They let go of his legs just before he reached the netting, and within a tew minutes they had wings, too. At first they were very clumsy, flying into the netting or projecting cabinets while they laughed and shouted at each other. But very soon they were flying close to the netting without touching it, and playing follow-my-leader around and over the padded equipment. Their mother had stopped calling to them to come back for their picnic, but that was because they were making too much noise to hear her and having too much fun to want to stop for anything as boring as food. He thought that she might be angry and would scold them when they got home, but when he looked across at her she was smiling.
“Let’s try to do something difficult,” said Danal, using his adult’s voice again, “like flying close together in line abreast formation right across the Center. Theoretically, in the weightless condition, the wings should enable us to control movement in three dimensions, right? So line up on the net, let go at the same time, and fly.”
On the first attempt their line was anything but straight, mostly because Wana got excited and flew too far ahead of everyone else. The second and third attempts were better although their line was still a bit crooked. During the fourth attempt when they were holding a tight, neat formation and moving toward the middle, Cawn kicked his right wing, breaking the sheet of plastic in two. With only a wing and a half to fly on, he kept turning sideways even when he tried to move the half wing twice as fest as the good one.
Cawn turned away quickly and flew down to the net, returning a few minutes later with another sheet of plastic held between his knees.
“I’m sorry,” he said, handing him the new wing. “It was an accident.”
It was the first time that Cawn had said anything to him that had not had words like “Big” or “Stupid” in it somewhere.
“Right,” said Danal, flying closer and looking straight at him. “I’ve been thinking. Flying in formation isn’t very hard to do. We should do something with our wings that is fun but more difficult, don’t you think?”
Before he could reply, Wana shouted, “Oh, yes,” and Cawn said “Like what?”
The game they devised wasn’t all his idea because Danal and Cawn and even Wana suggested changes that made it more complicated and much more fun. They played it right in the middle of the Center, flying around and over and under each other as close as they could without touching—like a slow, ungainly swarm of giant insects. Their mother had stopped telling them to be careful and was just watching and smiling up at them. They had all become very good at the game, there were no more collisions or broken wings, and even though it was exciting and hard work he was having fun, much more fun than he could have believed possible. That was because the others were not treating him like he was stupid anymore. But it was a quiet game because they were all concentrating so hard on what they were doing that there was no time to waste on shouting or even laughing.
Their busy silence was broken by the voice of his father who had joined his mother on the net.
“Weightless flying,” he said quietly. “Whose bright idea was that?”
“When I tell you,” his mother replied, “you won’t believe me.”
“You mean… him?”
“Yes,” she said, “the un-birthday boy.”
His father was silent for so long that he felt sure that he was going to be scolded, but instead said, “They’re very good at it, especially him. But let’s face it, even with the best will in the world we never were qualified to handle this kind of situation. He is not a normal child.”
“No,” said his mother.
“Do you think this sudden aptitude for weightless maneuvering,” his father went on very quietly, “means that he’s beginning to mature mentally as well as physically, or is that just wishful thinking on my part? It’s a pity we won’t get the chance to find out.”
“Why not?” said his mother sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“Keep your voice down,” he whispered, “I don’t want him to hear us, at least not until we decide how and what to tell him. We notified the child care authorities when we found him, remember, but in the circumstances I wasn’t sure if they would be able to do anything about him. They have. He’ll be leaving us very soon.
“Children,” he went on, raising his voice, “I’m sorry for cutting short your fun, but you’ll have to come home right away. There is a ship expected soon, an unscheduled visitor, and the Center must be readied for its arrival. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure there are more plastic wings available the next time you play here. Quickly, please.”
The others were protesting loudly, but he kept quiet because he was remembering the things his father had been saying about him that he was not supposed to overhear, and wondering what they meant. Suddenly the nice, warm feeling of belonging that he had felt since the flying game had started was leaving him, and he was feeling afraid.
They were returning to the net, and showing off by flying in the tightest formation they had ever tried, when he said, “Danal, can I fly with you like this next time? This is the best birthday there has ever been. Thank you.”
Cawn laughed. “But it isn’t even your birthday.”
“Stop teasing him, Cawn,” said Danal. Keeping one eye on his place in the formation he went on, “It isn’t your birthday, so far as we know, because nobody here knows when you were born. We don’t even know your name, but after today we’ll have to stop calling you stupid. You found the plastic sheets and were smart enough to see how we could fly with them. If we had found them we would probably have done the same, but you did it first, and as a result we had more fun than we ever have before. So don’t worry, we will not fly again without our instructor. It is we who should thank you.
“If you want to,” he went on, “you can make this your birthday, too, and from now on we’ll have parties on the same day. Why are your eyes wet?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
By the time they reached their waiting parents, there were adults crawling all over the Center, removing the padding from the machines and detaching and stowing the netting. His parents said that they could have their picnic at home, and after that they did not speak, which was not the way they usually behaved on a birthday. He had no interest in the picnic because, no matter what the others got, he would be given the usual soft, tasteless mush. On other birthdays this made him angry, but today they all told him that he could play with their games if he was very careful. He had just finished a long, complicated game without either winning or breaking anything when he heard the distant sound of the docking siren. His father left quickly and his mother sat down beside him. She put a thin hand on the back of his neck.
“Please,” he said, “I don’t want to leave you. I like it here, now.”
She began pushing her fingers through his hair, the way he liked her to do, without speaking.
“I—I know you don’t like me,” he said, “because I’m big and stupid and sometimes I break things and make you angry. And because you don’t give me nice food to eat and father does nasty things when I am alone in my room—”
“But he had to do those things to you,” she broke in, “to find out why ordinary food made you sick and the reasons for the other things wrong with you. We explained it to you, but you didn’t understand. He didn’t mean to hurt you, or risk frightening the other children.
“Don’t worry,” she went on, tightening her fingers in his hair and shaking his head gently, “he will never do those things to you again.”