On the Wing by Eric Kraft Read Free Book Online

The grizzled fisherman didn’t seem easily awed, but he was the only current candidate for the role of kindly stranger.
    â€œPlease, sir,” I said, “I’ve been traveling for some time—I’m tired and hungry—and I need a place to stay for the night.”
    â€œMm,” he said as he began to pack his gear.
    â€œCould you—?”
    â€œMm?”
    â€œCould you—um—put me up?”
    â€œFor the night?”
    â€œIf it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
    â€œI suppose you’ll want supper, and a bath, and clean sheets.”
    â€œWell—”
    â€œYou’ll have to eat fish,” he said, indicating the fish in his bucket.
    â€œI like fish.”
    â€œYou’ll have to bathe in cold water.”
    â€œI’ve done that at camp.”
    â€œYou’ll have to sleep with my granddaughter.”
    â€œThat would be—I—really?”
    â€œIn your dreams,” he said, cuffing me behind the ear.
    His humble home was not far. It was a little cottage, not much larger than the cabin of a boat and outfitted just as efficiently. The fisherman’s wife greeted me as if a wayfarer in need of a place to spend the night were not at all an uncommon sight. She had bread in the oven, and as soon as the fisherman had cleaned the fish he’d caught she began making a plain but hearty chowder. Dinner was wonderfully satisfying, and I paid for it by regaling them with tales of my adventures on the road until their eyes began to droop and they began to list the many tasks that awaited them on the morrow. The fisherman showed me to a tiny loft above the kitchen, and there, in a narrow bed with a thin mattress, I slept soundly, with visions of the dark-haired girl dancing in my head.
    *   *   *
    THE NEXT MORNING, after breakfast, I was surprised to find that I was reluctant to leave the cozy cabin. The grizzled fisherman must have noticed my reluctance, because he took me aside—actually, he grabbed my arm above the elbow and dragged me from the house—and said, “You’ll be on your way.” I decided to interpret it as a question.
    â€œYes,” I said with a sigh, “you’re right. You and your wife have been wonderful hosts, and I’ve enjoyed my stay, but if I’m going to get to New Mexico I’ll have to be on my way.”
    â€œIt isn’t wise to sail without a chart,” he said.
    â€œI realize that now.”
    â€œIt’s folly, really.”
    â€œI suppose you’re right.”
    â€œBut,” he added with a twinkle, “as the poet says, ‘If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.’”
    â€œYou mean you think that I—should continue to sail without a chart?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat’s your advice?”
    â€œThat’s my advice.”
    â€œAnd you think I’ll become wise by persisting in my folly?”
    â€œYou might.”
    â€œAll right,” I said, extending my hand, “I’ll take your advice.”
    We shook hands. I mounted Spirit and started her up. I looked around.
    â€œWhich—um—which way—”
    He pointed in a direction that I hoped was westerly.

Chapter 4
    Riding Shotgun
    Kurt [Gödel] liked to drive fast. This, combined with his penchant for indulging in abstract reverie while behind the wheel, led his [ … ] wife, Adele, to put an end to his driving career.
    Palle Yourgrau, A World Without Time: The Forgotten Legacy of Gödel and Einstein
    ALBERTINE WAS BEHIND THE WHEEL of the Electro-Flyer, driving, and I was beside her in the passenger’s seat, asking myself what, exactly, my role was in this adventure. Co-pilot? Navigator? Faithful companion? Sancho Panza? Dr. Watson, Jim, Tonto?
    â€œYou’re talking to yourself,” said Albertine.
    â€œNot audibly,” I said.
    â€œNo, but I can see your lips moving.”
    â€œKeep your