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  THE PEOPLE UNDER THE WIRES
    by Frederick Rustam
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    "It's such a lovely day, Kevin. Why don't you go outside?"
  
    My mother stood in my bedroom doorway. She had that look that
  said: I know I'm annoying you, but it's for your own good.
  
    She had seemed delighted when I made good use of the computer
  my parents bought me, but as my relationship with the machine
  developed into a love affair, she took a different view of
  things. When the summer weather was good, she wanted me to turn
  it off and leave the house. It must have seemed unnatural to her
  that I'd want to stay inside and pound away on the keyboard all
  day. Maybe it was . . . . But, I had discovered the Internet, and 
  my provider was not cheap. That could explain my mother's attitude.
  
    "Why don't you visit the boy on the other side of the powerline?
  It's time you got acquainted. You said he doesn't have any close
  friends."
  
    What she really wanted, of course, was for me to visit the people
  over there, so she could question me about them, later.
  
    "Aw, Mom . . . they're some kind of foreigners."
  
    It was a weak and unacceptable excuse, but it was the only one I
  could think of at the time. Needless to say, it didn't work. All
  I got for my effort was a lecture about tolerance, which I didn't
  really need, and an order to visit the boy, "right now."
  
  2.
  
    Those people on the other side of the powerline seemed pretty
  reclusive, even for foreigners. The parents rarely show themselves
  outside; their son always cuts their grass. My dad sometimes likes
  to do ours, just to get outdoors -- though I'm supposed to. Once,
  my mom even cut it . . . once, but that's another story.
  
    You can't see their front yard, easily; it's on the side of their
  house which faces away from the powerline. The house is as close
  to the powerline right-of-way as it can get. There's only a narrow
  backyard between the back door and some brush on the powerline
  strip.
  
    The right-of-way weeds are noticeably taller where they join
  their property line -- almost as if someone is fertilizing them,
  or the powerline crews don't want to approach the house. Since
  their property is carved out of the woods that run for some
  distance on that side of the powerline, the effect of trees and
  brush is to give the place an ominous look, even though it's just
  an ordinary tract-type house.
  
    The people behind the weeds were actually there when our sub-
  division was built. Where our street ends at a turnaround, a dirt
  road continues across the powerline right-of-way to their house.
  The father of the house is supposed to be some kind of a writer,
  which explains why he doesn't participate in the parental rush
  hours.
  
    In fact, few of our neighbors have ever seen them drive by.
  Snooky Hurst, a guy in my class, took a picture of them one day
  as they passed his house. He said they all looked at him like
  he was a bug. He showed the picture around at school, and you
  could see them staring at him. It was kind of weird.
  
    I know their son by sight, of course, because he's in my class.
  He's okay, I guess, but real quiet and shy. The teachers don't
  call on him much, but he usually knows the answers when they do.
  He's dark-skinned and speaks with an accent. Snooky says he's an
  Indian, from India -- he looked up their name in the library . . . 
  Snooky wants to be in the FBI, so I guess he's getting started,
  early. We kid him about it, but he's serious.
  
  3.
  
    So, there I was, going to investigate those mysterious people,
  instead of Snooky doing it. I intended to trade what I found out
  to Snooky for one of the great game programs he has. He gets them
  from his cousin in the city who bootlegs them for a hobby -- not
  a totally-cool connection for a guy who wants to be in major law
  enforcement.
  
    I didn't have the courage to walk down their driveway through
  the woods, so I took the rutted, winding powerline road and then
  pushed through the weeds until I was standing at the edge of their
  property. In the front yard, sitting in a lawn chair and reading
  a book, was Lal -- that's his name. It's pronounced Loll.
  
    I guessed his mother thought like mine: good weather -- go 
  outside. At least she allowed him to take his book. If I had taken
  a book outside to read, my mom would have probably come out and
  grabbed it and sent me on my way.
  
    I gathered my courage and stepped into the sideyard. If I went
  home without learning anything, my mother would be disappointed,
  to say the least.
  
    "Hi . . .  I was walking the powerline and I saw you here."
  
    He turned around and stared at me.
  
    "I'm Kevin Carr. I live over there in the subdivision."
  I pointed toward my house.
  
    "Yes, I know. You edit the student newspaper . . . I'm Lal."
  
    I felt a little guilty. We were in the same class, but I hadn't
  spoken to him, even on the playground. But then, neither had
  many others, except some nerds and wallflowers.
  
    "Yeah . . . . I don't know why, though. All I get are complaints 
  from our distinguished fellow students. Heh, heh. But my parents
  like to boast that their kid is a `journalist.'"
  
