Kansas, She Says, Is the Name of the Star

Tin Man

Brought up in a very deserted part of Cloud County, with Aurora far to the east and nothing to the west but the county line, Amy had no notion where she should head. Or what the wider world was like. Geography was not one of the three Rs—Reading, Rhythm, and Regulations. But she was determined to follow her star, heading due north, even if it took her into Republic County. Her biggest fear was Bushwhackers, and it was far too soon for them to be searching for her. When her family did not show in Concordia, people would want to know why—but it would be a day at least before she was posted as a runaway bride. Aiming to make the most of her reprieve, Amy walked briskly along in her scarecrow clothes, not looking back.

Wagons went by. Then cheerful families on buggies, but Amy turned down every offer of a ride. In theory she had done no wrong, and had until dusk to register as a bride, but she did not want helpful strangers whisking her into Concordia.

After ten or so miles, she had to make her first detour, swinging west through the fields to avoid Jamestown, and the road to Concordia.

Now she was clearly on the run, with nothing ahead of her but the county line. Grasshoppers bounded about in the heat, soaring away down the road, waiting for her to catch up, then flying off again. Dust appeared ahead, a small thin cloud that might have been a whirlwind, since it was certainly tornado weather. She watched the dust devil come closer, not feeling especially wary, until the cloud topped a rise. There was a Wheeler beneath it, headed straight at her.

Damn! Only the second Wheeler she had ever seen. What a time for him to show up. Wheelers lived far to the west, beyond Norton and Oberlin. They were scary fast, and would turn her in as easy as Bushwhackers. Both were always looking out for girls on the run. Leaving the road would just attract attention. Amy pulled her hat down over face and kept on walking, sure he could not be looking for her. Rapidly, the Wheeler got closer, becoming a man in a scarlet suit and black boots, seated atop a silver frame, with two spoked wheels that seemed to turn on their own, whirling along without a horse or peddles, trailing a tall cloud of dust. Grabbing her straw hat to help cover her face, Amy waved vigorously as the Wheeler sped past. That was what a boy would do. He was wearing goggles and a red cap, and guiding the front wheel with silver handlebars, so long and curved that he could lean back in his seat, steering in complete comfort.

Fast as he had come, the Wheeler was gone, not even giving her a glance. Dust settled, and Amy quickened her pace, determined not to be surprised so easily next time. Now she kept looking over her shoulder, and half a mile farther along she spotted another cloud of dust—this time to the south. Another Wheeler. Two in one day. Or the same one coming back to have a closer look.

Amy ducked into the corn, threading through the green rows until she could not be seen from the road. Sure enough, this time the Wheeler seemed to slow, and maybe even stop, as though searching for her. But there was nothing to see, and the dust cloud went whirling off to the north. She no longer felt safe on the road, a feeling soon reinforced by yet another passing Wheeler, this one headed south. Or maybe it was the same one, still looking for her. Heading north through the corn rows, she slid between the stalks, letting the furrows guide her feet. Dodging the Wheelers was no fun, but it gave her more purpose, just like her star gave her direction. Which was good, since she knew what she was running from, but not where she was going. Without warning, Amy came upon a dish-like depression twenty yards across. There the corn was crushed down, with the flattened stalks radiating outward from the center, where a smaller deeper ring was gouged into the ground. For the first time since leaving the road, Amy saw open sky. It scared her. Something with a big saucer-shaped bottom had fallen out of that sky, crushed the corn, then gone on its way. A distant dust plume signaled another Wheeler on the road.

Skirting the depression, Amy sought safety in the narrow green tunnels, sliding between the tall stalks. Crows cawed at the walking scarecrow, but no one else noticed.

She soon came on another saucer-like depression, which she also avoided. But beyond that her way was suddenly blocked by a long break in the corn, stretching straight across her path. What to do now? All the flattened corn was facing one way, as though something had whipped through the rows, inches above the ground. Nothing like this ever happened back on the farm.

Amy tried to go around the break. She ran right into a great silver wing, slanting into the ground. This stiff silver wing had cut through the corn like a scythe, slicing out a wide clearing. Attached to it was the crushed and burnt fuselage of a sailplane.

