chapter 5

"He does not play anything," Gistla said carefully. "He just ... makes the music and I hear it."

"But how?" Mr. Kenington insisted. "What does he play the music on? He certainly can't make the music without using something to make it on."

Gistla glanced again at George and he said quickly, "It's pretty hard to understand, Father. I don't think—"

"No, now don't interrupt just now, son. This is very interesting. We'd like to know what she's talking about."

Mrs. Kenington spoke for the first time. "Are you just making this up?"

It was like a whip coming through the air. His mother sat there, blinking, the suspicion and distrust she felt for this creature showing in her eyes and upon her mouth and even in the way she was sitting.

"Now, Lois," Mr. Kenington said, as though he really sympathized with what she had said, believing that not only Gistla was making it up, but that all of her race made everything up. But he was stubborn. "Come now, tell us. Tell us what you mean."

Gistla's smooth head turned this way and that.

"Sometimes," she said slowly, "my father journeys to other places, and if he cannot return soon, he sends me music. When the light has gone from the day and I am alone, I hear it."

"You mean he sends it by wires or by radio?" Mr. Kenington asked with surprise.

"No."

"Now, wait a minute," George's sister leaned forward, smiling. "You just hear this music, is that right? Up here." She tapped her forehead.

"Yes," said Gistla.

"My God," George's sister said. She looked at her parents, arching her eyebrows.

"You shouldn't make things up," George's mother said.

"Mother," George said, his face coloring. "She's not making things up!"

"Just a moment, son," Mr. Kenington said crisply. "You don't want to talk to your mother in that tone."

"No, but, my God," George's sister went on. "Imagine. No wires, no loudspeakers, just ... up here." She tapped her forehead again.

"I'm not talking to my mother in any tone at all," George said, disregarding his sister.

"Well, she shouldn't lie," said Mrs. Kenington with conviction.

George stood up. "She is not lying, Mother."

"I forbid you to argue with your mother that way, George," said Mr. Kenington.

"I mean, my God," said George's sister happily. "This is an innovation! Can you imagine? Gistla, or whatever your name is, could your father make his music sometime when we have a dance?"

Gistla's eyes were hurt and she was, George knew, confused. She shook her head.

Mrs. Kenington was blinking accusingly. "Do they teach you to make these things up? Is that what they teach you at home?"

"Mother, will you please?" George said. "Why must you talk to her that way?"

Mr. Kenington stood up quickly. "I did not raise my son to show an attitude like that to his mother."

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