    "It could be a useful skill, someday. Won't you have a seat?"
  He spoke like the grind everybody thought he was, as he motioned
  me to a chair next to his. I sat down and looked at the cover of
  his book.
  
    "What're you reading?"
  
    "Oh, it's just something about radio." He held up the book. It
  was titled, _Manmade Sources of Radio Noise_.
  
    "Looks heavy."
  
    "It is. I'm just reading it for what I can get out of it. Some
  of the graphs are interesting."
  
    "You interested in radio?"
  
    "Yes . . . and electrical engineering, in general. That's what
  I'll study, later."
  
    "Well, you've got a good source of radio noise to study, right
  above you." I jerked my thumb back at the powerline.
  
    "Yes. It's almost overhead," he replied, with accuracy.
  
    "I can hear the noise on my AM radio. It must be worse over here."
  
    "It sounds pretty bad." He looked back at the huge cables which
  swung gracefully, but somewhat menacingly, from tower to tower.
  "But, it does have its uses." He smiled, shyly.
  
    "Yeah. I guess so." At the time, I thought he was making an
  obvious statement about the electricity the powerline brought to
  our area. Later, when I remembered his remark, I guessed he'd been 
  referring to something I wouldn't have suspected in a million years. 
  And, that I would have laughed at, if anyone had openly told me --
  even Snooky.
  
  4.
  
    We talked for an hour or so, mostly about our school and our
  classmates. Lal didn't have much curiosity about the kids, but I
  fed him gossip, anyway. We had to have something to talk about,
  and I'm not a nerd like him.
  
    When I mentioned that I had a computer, he brightened. He has
  one of the other kind, himself. So, for a while, we compared our
  computer capabilities. You could tell that he wasn't boasting
  about his -- just being factual. I was boasting, of course.
  
    As we talked, the sun disappeared behind clouds that were growing
  lower and darker. It looked like a storm was brewing, but I stayed.
  I had to turn the conversation to his parents, or I'd fail in the
  mission my mother sent me on.
  
    A couple of times, I saw his mother at a window, looking at us.
  Then, raindrops began to fall on his open book. He wiped the
  water off the pages and pulled the book close to his chest.
  
    "I guess it's going to rain," he said.
  
    "Yeah." I hesitated, hoping to be invited inside his house . . . .
  It almost worked.
  
    "We'd better sit on the porch. You'll never get back home without
  getting soaked."
  
    We moved to the screened porch and sat on an old-fashioned glider.
  The porch was unusual. Most modern houses like theirs didn't usually 
  have porches. When I mentioned that to Lal, he said his parents had 
  the contractor add it on. He said his parents liked to sit out there 
  at night and look at the stars.
  
    Just then, talking through the screen door to the interior, his
  mother called him in. I waited and wondered whether I'd get a chance 
  to look inside. My mother would want to know about the house and how 
  they kept it up.
  
    Then, the door opened halfway, and Lal spoke to me.
  
    "Kevin, why don't you have lunch with us?"
  
    "Great. Thanks." . . . I was in.
  
  5.
  
    Inside, their house looked pretty much the same as those of my
  other friends. In the living room, they had some Indian art on
  the walls and a few Indian antiques, here and there. At least it
  looked Indian to me. You know -- those gods that have several arms,
  and such.
  
    We were called to the dining room, where Lal introduced me to 
  his parents. They looked like the people you see in the TV film
  documentaries on India. His mother was wearing a sari, and had
  one of those red marks on her forehead. His father didn't wear
  a turban, but he had a fierce, black mustache, like the Indian
  soldiers who do wear turbans . . . . Even considering how things
  turned out, I have to admit I didn't notice anything unusual
  about Lal's parents. If you have cable-TV, the world comes right
  into your living-room.
  
    His father was already seated, and his mother was bringing food
  from the kitchen. It smelled good. I was on my best visitor-
  behavior because I hoped to put them at ease and learn as much
  as I could.
  
    Lal introduced me, and we sat down.
  
    "I hope you like vegetarian food, Kevin," said his father.
  
    "Yes, sir. My mom says it's better for you, but my dad prefers
  conventional fare, so . . ." I found myself beginning to speak like
  I sometimes do to show off my vocabulary.
  
    "I understand. Try a little of everything," he said. Lal's father
  did most of the talking. His mother smiled maternally at me, but
  said little.
  
    At first, I found myself on the receiving end of the questions.
  Patiently, between mouthfuls, I told them about myself and my
  parents. While I talked, lightning began flashing and thunder
  boomed, as the storm got closer. When the first loud thunderclap
  shook the windows, I thought I detected apprehension in my hosts'
  faces. Lal's father seemed to become distracted by the storm
  while I talked.
  
    Just as I was trying to turn the conversation toward them,
  the lights went out.
  