Forgetting her fear, Amy crept closer. She had seen sailplanes gliding overhead, but never this close up, near enough to touch, if she dared.

Wedged inside the crumpled cockpit was the biggest monkey Amy had ever seen. Bigger than her, and dead, with his dried blood spattered over the the smashed controls. Sheesh! Awfully gory, even to Amy, who gutted pigs and beheaded chickens at home—pigs she considered her friends, and hens she had raised from chicks. Amy backed away slowly, until she was standing smack up against the corn. She hoped that up past Concordia things might be different—but not this different. First Wheelers, then this mashed flying monkey. What next?

As if in answer, she heard someone crashing toward her. Horses were coming, many horses, thrashing through the corn. The only folks who casually rode over a farmer’s standing corn, with no care or warning, were Bushwhackers.

Amy spun about and vanished into the corn, having little faith in her scarecrow disguise. If Bushwhackers did not like how she looked, they would sling her over a saddle and take her into Concordia just to be sure. Hooting and hollering the whole way.

Who needed that? Not her. She followed the furrows away from the wreck, working her way downwind, in case they had dogs. When she found a safe spot beneath the corn, she squatted and listened for pursuit, unsure what to do next. Following her star had gotten her in more trouble than Amy could have ever imagined. Bushwhackers should not even be looking for her, but here they were, so close she could smell the dust and horse sweat.

Without warning, a soft voice behind her hissed, “Hey, kid.” Amy almost leaped out of her scarecrow pants, spinning swiftly about. Behind her, crouched in the corn, was a dark-haired, smiling girl in a blue-checked gingham dress, wearing pigtails and bright ruby-red slippers. She waved to Amy, saying, “Come here.”

Surprised at being called kid by someone smaller than she was, Amy crawled back through the corn to where the girl in the gingham dress was hiding. Looking Amy over keenly, the little girl asked, “Who are you?”

“Tip.” The first male name that came to mind; it belonged to one of their dogs.

“If you say so.” The little girl produced a small clear capsule from her dress pocket, holding it up to Amy’s mouth. “Here, spit in this.”

Amy looked at her like she was crazy.

“Go on, spit,” the girl insisted. “It won’t hurt.” She spit, then asked, “What is that for?”

“DNA sample.” The girl carefully closed the capsule, held it up to the light, then tucked it into her checked dress, adding, “We had better get going.”

“Going where?”

“Away from here.” The girl nodded toward the crash site. “That sailplane was a two-seater, and there is only one body. Even Bushwhackers can count that far.”

Amy had not thought of that. She asked, “What was that in the wreck?”

“SuperChimp named Ham. He was my pilot.”

“Your pilot?”

“Damned good one too, named for the first ape in space.” Getting up, the girl smoothed out her dress, saying, “Come on, before Bushwhackers come looking.” They set out, sliding in silence for most of an hour through green tunnels of corn. With no more obstructions or weird depressions, the cornfields went on until they came on a creek, lined with cottonwoods. Here they stopped to drink and rest their hot feet in cool rippling water. Amy asked, “What’s your name?”

“Dorothy,” the girl in gingham replied.

“Means Beloved of God,” Amy observed piously.

Dorothy nodded. “One of the reasons I picked it.”

“You don’t come from around here, do you?” Amy guessed. Girls she knew did not pick their names.

“Heavens, no.” Dorothy smiled at the notion. “I fell out of the sky. Last night, actually. Haven’t been here a day.”

Amy believed it. Dorothy did not act or talk like a little girl, but Amy did not press the subject, since she was pretending to be a boy. “Fell from where?”

“Kansas system.”

Amy had never heard of it. “What county is that?”

Dorothy smiled at her naivet. “Kansas is a G-type star, not far from here. We are actually distant binaries.”

Star travel sounded like something from fairy tales. “What are you doing here?”

“Right now, trying to get home,” Dorothy explained airily. “Got anything to eat?” Amy opened her pack and produced a piece of cake. Dorothy’s sly smile broke into a grin. “Birthday cake?”

