Free EMERGENCE by David Palmer Page A

vocabulary in barely audible, tiny baby-girl voice. Held twin nestled in arms as pain escalated, tears progressed to silent, painful, wracking sobs. Sibling's uncritical companionship, unquestioning love all that stood between me and all-engulfing blackness, fresh awareness of extent of losses threatening to overwhelm soul.
    Together we watched early-afternoon cumulonimbus form up, mount into towering thunderheads, roil and churn, finally develop lightning flickers in gloom at bases, arch dark shafts of rain downward to western horizon; watched until fading light brought realization how long had sat there. Brighter stars already visible in east.
    Reviewed condition with mounting surprise: eyes dry, pain gone from throat, heart; blackness hovering over soul mere memory. Apparently had transcendentalized without conscious intent, resolved residual grief. All that remained was sweet sadness when contemplated Daddy, Momma, Teacher; were gone along with everything, everybody else, leaving only memories. Suddenly realized was grateful being permitted to keep those.
    Cautiously moved exploratory muscle, first in hours. Terry twitched, fretted; then woke, set up justifiable protest over starved condition. Arose, shifted twin to shoulder; went inside, downstairs.
    Picked up Tarzan File, Teacher's letter, went back to Daddy's house. Fed birdbrain, self; settled down, skimmed File's contents.
    Presently concluded Teacher correct (profound shock, that): Peter Bell doubtless best prospective soulmate of lot. Very smart, very interested, very conscious; educational credits to date sound like spoof (nobody that young could have learned that much, except, uh . . . perhaps me—okay); very strong, quick; very advanced in study of Art (Eighth Degree!); plus (in words of Teacher): "Delightfully unconcerned about his own accomplishments; interested primarily in what he will do next." And, ". . . . possessed of a wry sense of humor." Sounds like my kind of guy. Hope turns out can stand him.
    Sat for long moments working up nerve. Then picked up phone, deliberately dialed area code, number. Got stranded after a few moments' clicking, hissing when relay somewhere Out There stuck. Tried again; hit busy circuit (distinct from busy number; difference audible—also caused by sticky relay). Tried again, muttering in beard. Stranded again. Tried again. Failed again.
    "That's bad!" offered Terry enthusiastically, bobbing head cheerfully.
    Took deep breath, said very bad word, tried again.
    Got ring tone! Once, twice, three times; then: "Click. Hello, is that you, Candy? Sure took you long enough. This is Peter Bell. I can't come to the phone right now; I'm outside taking care of the stock. But I've set up this telephone-answering machine to guard my back. It's got an alarm on it that'll let me know you've called so I can check the tape.
    "When you hear the tone at the end of my message, give me your phone number if you're not at home— don't forget the area code if it's different from your home—and I'll call you back the moment I get back and find your message. Boy, am I glad you're all right."
    "Beep!"
    Caught agape by recording. Barely managed regroupment in time to stutter out would be home; add if not, would be at farm, give number before machine hung up, dial tone resumed.
    Repeated bad word. Added frills tailored specifically for answering machine.
    Did dishes, put away. Refilled twin's food dish, changed water; moved stand into study, placed next to desk, within convenient head-scratching range.
    Settled into Daddy's big chair, opened journal, brought record up-to-date. Have done so. Now up-to-date. Current. Completely. Nothing further to enter. So haven't entered anything else. For quite a while.
    Midnight. Might as well read a book.
    Stupid phone.

    Awoke to would-be rooster's salute to dawn's early light. Found self standing unsteadily in middle of study, blinking sleep from eyes, listening to echoes die away. Glared at twin; received smug