  6.
  
    Power failures weren't unusual for our area. The local power
  usually failed, for a little while, several times during the
  summer thunderstorm season.
  
    But, I could see that this power failure was going to be
  different -- at least for me.
  
    "The line is out!" Lal's father announced, more loudly than
  seemed necessary. I thought I detected fear in his voice. I
  tried to reassure them, in my know-it-all way.
  
    "It's probably just a local outage." My science class had been
  taken on a tour of the electric company last year, so I knew how
  thunderstorms affected the distribution system.
  
    "No . . . the powerline's out," said Lal's father, pointing to 
  the unseen cables above us.
  
    I wondered how he could tell that. Sometimes you can hear a
  humming sound from the cables, but my science teacher told me
  it's just vibration caused by the wind. I wanted to ask Lal's
  father how he knew the line was dead, but something in the
  atmosphere of the room made me hold my tongue.
  
    We sat there in the dim light from the windows. It was a strange
  thing. When a lightning flash illuminated the room, I could see
  the concern on the faces of Lal and his parents. I kept on eating
  because I felt embarrassed watching their reaction to the loss
  of power. I was the only one at the table who ate much.
  
    After a few agonizing minutes, when it seemed that the power
  wasn't going to come back on anytime soon, Lal's father spoke.
  
    "Lal, why don't you and Kevin sit on the porch until the power
  returns. Then we can finish our meal."
  
    Lal lead me out onto the porch. The door closed behind us.
  
    We sat on the glider talking a little, but mostly watching the
  lightning play in the clouds. Lal knew the velocity of sound,
  so we counted between the strokes and the thunderclaps to see
  how far away the strokes had been. Finally, we tired of that and
  just watched the rain, awkwardly. I felt I should say something,
  because I saw that Lal was worried, like his parents. A couple
  of times he got up and went back into the house, then returned.
  After the second time, I asked him if anything was wrong.
  
    "My parents are troubled by the lightning," he replied.
  
    That seemed funny to me. They were from India. Didn't they have
  thunderstorms there during the monsoon season? They should have
  gotten used to thunder and lightning, by now.
  
    "Tell me some more about the kids at school," said Lal.
  
    I started talking about the kids in other classes. My little
  brother gossiped about the younger kids, so I repeated some of
  his stories. Many of them didn't have both mothers and fathers,
  and they had stories to tell about their homes and problems.
  Some of the stories sounded like TV. I babbled on, figuring this
  wasn't the time to quiz Lal about his own family.
  
    After about half an hour had passed, and I was winding down,
  we heard a little cry from inside the house. Lal jumped up.
  
    "I'll be right back, Kevin." He went inside, closing the door
  behind him. I had an impulse to look in a window to see what was
  happening, but I restrained myself.
  
    If the power hadn't failed, I guess we would have been playing
  with his computer by now. I wanted to see how his kind performed,
  compared with mine. But, it didn't happen, that day.
  
    After a while, Lal came out of the house. He had an umbrella.
  
    "Is anything wrong?" I asked, for the second time.
  
    "It's turned out to be a bad day, Kevin. My parents want me to
  escort you home. Your mother must be worried about you, with the
  storm and everything."
  
    "I guess you're right. Could I call her?"
  
    "We don't have a telephone. I'm sorry."
  
    No phone? . . . I'd never met anybody who didn't have a telephone.
  Earlier, I'd seen a TV with a cable box on top in their living room, 
  and it seemed funny to me they had cable, but no phone.
  
    "Oh . . . . Well, then, I guess we'd better get started." Without
  seeming to, I looked at the cables coming in on poles from the
  driveway to the side of the house. There were two separate cables.
  One must have been a phone line, I thought.
  
  7.
  
    As we walked down his gravel driveway, huddled under a big, black
  umbrella, Lal's expression told me he was really worried.
  
    I decided that it was now, or never . . . I began asking questions
  about his parents and their homeland. He gave me short answers in a 
  quavering voice. It wasn't much of a conversation. He was too 
  distracted.
  
    As we walked out of the woods onto the powerline right-of-way,
  Lal's hands holding the umbrella began to shake.
  
    "Boy, it's a scary time to be out here," I said.
  
    "Y-Y-Yes," he stammered, and began to walk faster. I had to catch
  up. I could see he was afraid of the powerline and the lightning.
  
    "The line has lightning arrestor wires above the juice cables,
  doesn't it?" I asked, reassuringly.
  
    "Y-Yes. It does."
  
    "We're probably safer here than anywhere else in the neighborhood,
  then," I said. It was more of a hope than a guess. Lal didn't
  seem reassured.
  
