Harold Spoon loved the sound of crickets in the night. In fact, he loved all the sounds and smells and sights of summer.
He loved the chirping of birds in the quiet morning, the perfumed coolness of the air, the early light that baptizes every leaf and dewdrop with fresh life. He loved the buzz of the single bee, the scorched-grass stillness of the midday heat, the yellow light that baked the walks, the walls, the very earth itself.
But especially he loved the evening—the echo of laughter over close-clipped lawns, the damp smell of fresh-mown grass, the magic slanting light that striped the lawn with lengthening shadows and angled its way between the trees and houses to pass through the cellar window and throw a shadow picture on the wall beside his workbench.
The heat rising from his soldering iron rippled the light on the wall. With a pair of long-nosed pliers, he moved a transistor into place and tried to solder it for the ninth time. The light was almost gone, and he was rushed.
His grandchildren would have never gone to this trouble. When anything broke down, they simply threw it away and bought a new one. But he liked the idea of keeping things going, especially old things.
He squinted through the rising heat and mumbled.
“Just hold still for one second, and I’ll—”
The faint metallic click of a revolver broke the stillness, and a nervous gravelly whisper echoed in the bare cement room. “Don’t turn around. Just keep working.”
The transistor slipped from his pliers, and tumbled out of sight in the bottom of the small plastic box. Harold straightened up and gave a sigh.
“Now what is the idea of—”
“Shut up and fix your radio.” The whisper was desperate. “And don’t turn around! I’ve got a gun. The cops are after me. Just follow instructions and you’ll never see me. Then you won’t have anything to tell the cops, and I won’t have to kill you too. They might see you through that window, so don’t do anything funny.”
Harold stood with his head bowed for a moment, then with a slight shrug he picked up the box. He gave it a shake and the part rattled around but did not come into sight. He turned it over and tapped it lightly on the palm of his hand. He held it in the light and probed among the wires with a screwdriver.
The room was silent again except for the anxious breathing of the fugitive and the occasional scraping of the screwdriver on the plastic box. A large fly drifted through the open widow. It buzzed an inch from the back of Harold’s head. Normally he would have killed it with a single sudden swat. But he made no move toward it, sudden or otherwise.
Finally there came the sound of footsteps on the walk. Two legs appeared in the shadow-picture on the wall, and the doorbell, muffled by distance, rang in the house above. Harold looked up through the window and saw a pair of impatiently shifting feet topped by blue cuffs in front of his door.
The fugitive moved closer behind him. He held the gun within inches of Harold’s neck, dropping his whisper almost to silence. “They may see you down here. Answer it—and don’t let ‘em in.”
The wooden stairs creaked under their weight, and the door at the top squealed on its hinges. The fugitive stayed close behind him down two hallways, and, with an awkward bit of maneuvering, positioned himself behind the door without letting Harold see him. He smiled at his own cleverness. The old man had seen nothing, and would never have anything to tell. He had even disguised his whisper.
The man outside held out a badge and smiled. The sun was touching the horizon beyond his shoulder. “Good evening, sir. I’m Officer Barnes. We’re chasing a murder suspect in this area, and we’d appreciate it if you’d keep your eyes open and”—he chuckled—“your doors locked.”
Harold watched the man’s face intently as he spoke. “Of course, officer, I’ll do whatever you suggest.”
“Just stay inside and keep the doors and windows locked. It’s not likely you’ll see anything. We’ll drop by to let you know when it’s over.”
“Thank you, I’ll do that.”
“Good. You haven’t seen anything strange yet, have you?”
“No, I’ve been down in the cellar all day—”
“Down in the cellar? Was the house locked up while you were down there?”
“No, I don’t usually keep it—”
“Would you mind if I came in and looked around, just to make sure you’re safe?”
Harold hesitated. Over the policeman’s shoulder the lower edge of the sun was sinking below the horizon. He looked back at the officer’s face, and made up his mind.
“Of course, come in.”
He swung the door wide open, and the edge gave a resounding crack as it hit the gunman’s hand. The gun flew down the hall-way, skipped along the floor, and slid to a stop against the wall.
For one moment the policeman and the fugitive stood facing each other, like statues, with open mouths. Then the fugitive turned to run.
Ten minutes later, as Officer Barnes led his handcuffed prisoner down the front walk, he stopped and called over his shoulder, “That was a mighty brave thing you did, Mr. Spoon!”
But he wasn’t heard.
He was too far off for lip reading, and Harold had already turned his back, anyway. He was hurrying back to his workbench. He had not heard a thing all day, the sun was almost down, and he wanted to have his hearing aid fixed in time for the nightly crickets.
