Charles L. Grant - A Crowd of Shadows

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CHARLES L. GRANT

A Crowd of Shadows

One of the characteristics not mentioned in the introduction to this volume is the fact that those

who end up being successful in this field tend to have one particular virtue before all others.

This is the characteristic of being able and willing to work very hard indeed at their writing.

Charlie Grant is a worker and, in a few short years, has compiled an impressive record as a young

author. He was born in 1942, and was raised and lived in New Jersey. On his way to becoming a

fulltime writer and after graduating from Trinity College, Hartford, with a B.A. in history, he

taught English, drama, and history in public high schools in New Jersey.

He is married, has a son named Ian, and is still living in the East. He is now, however, a full-

time writer with just over three dozen stories sold, as well as five novels in the science fiction

and fantasy field. He has edited both nonfiction and fiction, and he has been the Executive

Secretary of the Science Fiction Writers of America for four years now.

"A Crowd of Shadows," the story that follows, is interestingly much more of a piece of writing

than its surface action seems to indicate which is reflected in the fact that it won the Nebula

Award for short stories this year. Charlie Grant tends to be a strongly thematic writer and this,

together with his capability for hard work, promises a great deal more remarkable writing to be

seen under his name in the future.

Of all the means of relaxation that I have devised for myself over the years, most required

nothing more strenuous than driving an automobile, and not one of them had anything remotely to do

with murder. Yet there it was, and now here I am-alone, though not always lonely, and wondering,

though not always puzzled. I'm nether in jail nor exile, asylum nor hospital. Starburst is where I

am and, unless I can straighten a few things out, Starburst is where I'm probably going to stay.

I had long ago come to the conclusion that every so often the world simply had to thumb

its nose at me and wink obscenely as if it knew what the hell was making things tick and for spite

wasn't about to let me in on the secret. When that happens, I succumb to the lure of Huck Finn's

advice and light out for the territory: in my case, that turns out to be Starburst. Where the

luncheonette is called The Luncheonette, the hotel is The Hotel, and so on in understated

simplicity. Where the buildings, all of them, rise genteelly from well-kept lawns on full-acre

lots, painted sunrise-new and no two the same shape or shade-a half-moon-fashioned community that

prides itself on its seclusion and its ability to sponge out the world from transients like me.

It's a place that not many can stand for too long, but it's a breather from every law that anyone

ever thought of.

At least that's what I thought when I came down last May.

It was a bit warm for the season, but not at all uncomfortable. Wednesday, and I was sitting on

the grey sand beach that ribboned the. virtually waveless bay they had christened Nova. The sun

was pleasantly hot, the water cool, and the barest sign of a breeze drifted down from the misted

mountains that enclosed the town. I had just dried myself off and was about to roll over onto my

stomach to burn a little when a thin and angular boy about fifteen or so dashed in front of me,

kicking up crests of sand and inadvertently coating me and my blanket as he pursued some invisible

swift quarry. I was going to protest when there was a sudden shout and he stumbled to a halt,

turning around immediately, his arms dejectedly limp at his sides. Curious, I followed his gaze

past me to a middle-aged couple huddled and bundled under a drab beach umbrella. The woman, hidden

by bonnet, dark glasses and a black, long-sleeved sweater, beckoned sharply. The boy waved in

return and retraced his steps at a decidedly slower pace. As he passed me, looking neither left

nor right, I only just happened to notice the tiny and blurred sequence of digits tattooed on the

inside of his left forearm.

I'm sure my mouth must have opened in the classic gesture of surprise, but though I've seen them

often enough in the city, for some reason I didn't expect to see an android in Starburst.

I continued to stare rather rudely until the boy reached the couple and flopped face-down on the

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