ron reynolds
"LORD! HE'S THERE AGAIN! HE'S THERE! LOOK!" the old man croaked, jabbing a calloused finger at the burial hill. "Old Piper again! As crazy as a loon! Every year that way!"
The Martian boy at the feet of the old man stirred his thin reddish feet in the soil and affixed his large green eyes upon the burial hill where the Piper stood. "Why does he do that?" asked the boy.
"Ah?" The old man's leathery face rumpled into a maze of wrinkles. "He's crazy, that's what. Stands up there piping on his music from sunset until dawn."
The thin piping sounds squealed in the dusk, echoed back from the low hills, were lost in melancholy silence, fading. Then louder, higher, insanely, crying with shrill voice.
The Piper was a tall, gaunt man, face as pale and wan as Martian moons, eyes electrical purple, standing against the soft of the dusking heaven, holding his pipe to his lips, playing. The Piper—a silhouette—a symbol—a melody.
"Where did the Piper come from?" asked the Martian boy.
"From Venus." The old man took out his pipe and filled it. "Oh, some twenty years ago or more, on the projectile with the Terrestrians. I arrived on the same ship, coming from Earth, we shared a double seat together."
"What is his name?" Again the boyish, eager voice.