Citizen of the Galaxy Read Free

reached for his own, then suddenly was off the chest and out the door. Baslim went on eating. The door remained ajar, light streaming into the labyrinth.
    Later, when Baslim had finished a leisurely dinner, he became aware that the boy was watching him from the shadows. He avoided looking, lounged back, and started picking his teeth. Without turning, he said in the language he had decided might be the boy's own, “Will you come eat your dinner? Or shall I throw it away?”
    The boy did not answer. “All right,” Baslim went on, “if you won't, I'll have to close the door. I can't risk leaving it open with the light on.” He slowly got up, went to the door, and started to close it. “Last call,” he announced. “Closing up for the night.”
    As the door was almost closed the boy squealed, “Wait!” in the language Baslim expected, and scurried inside.
    “Welcome,” Baslim said quietly. “I'll leave it unlocked, in case you change your mind.” He sighed. “If I had my way, no one would ever be locked in.”
    The boy did not answer but sat down, huddled himself over the food and began wolfing it as if afraid it might be snatched away. His eyes flicked from right to left. Baslim sat down and watched.
    The extreme pace slowed but chewing and gulping never ceased until the last bit of stew had been chased with the last honk of bread, the last lentil crunched and swallowed. The final bites appeared to go down by sheer will power, but swallow them he did, sat up, looked Baslim in the eye and smiled shyly. Baslim smiled back.
    The boy's smile vanished. He turned white, then a light green. A rope of drool came willy-nilly from a corner of his mouth--and he was disastrously sick.
    Baslim moved to avoid the explosion. “Stars in heaven, I'm an idiot!” he exclaimed, in his native language. He went into the kitchen, returned with rags and pail, wiped the boy's face and told him sharply to quiet down, then cleaned the stone floor.
    After a bit he returned with a much smaller ration, only broth and a small piece of bread. “Soak the bread and eat it.”
    “I better not.”
    “Eat it. You won't be sick again. I should have known better, seeing your belly against your backbone, than to give you a man-sized meal. But eat slowly.”
    The boy looked up and his chin quivered. Then he took a small spoonful. Baslim watched while he finished the broth and most of the bread.
    “Good,” Baslim said at last. “Well, I'm for bed, lad. By the way, what's your name?”
    The boy hesitated. “Thorby.”
    “ 'Thorby'--a good name. You can call me 'Pop.' Good night.” He unstrapped his leg, hopped to the shelf and put it away, hopped to his bed. It was a peasant bed, a hard mattress in a corner. He scrunched close to the wall to leave room for the boy and said, “Put out the light before you come to bed.” Then he closed his eyes and waited.
    There was long silence. He heard the boy go to the door; the light went out Baslim waited, listening for noise of the door opening. It did not come; instead he felt the mattress give as the boy crawled in. “Good night,” he repeated.
    “G'night.”
    He had almost dozed when he realized that the boy was trembling violently. He reached behind him, felt skinny ribs, patted them; the boy broke into sobs.
    He turned over, eased his stump into a comfortable position, put an arm around the boy's shaking shoulders and pulled his face against his own chest “It's all right, Thorby,” he said gently, “it's all right It's over now. It'll never happen again.”
The boy cried out loud and clung to him. Baslim held him, speaking softly until the spasms stopped. Then he held still until he was sure that Thorby was asleep.

Chapter 2
     
    Thorby's wounds healed, those outside quickly, those inside slowly. The old beggar acquired another mattress and stuck it in the other corner. But Baslim would sometimes wake to find a small warm bundle snuggled against his spine and know thereby that the boy had had