“There’s also some hard sausage.”

“Cake’s fine.” Dorothy broke off a bit of frosted corner and stuffed it in her mouth. “So, how old are you today?”

“Thirteen,” Amy admitted.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Me too.” Amy forgot she was supposed to be a boy.

“So did you run off?”

Amy nodded guiltily. “Do you blame me?”

“Heavens no!” Dorothy hurried to console her. “Barefoot and pregnant is no way to start junior high.” Dorothy broke off more cake. “Is ‘Tip’ a product of whimsical parents, or part of your disguise?”

“My name is Amy. And I am on the run, but I don’t know to where. Last night, I tried to wish upon the first star, and it fell from the sky, trailing fire. I’ve been following it ever since.”

“That was me,” Dorothy declared, happily splashing her feet in the stream. “Couple of saucers got us.”

“Saucers?”

“UFOs,” Dorothy explained. “Those moving lights you see at night.”

“Dad says that’s swamp gas.”

Dorothy rolled her eyes. “See any swamps on your way here?” She hadn’t. Just lots of corn, and summer wheat.

“Saucers are scary smart,” Dorothy warned, “and can see for miles. UFOs are why I was lying low, until those Bushwhackers arrived.”

Amy told Dorothy about her own adventures since leaving home, dodging Wheelers, then Bushwhackers. Dorothy was impressed. “You saw my ship shot down, and came straight here? That shows good sense, and keen navigation.”

Amy was not so sure. “I thought it was a star.”

“Still, you got here, and that’s what counts.” They headed off downstream, walking in the water to confuse their scent, in case the Bushwhackers brought dogs—which they did when they had difficult girls to track. Bushwhackers kept in practice by hunting coons in the dark. This little stream led them to the Republican River, which ran down from Republican County and the Pawnee Nation. They camped on the south bank of the Republican, making a fire, and staring up at the stars, while chewing hard sausage. Amy smirked, saying, “This was going to be my wedding night.”

“Disappointed?” Dorothy asked.

“Not at all.” Thirteen and unmarried. Only that morning Amy thought it was impossible, now it felt wonderful. With nowhere to go, this warm campfire seemed the perfect place to be. “Where is Kansas, the star you came from?”

“You can barely see it from Earth.” Dorothy searched the sky, then pointed, saying, “That dim one, there.”

“I see it.” Amy knew the night sky by heart.

“Kansas is the name of the star. It has two terraformed planets, Wichita and Topeka—but I’m not from either of them. I was born aboard ship.”

“So, how old are you?” Amy asked suspiciously.

“In Earth years?” Dorothy smirked. “Way older than you.” Small surprise, Dorothy acted much older than anyone Amy knew, except maybe Dad. “But you look like a kid.”

“I’m a Munchkin.” Dorothy acted nonchalant. “We are bio-engineered not to mature, or even go through puberty.”

“Why?” That was the strangest thing Amy had heard since leaving home, weirder than flying monkeys.

“Because some folks thought it would be fun.” Dorothy sounded breezy, but still a bit bitter. “Rich pedophiles, high-end pimps, and greedy genetechs. I was rescued from a slaver harem when I was four.”

“Slavers?” One of those words Amy had heard whispered by adults, when she was not supposed to be listening.

“Like Bushwhackers, only worse.”

“So how old are you?”

Sitting in the flickering firelight, Dorothy looked nine or ten, at most. “Thirty-two standard years, not counting relativity effects. I have lived half my life at light speed.”

“So you have no family?”

“Conceived in a lab, and born in an incubator. My earliest memories are of living in a creche, with a bunch of other babies for sale, aboard the slaver Hydra. But I have a perfectly fine foster family on Topeka. They’re the folks who raised me.”

And Amy thought her life was weird.

Next morning they were up with the birds, breakfasting on the last of her birthday cake. As Amy fed crumbs to the sparrows, Dorothy laid out the day. “We can follow the Republican up into the next county. Once we get past Kackley there are no towns to worry about until we get to the pickup point just beyond Jewel City. Ham was supposed to drop me off, then fly me to safety—but in case something bad happened, there are other arrangements.”

