Elements of the terrain below registered on the craft’s sensors as it searched for a suitable landing site. Winding rivers of fresh water cut through vast stretches of undulating prairies. Population centers dotted the surface. Primitive radar transmissions bounced off the ship’s protective plating.
The craft slowed as it dropped lower in the night sky. The light of a single moon shone down on fields of cultivated plants. The rush of its passage spun the sails of a modest wooden windmill.
Finally the capsule came in for a landing, bearing an alien gift…
CHAPTER SEVEN
Surging waves washed over the ice-covered rails of the Debbie Sue, a two-hundred-foot fishing boat rolling atop the frigid waters of the Bering Sea, just off the coast of Alaska.
Captain Ivar Heraldson watched from the wheelhouse as the soaked deckhands scrambled atop the slippery deck below, racing the fading daylight as they hauled heavy metal cages, laden with captured crabs, onto the deck. It was October, king crab season, which meant that they only had four or five hours of daylight this far north.
Crabbers wearing wet-weather gear and rubber boots defied biting winds to hook the pots to a sturdy metal crane, which then swung the cages over the deck, where hundreds of pounds of crustaceans were dumped onto the sorting table. Rider crabs clung to the sides of the cages.
Heraldson kept a close eye on the proceedings. Theirs was a dangerous vocation, and a moment’s carelessness—or just cussed back luck—could lead to injury or death. The captain had lost men to drowning and hypothermia, and had seen skulls fractured by swinging hooks or cages. Manipulating several hundred pounds of cage and crabs was difficult enough. Throw in choppy seas, heavy winds, lack of sleep, and an icy deck littered with ropes, coils, buoys, and other hazards, and you had a recipe for disaster.
It was estimated that at least one man a week was killed every season. Heraldson sometimes marveled that the number wasn’t higher.
At the moment, however, everything seemed to going smoothly, despite the massive swells that were tossing the Debbie Sue about. Most of his crew consisted of veterans who knew the ropes well enough.
Then his wary eyes sought out the sole exception.
A greenhorn kid who had joined the crew in Dutch Harbor stood off to one side, coiling the buoy lines while the more experienced crewmen hauled in the pots. The hood of his insulated rain slicker partially obscured his face, but Heraldson glimpsed a rugged young face hidden behind a scruffy black beard. The youngster’s thoughtful blue eyes took in the hectic activity on deck. As a greenhorn, he was entitled to a smaller share of the profits, yet so far he had handled the long hours, backbreaking work, hellish conditions, and merciless hazing without complaint.
Which was more than could be said of plenty of first-time crabbers who found the job more than they could handle. Heraldson had been impressed by the young man’s strength and endurance. The kid didn’t even seem to mind the cold.
A wrenching noise yanked the captain’s attention over to the crane, which was swinging another pot over the rail. The jarring din came from the hydraulic winch, where a tangled rope had caught. Smoke rose from the straining block and, with a sound like a cannon going off, the line snapped abruptly, sending more than a thousand pounds of cage and crab plummeting toward the oblivious greenhorn. Directly below, the young man was staring off into space, as though his thoughts were miles away. He was only a heartbeat away from being flattened.
At the last possible moment the boat’s deckboss—a burly fisherman named Byrne—shoved the greenhorn out the way. The loose pot crashed onto the deck. Frantic crabs scrambled inside the cage, climbing over each other as they sought a way out. Heraldson let out a sigh of relief. For a moment there, he’d thought the greenhorn was a goner.
“Watch it, dumbass!” Byrne barked. “Keep your eyes open or you’re gonna get squashed!”
The greenhorn accepted the rebuke. His deep voice held a hint of the Midwest.
“Sorry.”
“Where the hell’d they find you anyway?” Byrne stormed off, shaking his head. The crew went back to work, scrambling to salvage the haul from the fallen cage. Crab season was getting shorter ever year, and they couldn’t take time off just because a rookie almost got killed. Even the greenhorn returned to coiling the lines, seemingly unshaken by his near brush with death.
Didn’t he realize how close a call that had been?
The captain contemplated the young man, who radiated a quiet confidence that belied his age and inexperience. Not for the first time, he wondered what had possessed him to sign on a green young kid who never talked about his past. Byrne was right for questioning why the kid was on the boat in the first place.
Where had he come from anyway?
“Martha Kent?”
The nurse escorted Martha and her husband into the examination room. It was a busy day at the Smallville pediatrics clinic, and the waiting room was packed. An anxious-looking brunette in her late twenties, Martha cradled her adopted son in her arms. The baby looked like any other infant. He bawled noisily
“He won’t stop crying,” Martha said apologetically.
The nurse just shrugged. She was surely used to crying children.
“The doctor will be right in,” she said.
Waiting tensely in the doctor’s office, Martha hoped they weren’t making an awful mistake. She and Jonathan had been reluctant to let anyone examine little Clark, but his nonstop crying had left them no choice. Besides the fact that neither of them was getting any sleep, she couldn’t help worrying that there might be something seriously wrong.
What do we really know about him? she wondered for what seemed like the millionth time. Or what he needs to survive?
After a few minutes, Dr. Whitaker joined them in the office. The avuncular silver-haired pediatrician was a fixture in the Kents’ small rural community. Bifocals rested upon his nose as a concession to his aging eyes. He had delivered most of the babies of the Smallville, with the notable exception of Clark.
He took the wailing infant from Martha and placed him gently on the examination table. Martha gripped Jonathan’s hand as the doctor conducted a routine inspection, checking out his heart, lungs, and reflexes. Peering into Clark’s throat and ears, he didn’t appear to find anything alarming.
“It’s colic,” he pronounced. “Newborns have a built-in mechanism for tuning out sights and sounds. When that mechanism falls away, some babies become overwhelmed. Clark’s probably just more sensitive than most.”
But how sensitive? Martha fretted.
Dr. Whitaker produced a portable electronic device with a cord that was attached to a small earplug. He sterilized Clark’s ear with a cloth wipe, then inserted the tip of the probe into it.
“This is a test to measure hearing response,” he explained. “Don’t worry, it’s completely painless—lots of babies sleep through the procedure.”
Jonathan Kent frowned. His tanned, weathered features bespoke a life spent working outdoors. A few years older than his wife, he eyed the test apprehensively.
“I’m not sure that’s a good—” he began.
The doctor flicked a switch, activating the apparatus, which sent an acoustic signal into the baby’s ear. In theory, the device would measure the ear’s response to the sounds.
But not Clark.
The baby’s screams increased in volume. A deafening shriek shattered every window in the office—and beyond. Out in the waiting room, a gumball machine cracked open, spilling candy-colored spheres onto the floor. The nurse’s coffee mug came apart in her hand. An aquarium full of colorful fish exploded, flooding the reception area. Staff and patients rushed to rescue the gasping fish, which were tossed into paper cups filled with tap water. Broken glass crunched beneath their feet.