When he had gone home after seeing the mayor, he had discovered why Mrs. Critch had been so nice lately, and that needed thinking about.
He had heard the noise when he was still a block from home, a high-pitched wailing that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. By the time he reached his house it was giving him a headache. It was coming from his house all right. He had pushed the door open and looked in.
There was no one in the living room. The noise was coming from the back of the house. Charlie went on back, and there in Mrs. Critch's little room stood her nephew Mush, his cheeks puffed out, blowing on a flute. Charlie stared. Mrs. Critch rushed in from the kitchen looking guilty. Mush smiled sheepishly, blew one last writhing note, and was still.
Mrs. Critch must have planned very carefully, to keep this secret hidden. Charlie could tell she was afraid he'd phone his dad. She almost cried as she tried to explain to Charlie. "You see, Charlie, they wouldn't—his mother wouldn't—let him practice at home. She says it gives her migraine. But the music teacher says Mush has a very unusual style and— well, there wasn't anywhere else for him to practice. He tried to practice at my house, but my other sister Maggie, she said she might be coming down with migraine too, if he didn't stop, and . . ." Mrs. Critch was really upset. "And so I let him practice here when you were gone. You've been gone so much I didn't think you'd find out." Mrs. Critch stopped talking and stared at him. "What are you going to do, Charlie? It's not Mush's fault, I told him he could . . ."
It gave Charlie a fine sense of power to have Mush and Mrs. Critch strung with apprehension over what he might do to them. He let them stew for a minute, and the minute stretched into a long, pregnant pause.
"You could . . ." Mrs. Critch said, "You could bring your—bring that animal back in the house, if you like, Charlie. I'm really sorry I made you . . ."
"It's too late for that," Charlie said sadly.
She looked pretty ashamed.
Finally he said, "It's okay, Mrs. Critch. Mush can practice here." He heard his own words and wondered if he'd lost his mind. He'd never heard of a boy his age having migraine, but he bet it was possible.
Now Charlie sat in his dad's office among the tools and engine parts, watching the two pilots play poker and remembered that guilty look on Mush's face, and grinned. When he'd told Rory about it, Rory had said, "No wonder she didn't scold you for being gone so much. She was glad to have you out of there. Well, sonny, everyone has some talent. I guess old Mush found his."
"If that's a talent, I'll eat his flute. He sounds like a sick hyena." Charlie had stopped by the dump on his way to the airfield to move the planes and hang the canvas. There had been a half-dozen starlings pacing outside the hangar, obviously listening to Rory and Crispin and peering through the crack every few minutes. When Charlie removed the plywood, he found the two animals in a temper of impatience to be away from there and off on their cross-country flight—the Fox's maiden voyage. Of course they didn't say they were impatient, not wanting the starlings to hear. But they were so scowling and edgy, Charlie knew.
Held up by the coming rain, they had spread out some more maps across the hangar floor and, in faint whispers, were planning their long trip to see the world.
With the plywood removed, the starlings began to crowd right up to the edge of the map. So Charlie shoved the plywood back over most of the hangar, and blocked the rest with his back as he knelt to look in. Rory stared out past him muttering, "If it's going to rain I wish it'd get on with it!" Then, in a very faint whisper, "Now, sonny! Start talking!" And Charlie winked at Rory and went into the whispering act they had planned, and his whispers were loud enough for the closest starlings to hear if they paid attention.
"We're going to try putting tarps over the hangar, I think that'll keep them out . . ."
"I don't know, sonny, they're pretty . . ."
"Oh, they won't fly in past those tarps," Charlie had whispered loudly.
"Well I wouldn't count on it, sonny, they ..."
"My gosh, I hope they won't go in. Oh, they wouldn't, not a big hanger like that . . ."
Crispin had stared from one to the other in bewilderment. Then he had opened his mouth, and begun loudly, "But you said, Charlie ..."
Rory had grabbed the lemming and slapped a paw over the little animal's mouth.
"I know what I said," Charlie ad-libbed quickly, "But we'll have to take a chance, that's all. Boy, if those starlings get in that hangar, they'll really ruin things."
The lemming had caught on at last, looked embarrassed, and was silent. Charlie had left soon afterward, mission accomplished. The starlings had overheard enough to make them hustle forward eagerly around the piano box, cocking their heads in puzzled interest, then flap away to tell their companions.
By one o'clock the big hangar was cleared and ready. By three o'clock the first few drops of rain had fallen, then stopped, and Jerry Wise had won three dollars and eighty-two cents from Joe Blake.
And by four thirty the first wave of birds was perched on top the hangar roof, to lean over the side and stare in with curious, beady eyes.
At last one scout entered the hangar. Immediately, Charlie ran out waving his arms and shouting as if he wanted to drive the bird away. The starling looked infuriated, swooped straight at Charlie's head, and landed on a rafter where he whistled derisively as he glared down at Charlie.
A few more birds came, eyeing Charlie insolently. Charlie made a big scene of running around waving the broom at them. The rain began again lightly.
Then suddenly, a whole platoon of birds scorched in, taking over the shelves and screaming harshly.
The rain began in earnest, and at that moment the entire flock of starlings suddenly wheeled off the roof, circled once, and stormed in through the canvas like an explosion to crowd around the hot lights and perch in droves on the rafters and shelves. The last birds to enter swept back and forth the length of the hangar fighting for perches. When they were all inside, bickering and hissing, Charlie and Jerry and Joe slipped out of the office and pulled the big hangar doors closed. The rain was really belting down.
They stood grinning at each other. They'd really done it, the birds were trapped in the hangar. They had lost maybe two dozen birds that had swept out at the last minute. But the rest of the starlings were in a passion of fury as they realized what had happened, and they began to dive and peck in an angry attack; Charlie and the pilots nearly trampled each other getting through the office door and slamming it behind them.
"My gosh," Charlie said. "Are you guys okay?"
"We're fine," Joe Blake said. There was blood oozing from several peck marks near his scalp. His dark curly hair was streaked with blood.
Jerry Wise brushed some feathers from his pale hair. They stood looking at each other, and Charlie guessed they were all thinking the same thing because pretty soon Jerry said, "Now that we've got 'em, Charlie, what're we going to do with 'em?"
They discussed shooting the starlings and rejected that for the same reasons Charlie's dad had. They talked about pumping cyanide gas into the hangar, which would put the starlings to sleep quickly, and forever. But not one of them liked the idea.
"Besides," Joe Blake said, "this old building isn't that tight. The gas would leak out through the cracks around the doors and windows, and through that hole in the roof. It would take tons of gas."
"Seems to me," said Jerry Wise, pulling his tight tee-shirt tighter as he tucked it into his pants, "That that many starlings—that many of anything—ought to be worth something to someone. If you could just find a market for 'em."
"Who in the heck would want five thousand nasty-tempered starlings?" Joe Blake said laughing.
"They might make good dog food," Jerry said.
"Even if someone did want them, how would we get them to anybody?" Joe retorted. "A hangar full of starlings, and no way to crate them up and—"