Something bad had happened, especially to Ham, spattered all over his cockpit. Now it was just assumed that they were both going to this “pickup.” If Amy had another choice she might well have taken it.

Dorothy sensed her fear. “Just remember, west of Jewel City, tomorrow night, near to dawn. Get there, and we are both okay. What you don’t know, Bushwhackers can’t beat out of you.” A happy thought. Like parents and teachers, Bushwhackers had the authority to thrash the truth out of flagrant liars, or errant runaways. Amy was both.

Heading upriver, they crossed over into Republic County, named for the Pawnee Republic, lying farther upstream. Amy wished the Pawnee would take her in, but late summer was when they had their virgin corn-sacrifice to the Morning Star. Not the best time to go knocking on Pawnee long lodges. Eventually they came to a bridge, and a road crossing it, paved with yellow bricks. Each brick was stamped Golden Brick Company, Jewel City.

They set out down the yellow brick road, talking and laughing. Only to find Kackley full of Wheelers, some headed south into Cloud County, most just speeding around town, kicking up dust. Not a pretty sight.

This meant another miles-long detour through the fields, consuming most of the morning. Twice, Dorothy begged food and DNA samples from farm families. When they got back to the yellow brick road, it was afternoon already, with many long miles to go. At the county line, the road jogged to the south, for a while forming the border; then it turned decisively into Jewel County. Almost at once, their luck changed. They came upon a repair robot mortaring up a pothole—a tin-plated mechanical man, bearing the company motto on his chest, “We Lay Good and Gold Brick.” On his shiny back it said, “Golden Brick Company, Jewel City and County.”

“Just what we need,” Dorothy decided, producing an electronic bug, shaped like a spider. Amy watched in amazement as the bug scurried across the gold bricks, then raced up the robot’s tin-plated leg and body. As soon as the spider clamped itself to the robot’s head, the brick layer froze in midmotion.

“These repair robots don’t have much of a brain,” Dorothy expained. “Hop aboard. He will do whatever we want.”

Dorothy had the robot dump his bricks and pick them up instead. “So long as that bug stays attached, the robot will obey both you and me. Try it out.”

Amy told the mechanical man to head west, and he did, carrying them easily over the yellow bricks. This was the way to travel, with no effort, sitting on the robot’s shoulder, able to see all around, with her feet resting in his metal hand. Though the robot could not outrun the Wheelers, they could easily spot them coming. Amy asked, “What if Wheelers are waiting for us at Jewel City?”

“Wheelers are at their worst at night.” Dorothy had no fear in the dark, being able to gather firewood and count stars long after Amy gave up.

They ran into trouble well before dusk. As the sun dipped into the southwest, a silver disk separated from the corona and started sweeping the sky between them and Jewel City. Dorothy ordered the robot off the road, headed north fast and hard, saying, “That UFO is hunting us. It came right out of the sun to sweep the road. We dare not approach until dark.” Not content just to hide, Dorothy told the mechanical man to keep going north toward Webber, up by the Pawnee Nation. “Those disks see a long way, and tell the Bushwhackers where to search.” Amy believed it. Bushwhackers had been on to her faster than she ever thought possible. As the sun set behind them, they kept on going, crossing the White Rock fork of the Republican, and skirting Webber in the dark. Amy worried aloud, saying, “There are nothing but Pawnee up here.”

“That’s why we are going through in the dark,” Dorothy explained. “It’s virgin sacrifice season.”

“Don’t have to tell me,” Amy whispered back. The Pawnee habit of sacrificing stray virgins to the Morning Star was the only drawback of an otherwise friendly and hospitable people. “What’s beyond the Pawnee?”

This was a question Amy had never thought to ask before. Pawnee to the north, Cheyenne to the west, and Ottawas to the south, those were the limits of her world—heard of, but hardly ever seen. All Dorothy said was, “You’ll see.”

And Amy did. Without much warning, the open prairie and creekbed farmlands favored by Pawnee and Ottawas turned into sandy desert, followed by fenced wheatfields shining in the moonlight, backed by stands of corn.

