Jim Baen's Universe

Science Fiction Stories

Chance of Storms

Written by Edward M. Lerner

Illustrated by David Maier

My cabin, its lapped wood siding faded to a pale gray, was the only human structure in sight. I was communing with nature, aka staring blankly into space from the front porch, my chair tipped back, my feet propped on the rickety railing, when motion caught my eye.

A plume of dust made its way slowly along a path that was more hinted-at than beaten. In time, a vehicle became visible. Watching the unexpected car bounce and sway, I wished upon it blown shocks, flat tires, and a snapped axle. Such a minor mishap would have been a blessing—for whoever was in the car.

No such luck.

The road became ever more rutted as it approached the cabin. My uninvited guest could not have been going more than twenty when he passed the Do Not Trespass sign. He ignored it.

I sighed.

The late-model Toyota, arguably metallic blue, but I couldn't be certain due to the coating of dust, shuddered to a stop a good hundred feet from the cabin. There was an inaudible consultation among the three people inside, then the driver climbed out. He wore an expression that was simultaneously aggressive and anxious, a look with which I had become all too familiar: a reporter. "Mind if I come on up?" Mistaking silence for assent, he advanced to the foot of the porch.

He turned slowly, taking in the broad expanse of prairie that surrounded my humble home. "Nice view. I can see why you would like it out here."

Who said I liked it? I continued my silence. Sometimes rudeness worked.

"I'm Harry Weidner." He named the national newspaper he claimed to represent. I waved him off when he set foot on the lowest step to show me a press ID. He put away his wallet, then ostentatiously patted his shirt pocket. "I should tell you that I'm wearing a wire. The signal is broadcast to my peers in the car. Recorded there, too." He gave an equally ostentatious shrug, and added, "I'm sure you'll understand."

It was my turn to shrug. "I don't suppose you would consider getting back in your car and just leaving?"

"I don't think so." He flashed the reporter's standard this-won't-hurt-a-bit smile. "This is a story that should be told. I've done a lot of research about you, you know."

It would do no good, but I felt obligated to make a disclaimer. I gestured at my, shall we say modest, surroundings. "Are your readers crying out for news of obscure failed writers?"

Weidner licked his lips. "Only the ones with paranormal mental powers."

A storm had come up suddenly. Clouds were forming to the west; distant thunder rumbled. "Since you have researched me, what do you think my story is?"

He looked around for a seat, since I was already occupying the only chair on the porch. He settled for a tree stump back in the yard. "It seems clear that you have paranormal abilities—we'll come back to which ones. As those talents matured, you've moved farther and farther into the country. Your former neighbors all attest to strange and unexplained events, especially just prior to each of your moves. Destructive events."

Only the surviving neighbors attested, I assumed . . . unless Weidner had his own unusual skills. That thought brought on an unwelcome rush of memories. When I returned to the present, my uninvited guest was still droning on.

". . . Recurrent incidents of mind reading. That would be