    Finally, we reached the grove of trees the contractor had left
  at the turnaround, on my side of the powerline. Lal was trembling,
  by then. I wanted to say something to calm him, but I couldn't
  think of anything.
  
    "Let's stop here under the trees," I said. We stood under the
  leaky branches. I remembered what my science teacher had told
  us about standing under trees in a storm. I hoped the powerline
  lightning cables were high enough to protect us, here.
  
    Suddenly, as we stood there, Lal began to weep.
  
    "T-The power's still off," he said, in tears.
  
    "How can you tell?" I asked, unable to contain myself. From where
  we were, we couldn't see any of the houses to see if they were
  lighted.
  
    He hesitated for a while, sobbing softly. Then he spoke.
  
    "It's hurting my parents."
  
    I felt really uncomfortable, being there with him, then. It was
  almost painful.
  
    "You mean the lightning?"
  
    "No."
  
    "What, then?"
  
    "The power failure."
  
    I felt at a loss for words, but I continued, undiplomatically.
  
    "How does that hurt them?"
  
    He gave me a look of anguish. He was anguished about his parents.
  He stood there in the rain, looking back toward his house, tears
  running down his face.
  
    "I'm not supposed to tell."
  
    I was taken aback, but forged ahead. "Tell what, Lal?"
  
    When he didn't reply immediately, I said, sagely, "It might make
  you feel better if you told me . . . . I can keep a secret." I took
  the umbrella handle from his shaking hands.
  
    He looked at me with what I guessed was a look of trust.
  
    "They need the power to stay healthy and to keep their shape."
  When I didn't ask the inevitable question, he explained.
  
    "They're aliens. They're not like us -- not even like me."
  
    "Aliens?" . . . Everyone knew they were foreigners.
  
    "F-From somewhere in the stars."
  
    I just can't describe my reaction to hearing this. I asked,
  foolishly, "You're not Indians, then?"
  
    "No. We just pretend to be."
  
    "Your parents are extra . . . terrestrial?" Me and my big words.
  
    "Yes. They came to this world by mistake -- it's a long 
  story . . . . They couldn't leave because their ship was ruined 
  by Earth's atmosphere. They had to stay."
  
    He stopped weeping, about then. I guess he saw my wide-eyed
  expression. I tried to relax the muscles in my face. How could
  I believe what he was saying? It was too wild . . .  but, somehow,
  I did.
  
    "They found Earth inhospitable. To keep a human shape, they --
  we -- need a strong electromagnetic field. That's why we live next
  to the powerline. It has the field-strength we need."
  
    I was floored, as they used to say. But, I played it straight.
  I couldn't imagine a guy as serious as Lal putting me on.
  
    "Is that why your parents stay at home so much?"
  
    "Yes. Things are worse, now. They can't keep their human shape
  for very long. They've gotten accustomed to the powerline field.
  When it fails, they began to feel pain."
  
    "But, you . . . you go to school."
  
    "I was born here. I'm different. I can be away from the powerline
  for a lot longer. I run errands for them and take care of them.
  . . . Oh!"
  
    "What?"
  
    "The power is on again . . . I can tell. They'll be all right, now."
  He smiled a little, then. "We'd better hurry."
  
    "That's okay. The rain's not so bad, now. I can go on alone. My
  home's not far."
  
    "You're sure?"
  
    "Yeah. You'd better go back to your place. Your parents may
  need you."
  
    "Thanks, Kevin . . . . You won't tell anybody, will you?"
  
    "Unh-uh. Who needs to know, anyway? It's none of their
  business. It's just between us. Besides, who'd believe me?"
  
    "Thanks. Come back tomorrow, and my father will explain
  everything. I'll convince him to trust you."
  
    I wasn't so sure about that, but I took him at his word.
  "Okay. Maybe you'll show me your computer, then, too?"
  
    "Sure."
  
    "I'll see you."
  
    "'Bye."
  
    For a little while, I stood under the trees, getting wetter,
  as I watched Lal hurry back across the powerline strip, anxious
  to get back to his parents. He never looked back. I felt excited
  -- and privileged, too. I'd been chosen out of the billions on
  Earth to learn a secret from the stars . . . . I hoped Lal's 
  parents felt that way, too.
  
    I hardly noticed the rain, then, I walked slowly home, trying 
  to think of what I could tell my mother . . . about those people 
  on the other side.
  
                                 (DREAM)
  
  Copyright 1996 Fredrick Rustam, All Rights Reserved.
  -------------------------------------------------------------------                          
  Fredrick is a retired civil servant. For thirty years, he indexed 
  technical reports for the Department of Defense. As a hobby, and
  for his and your enjoyment he writes short stories for the ezines 
  of the Web, mostly SF. Email:  frustam@capaccess.org.
  ===================================================================
  
