen many miles. He continued to study the countryside with interest, for except for the one small town he could see no other houses; and that pleased him. People were all right in their places, but Rory didn't like to be crowded. What was that beyond those low hills? Another part of the town? He glanced at the trees that grew beside the embankment, then exploded suddenly in a leap that carried him halfway up the nearest pine, where he clung a moment, then climbed quickly until he could command a really good view of the surrounding land.
"Nope, no more houses," he said with satisfaction. "Just open fields. And that's an airport over there!" He gazed off toward the hangar and landing strip that lay beyond the town. "Not as big as Turbine Field, though." There was a Cessna 150, an old Navion, and a nice new Cougar there at the end. "But why is it so flappin' quiet?" There should have been some activity, people walking around, a plane taking off. "There's not even a car parked by the hangar," he said, perplexed. "Why, that airfield looks like a flappin' morgue! And what the heck are those things lined up along the runway?" They looked like cannon. Six cannon. "Well my gosh, they sure are cannon! Now why would anyone put cannon beside an airstrip? Well, no accounting for humans," he said, twitching his whiskers.
That looked like the town dump there beside the runway. "Nice big dump," he muttered, pleased. He hurried down the tree and shouldered his pack. "A good dump, a good camp." He headed along between the tracks at a fast clip, thinking of a warm fire and a hot meal. He'd had nothing for breakfast but some cold beans. •
CHAPTER 2
the kangaroo rat traveled along the raised railroad track until it came close to the town. Then he left it to strike off through the high grass, around the town's outskirts. His view from the raised track had been enough to see a dog or cat approaching, but now he could see nothing but the tall grass through which he pushed. He wasn't unduly concerned, though, and went along at his ease. The grass bent down with the weight of its seed and smelled fine. He found a trail that other animals had used, probably mice and moles. He followed it, pausing occasionally to leap high above the grass, making sure he was keeping in the right direction. And all the time he kept listening; there were people sounds from the town to his left, but nothing from the airfield.
It was well past noon when Rory arrived at a little muddy road and could see the dump just ahead. He strode along swinging his pack and skirting the deep tire tracks made by trash and garbage trucks. A thin bike track showed up in the mud here and there. The sun was warm on his back, and the silence of the dump suited him. It was entirely quiet except for the harsh arguing of a flock of birds somewhere farther on. As the path entered the dump, it was plunged into shadow by the mountains of trash, the cliffs of piled-up rusted cars and refrigerators and washing machines that towered on both sides. Limp bike tires hung down like dead snakes, and stained lampshades tilted rakishly. He wandered along the winding path looking for a possible camp and keeping an eye out for anything of value. The smells of the dump were familiar and comfortable. Old crankcase grease, sodden leather, sticky paint cans, rotten rubber, mildew. And new grass, for wherever dirt could collect in a dented fender or on top a refrigerator, bright green grass had sprouted. And wherever a dent held rain water, red rust ran down fresh as blood.
He made his way among smashed dolls and broken mop handles, poking into old cars and dark niches. He found three pennies under a worn boot and a good knife blade sticking out of the mud. He noted with satisfaction the abundance of mushrooms and dandelion greens. And there was no rotting garbage to take his appetite. He climbed a mountain of worn tires and could see the garbage dump farther on and could smell it on the breeze. It was covered with a flock of dark, quarreling birds busily engorging garbage. And what was that down there at the turn of the path? It looked like a piano crate. Rory descended in three leaps. Yes, a piano crate all right, huge and nearly empty of trash. Primfoggle Piano Company was stenciled on its side. A fellow could make a real mansion in a place like that if he was so inclined.
But Rory wasn't inclined. Just a few days rest and he'd be off. Up toward Allensville, he thought, now the weather was warm. He stood admiring the crate, though, until the breeze changed and he smelled berries and followed the smell at once.
The blackberry tangle was at the far side of the dump, its vines snaking through truck tires and over moldy sofas. The earliest berries were ripe. Rory picked a few and ate them as he wandered. When he saw the turned-over Buick, he stopped to look her over, for she was really an old-timer. "Nineteen twenty-eight or twenty-nine! They really built 'em in those days." The Buick lay on its back with its wheels in the air like a capsized beetle. It's roof was partly buried in the mud. Its hood was suspended some three feet off the ground, making a dark cave underneath.
There was a hole in the rear window. Rory slipped in and stood in the dim interior, his muddy feet making prints on the upholstered ceiling. The steering wheel towered above his head. Some stuffing had fallen down out of the seat. The windows were all so cracked he couldn't see much through them. Just shades of dark and light. The milky, shattered glass made the shadow under the hood look darker, except for a large, pale shape. "Likely some trash," Rory said, thinking the shape looked like a crouching cat. "Guess I'd better check, though." He slipped out the hole in the rear window and around to the Buick's windshield, to stand in the shadows and peer into the darkened cave.
And what he saw was not a cat, nor anything like a cat. There beneath the ancient Buick was a sight that made Rory catch his breath in amazement, made his heart pound wildly with desire.
CHAPTER 3
rory stood staring into the darkness beneath the Buick's suspended hood. He couldn't believe what he saw. And when he did believe it, he poked himself to see if he was dreaming.
Ever since that winter at Turbine Field he had wished, at really wild moments—wished . . .
"My gosh," he breathed, "it's a plane! It's a model plane!" Right in front of him, broken and rust-covered, lay tilted in the mud a real beauty of a biplane with at least a four-foot wingspan. The U-control wires were still sticking out of her wing. He walked around her. He could see his reflection in the cracked windshield almost as if there were a pilot sitting in the cockpit. He wondered if he could get her upright, to stand straight. He put his weight under the mud-covered wingtip and heaved. Sure enough, she straightened right up and stood jauntily.