The little man knew Ben had been murdered;
the trouble was, Ben was still alive! Could the
future be wrong--or merely a dress rehearsal?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
January 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The pounding at the door woke me up. I groped for the light. It flooded
the room, erasing the glow of the afternoon sun through the drapes. The
clock said three-thirty.
"Come on, Benny! Open up!" a gruff voice ordered.
I groaned as I recognized the voice. As I went to the door I hastily
reviewed last night's activities. Two wallets on the subway that had
netted seventeen bucks, one in an elevator at the Morrison that had
added forty-five bucks. An all night crap game near the Wilson El that
had nearly cleaned me....
"Come in, Calahan," I said cheerfully to the cop. "A social visit--I
hope?"
Calahan grinned mirthlessly at my little joke. I got dressed. An hour
later I was shoved into line with a dozen others. We knew what to do.
We walked single file onto the stage, then faced a screen. We couldn't
see beyond it because it was dark there, and floodlights from the floor
and the ceiling blinded us.
"That's the man!" a woman's voice said excitedly.
My stomach did a flip flop. Who did she mean? Me? I looked at the
others in the line-up. Joey North was looking sick. The others just
looked uneasy, like I felt. Poor Joey....
On the sidewalk outside the station I lit a cigarette with shaking
fingers. I hated the whole system. They take you down in a car. You
walk home. If you get out. Suddenly I was sick of Chicago, and when I
get sick of Chicago I go somewhere.
Night found me at the counter in a drugstore in Evanston. I was
beginning to feel better. I had a newspaper and a cup of coffee in
front of me.
I'd read everything else, so I started reading the society stuff. A lot
of it was Evanston. A bosom-type matron smirked at me from one of the
pictures. Under the picture it said she was Mrs. Sarah Fish, Evanston
society leader. I started to read more. Then this little guy came into
the drugstore.
"A package of Camels," he said to the cashier.
He sensed my stare. I looked quickly down at my paper and casually took
a sip of coffee. But I wasn't interested in the news now. Out of the
corner of my eye I studied the little man. He wasn't more than five
feet tall, very slim, and very erect. I got the strange impression of
looking at a small giant. Then I realized what caused that impression.
It was his head. It was more the right size for a man six feet tall.
"That will be twenty cents," the baldish cashier said.
The little man handed him a bill he had been holding in his hand. "By
the way," he said as the cashier rang up the twenty cents, "Could you
tell me the way to the Sarah Fish residence?" I pricked up my ears at
that.
"Why yes," the cashier said. "You go down to the stop sign and turn
right two blocks. It's the big white place set back from the street,
with a wide driveway that goes back to a four car garage. Let's see
now. That was twenty cents. Twenty-five, fifty, one. Two, three. There
you are. Don't forget, the big white house."
"Thank you," the little man said.
I watched him go to the door. It wasn't until he was out of sight that
I did a double take.
"Hey!" I said to the cashier. "What kind of a bill did that little guy
give you?"
"Why, a--a--Oh good Lord."
I slid out of my seat at the counter and leaned over the cigar counter
as the cashier rang up a no sale. He picked out the bill and held it in
limp fingers. I took it and spread it on the glass counter.
* * * * *
It was a three dollar bill. There was a picture of Truman on it. I
turned it over. On the back was a picture of an atomic mushroom cloud
with a series of ellipses interlocking to form the popular conception
of an atom.
It looked like real money. It had the feel of real money.
"Well," the cashier said philosophically. "I guess I'm out three
dollars. His talking was what threw me off."
I picked up the three dollar bill and squinted at the fine print. It
said _Series of 1964_. The date on my newspaper on the counter beside
my cold coffee was April 5, 1954.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," I said. "I'll give you three dollars for
it."
"Oh no!" the cashier said quickly. "I can't do that. The law says I
must turn all counterfeit money directly over to the nearest F.B.I.
office."
"Sure," I soothed. "Sure, I know that. But this isn't the same thing.
A counterfeit is an imitation of real money--and there aren't any real
three dollar bills."
The cashier chuckled suddenly. "By gollies you're right," he said.
"That means I can keep it. Think I will. I'm going to deposit it in the
bank tomorrow morning. Just for a laugh. Ned Sparks'll fall off his
high stool when he sees it."
"I'll give you three and a half for it," I said.
But I was already turning away as he shook his head. I knew the only
way to get a three dollar bill was to catch up with the little man.
Outside the drugstore I looked up the street the way the little man had
gone. He wasn't in sight. I saw the stop sign a block away, and hurried
toward it.
It was Lincoln Avenue, in a part of Evanston that was just like a
small town set off by itself, downstate instead of a northern suburb
of Chicago. I followed the directions the cashier had given the little
man. Turn right two blocks.
I still hadn't seen the little man by the time I reached the big white
house with the four car garage. The house itself had one of those
old colonial porches with six pillars holding up a porch roof with
unnecessary solidity. Between the pillars brightly lit huge windows
brought a clear view of the interior.
A party of some sort was going on. That's the way it looked. People
standing in small groups holding glasses.
I hesitated. I wanted a three dollar bill, but was it worth it, to go
up to the door and ask for someone I didn't know? I decided it was, and
went up the walk as though I belonged there.
Beside the huge door was a button. I pushed it, and heard a series of
chimes ring out. A few seconds later the massive door swung open and a
middle aged man with a jovial expression said, "Come in, come in. I'm
George Wile. Sarah's somewhere. What's your name? Sorry I can't keep
track of all of Sarah's friends."
"Ben Smith," I said, stepping inside.
"Sarah'll show up in a minute," George Wile said, and promptly forgot
me.
That was okay by me. I stood by the door looking around, trying to spot
the little man. A gorgeous young thing held a tray in front of my face
until I took a tall glass that contained, I discovered, an excellent
Tom Collins.
I couldn't see the little man anywhere. I mosied across the room to the
archway to another room where there were more people. He wasn't there
either.
A distinguished appearing man seemed to be the center of attraction
here. I edged into the crowd around him and finally deduced that he had
earlier given a book review or lecture or something, and this was the
refreshment period before everyone went home.
Still no sign of the little man.
Suddenly a sharp rapping sounded. I turned my head. A woman with a
large bust was pounding a gavel on the small stand. Around me the buzz
of conversation dropped off into silence.
"Is there a Mr. Ben Smith here?" she asked.
"He's here somewhere, Sarah," George Wile's voice sounded loudly.
"Where are you, Ben old boy?"