She had thought that beyond the Pawnee there could only be more Indians. Instead it looked like home.

“Where are we?”

“This is Mitchell County. We are still headed north, aiming to cross the Solomon, west of Beloit.” Amy could tell they were headed north, aimed smack at the Little Dipper, but the rest made no sense. Mitchell County was south of Jewel City. Beloit was just about even with her home, only one county over. “How could we get here by heading north?”

Dorothy sighed. “Here’s where it gets hard. You’re not living on Earth. Not even close.”

“Not Earth?” Where else could she be?

“Brace yourself,” Dorothy advised. “Your world is not even a planet, it’s a habitat, a spinning torus about a hundred miles across, orbiting in a dead system. Everything looks flat to you because of gravity control and 3V effects. North just means moving around the inner surface of the torus counter-clockwise.” Amy stared at Dorothy in disbelief, but the little girl in gingham just said, “Get used to it. Every world is finite. Yours is just smaller than most, and turned in on itself, like an overgrown doughnut. North is counter-clockwise, south is clockwise, east is spinward, and west is anti-spinward. If you go straight in any direction, you will come back to where you started.”

Apparently. Amy still could not believe it.

“Same is true in the big universe outside,” Dorothy told her, “discounting relativity effects. Ottawas and Pawnee have known this for a long time, but settled folk tend to hide it from the kids.” Proof of this outrageous claim came when they crossed the Solomon west of Beloit, and Amy recognized the big covered bridge, having been there before. Soon they were back in Jewel County, and she could see Jewel City sparkling in the distance. Just to the north of them was the yellow brick road that they had left many miles to the south.

Dorothy weighed their chances of making the rendezvous. “This is the area they searched yesterday afternoon. They found nothing, so it should be safe to enter, especially from the south. I’ve programmed the pickup point into this robot, so whatever happens, try to stay with him.” With nowhere else to go, Amy nodded vigorously. Supported by the swift, strong metal man, she felt invulnerable. From what Dorothy said, there was a huge wide cosmos beyond the narrow limits of her world. This was her best chance of getting there. If she did not go with Dorothy, she might as well give herself to the Bushwhackers.

Before they even got to the yellow brick road, Amy saw lights blinking to the east, between them and Jewel City. Dorothy told the metal man to put them down, saying, “We should go on foot from here. It’ll attract less attention.”

“What about him?” Amy had grown fond of the robot.

Dorothy smiled at her concern, saying, “I’m leaving the bug on him, just in case. Hopefully we’re home free.”

“Home” and “free” were two words Amy never put together, but Dorothy was full of such odd sayings. As they approached the road, Dorothy whispered for silence. “Pickup is now, two hundred meters north of the road. If you lose me, just keep heading for the Little Dipper.” Amy nodded. Follow the Drinking Gourd. Holding onto Dorothy’s hand, she crept up to the road. Dawn glowed faintly in the east, beyond the lights of Jewel City, but by now the moon had set, leaving only starlight to the north. Amy did not see the road until she stumbled hard on an invisible brick.

“Shit!” Dorothy hissed. “We’ve been seen.”

By whom? Amy peered about, nursing her hurt toe, seeing nothing. Dorothy shoved her back off the road, saying, “Run.”

Run where? Suddenly, stabbing bright lights flashed in her eyes, blinding her even more. Unable to see, she fell to her knees, holding her hat. Dorothy stepped between her and the glaring lights, a small dark blur.

Wheels whined in the dark, and the lights leaped forward, flashing down the road toward Dorothy. Amy wanted to scream, but did not dare, as the lights sped past and Dorothy disappeared. Blinded again, Amy stared into darkness, still on her knees, listening for Wheelers. Nothing. Amy could not hear any Wheelers, or see the lights of Jewel City. She wanted to call out to Dorothy, but it would do no good.

Suddenly, strong hands seized her, lifting her up. She struggled against the merciless grip, expecting to hear a triumphant Bushwhacker yell. But the hands holding her were cold tin-plated metal. It was the robot, and he began to run with her, across the yellow brick road and on into the night.