Farewell Summer

"Hold on," said Tom. "The graveyard tour, I said that. The candy, yeah, was yours, but I gotta tell ya, the food experiment was a failure. Heck, you haven't said anything new in a coupla hours. And all the chessboards are full of chess pieces again and those old men are busy pushing the pieces-us-around. Any moment now we'll feel ourselves grabbed and moved and we won't be able to live our own lives any-

Douglas could feel Charlie and Tom creeping up on him, taking the war out of his hands like a ripe plum. Private, corporal, sergeant, lieutenant. Today, lieutenant; tomorrow captain. And the day after?

"It's not just ideas that count." Douglas wiped his brow. "It's how you stick 'em together. Take this fact of Charlie's-it's secondhand. Heck, girls thought of it first!"

Everybody's eyebrows went up.

Charlie's face fell.

"And anyway," Douglas went on, "I'm puttin' ideas together for a real bang-up revelation."

They all looked at him, waiting.

"Okay, Doug, go on," said Charlie.

Douglas shut his eyes. "And the revelation is: Since old people don't look like they were ever kids, they never were! So they're not humans at all!"

"What are they, Doug?"

Everybody sat, stunned by the vast sunburst caused by this explosion, this incredible revelation. It rained upon them in fire and flames.

"Yes, another race," said Douglas. "Aliens. Evil. And we, we're the slaves they keep for nefarious odd jobs and punishments!"

Everybody melted with the after-effects of this announcement.

Charlie stood up solemnly and announced: "Doug, old pal, see this beanie on my head? I'm taking my beanie off to you!" Charlie raised his beanie to applause and laughter.

They all smiled at Doug, their general, their leader, who took out his pocketknife and casually started a philosophical game of one-finger mumblety-peg.

"Yeah, but…" said Tom, and went on. "The last thing you said didn't work out. It's okay to say the old people are from another planet, but what about Grandpa and Grandma? We've known them all our lives. Are you saying that they're aliens, too?"

Doug's face turned red. He hadn't quite worked this part out, and here was his brother-his second-

in-command, his junior officer-questioning his

"And," Tom went on, "what do we have new in the way of action, Doug? We can't just sit here. What do we do next?"

Doug swallowed hard. Before he had a chance to speak, Tom, now that everybody was looking at him, said slowly, "The only thing that comes to mind right now is maybe we stop the courthouse clock. You can hear that darned thing ticking all over town. Bong! Midnight! Whang! Get outta bed! Boom! Jump into bed! Up down, up down, over and over."

Ohmigosh, thought Douglas. I saw it last night. The clock! Why in heck didn't I say so first?

Tom picked his nose calmly. "Why don't we just lambaste that darn old clock-kill it dead! Then we can do whatever we want to do whenever we want to do it. Okay?"

Everyone stared at Tom. Then they began to cheer and yell, even Douglas, trying to forget it was his younger brother, not himself, who was saving the

"Tom!" they all shouted. "Good old Tom!"

"Ain't nothin'," said Tom. He looked to his brother. "When do we kill the blasted thing?"

Douglas bleated, his tongue frozen. The soldiers stared, waiting.

"Tonight?" said Tom.

"I was just going to say that!" Douglas cried.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE COURTHOUSE CLOCK SOMEHOW KNEW THEY were coming to kill it.

It loomed high above the town square with its great marble facade and sun-blazed face, a frozen avalanche, waiting to bury the assassins. Simultaneously, it allowed the leaders of its religion and philosophy, the ancient gray-haired messengers of Time and dissolution, to pass through the thundering bronze doors below.

Douglas, watching the soldiery of death and mummification slip calmly through the dark portals, felt a stir of panic. There, in the shellac-smelling, paper-rustling rooms of Town Hall, the Board of Education slyly unmade destinies, pared calendars, devoured Saturdays in torrents of homework, instigated reprimands, tortures, and criminalities. Their dead hands pulled streets straighter, loosed rivers of asphalt over soft dirt to make roads harder, more confining, so that open country and freedom were pushed further and further away, so that one day, years from now, green hills would be a distant echo, so far off that it would take a lifetime of travel to reach the edge of the city and peer out at one lone small forest of dying