Young Monsters by Isaac Asimov

Author:Isaac Asimov [Asimov, Isaac]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0060201703
Publisher: Harper & Row
Published: 1985-03-31T21:00:00+00:00

The Young One

by Jerome Bixby

As we grow, we learn our roles in life. That isn’t always good.

* * *

Old Buster was suddenly crouched on stiff legs, right up out of a sound sleep, and his ears were laid back flat against his head, and he was letting out the deep, wet-sounding growl he always used on rattlers.

Young Johnny Stevens looked up in surprise.

The new kid was standing out in the middle of the road, about ten feet away. He’d come up so silently Johnny hadn’t even known he was there—until old Buster let out that growl.

Johnny stopped whittling. He sat there on the damp, tree-shaded grass in front of the Stevens farmhouse, his big silver-mounted hunting knife in one hand, the shaved stick in the other, and stared at old Buster.

The dog’s head was down, his eyes were up and slitted on the new kid. His lips were curled back tight against his teeth.

Johnny started to reach for Buster’s scruff, afraid he was getting set to attack. But Buster gave him a mean, panicky, sideways glance, and Johnny pulled back his hand, because he knew his dog. Then Buster whined. His tail went between his legs and he started to walk backward, one slow step after another. He emerged from the shade of the big elm, where he’d been sleeping at Johnny’s feet ever since lunch, and kept going backward until he was about twenty feet up the lawn toward the house. Then he stopped and threw back his head as if to howl—but he didn’t. He held the pose for a second, his eyes glaring on the new kid down along the sides of his muzzle, and then he turned and ran around the corner of the house.

Buster had never even run from bear. Johnny had once had to drag him off the scent of one.

Johnny turned to look at the new kid, mad clear through and curious as heck at the same time.

The kid looked friendly, curious—and kind of lost. He was dark and thin, with big eyes. His short, stiff, black hair fit his long skull like a cap. His voice had a funny accent, and it was kind of hesitant, almost like he was afraid to talk.

“Hello,” he said.

Johnny Stevens stood up. Wood shavings spilled off his lap onto the grass.

“What’d you do to Buster?” he demanded.

“I … I don’t know. Dogs just don’t like me. I’m sorry I frightened him.”

Johnny scowled. “You didn’t frighten him,’’ he denied formally. “He musta seen something across the road.’’

“It was me,’’ said the new kid softly.

Johnny turned to look at the corner of the house. Buster was poking his head around, low down, ears still back. The new kid looked over that way too, and Buster ducked out of sight like he was yanked. A second later, Johnny heard the dog’s claws gallop across the cellar door along the side of the house and knew Buster must be heading for the field out back, where he went and hid whenever he was punished.

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