Winter Moon

Okay, let's see if we can ditch these crab geeks by going into

hyperspace--jump across half the galaxy and leave em in the dust. So

what's the first thing we got to do? Yeah, right, put up e

cosmic-radiation shields so we don't wind up full of pinholes from

traveling faster than all the subatomic particles we'll be passing

through." He switched on the reading lamp above his headboard, reached

to the draw cord- -"Shields up!"--and pulled the privacy drapes all the

way shut. Instantly the alcove bed became a cloistered capsule that

could be any sort of vehicle, ancient or futuristic, traveling as slow

as a sedan chair or faster than light through any part of the world or

out of it.

"Lieutenant Falstaff, are we ready?" Toby asked. Before the game

could begin, the retriever bounded off the bed and between the bunk

drapes, which fell shut again behind him. Toby grabbed the draw cord

and pulled the drapes open.

"What's the matter with you?" The dog was at the stairwell door,

sniffing. "You know, dogbreath, this could be viewed as mutiny."

Falstaff glanced back at him, then continued to investigate whatever

scent had fascinated him. "We got crabulons trying to kill us, you

want to go play dog." Toby got out of bed and joined the retriever at

the door. "I know you don't have to pee. Dad took you out already,

and you got to make yellow snow before I ever did." The dog whimpered

again, made a disgusted sound, then backed away from the door and

growled low in his throat.

"It's nothing, it's some steps, that's all." Falstaff's black lips

skinned back from his teeth. He lowered his head as if he was ready

for a gang of crabulons to come through that door right now,

scrackscrick-scrack-scrick, with their eye stalks wiggling two feet

above their heads. "Dumb dog. I'll show you." He twisted open the

lock, turned the knob.

The dog whimpered and backed away. Toby opened the door. The stairs

were dark.

He flipped on the light and stepped onto the landing. Falstaff

hesitated, looked toward the half-open hall door as if maybe he would

bolt from the bedroom. ..

You're the one was so interested," Toby reminded him. "Now come on,

I'll show you--just stairs." As if he had been shamed into it, the dog

joined Toby on the landing. His tail was held so low that the end of

it curled around one of his hind legs. Toby descended three steps,

wincing as the first one squeaked and then the third. If Mom or Dad

was in the kitchen below, he might get caught, and then they'd think he

was sneaking out to grab up some snow--in his bare feet!--to bring it

back to his room to watch it melt. Which wasn't a bad idea,

actually.

He wondered whether snow was interesting to eat. Three steps, two

squeaks, and he stopped, looked back at the dog. "Well?" Reluctantly,

Falstaff moved to his side.

crural. Trying to make as little noise as possible. Well, one of them

was trying, anyway, staying close to the wall, where the treads weren't

as likely to creak, but the other ..

one had claws that ticked and scraped on the wood. Toby whispered,

"Stairs.

Steps. See? You can go down. You can go up. Big deal. What'd you

think was behind the door, huh? Doggie hell?" Each step they

descended brought one new step into view. The way the walls curved,

you couldn't see far ahead, couldn't see the bottom, just a few steps

with the paint worn thin, lots of shadows because of the dim bulbs, so

maybe the lower landing was just two steps below or maybe it was a

hundred, five hundred, or - maybe you went down and down and around and

around for ninety thousand steps, and when you reached the bottom you

were at the center of the earth with dinosaurs and lost cities. "In

doggie hell," he told Falstaff, "the devil's a cat. You know that?

Big cat, really big, stands on his hind feet, has claws like razors

..." Down and around, slow step by slow step. ". . . this big devil

cat, he wears a cape made out of dog fur, necklace out of dog teeth .

. ." Down and around. "... and when he plays marbles ..." Wood

creaking underfoot. "... he uses dogs' eyes! Yeah, that's right

..."

Falstaff whimpered. ". . . he's one mean cat, big mean cat, mean as

shit." They reached the bottom. The vestibule. The two doors.

"Kitchen," Toby whispered, indicating one door. He turned to the

other. "Back porch." He could probably twist open the deadbolt, slip

onto the porch, scoop up a double handful of snow, even if he had to go

as far as the yard to get it, but still make it back inside and all the

way up to his room without his mom or dad ever knowing about it.

Make a real snowball, his first. Take a taste of it. When it started

to melt, he could just put it in a corner of his room, and in the

morning, there'd be no evidence. Just water. Which, if anyone noticed

it, he could blame on Falstaff.

Toby reached for the doorknob with his right hand and for the dead-bolt

turn with his left. The retriever jumped up, planted both paws on the

wall beside the door, and clamped his jaws around Toby's left wrist.

Toby stifled a squeal of surprise. -Falstaff held the wrist firmly,