"Nothing."
"You were going to say--?"
Buck looked at him, his bulging eyes narrowed, the gunman's smirk on
his lips again. "Are you telling me what's true and what ain't," he
said softly, "with my gun on you?"
"Does the gun change anything?"
Buck tapped the heavy barrel on the table. "I say it changes a hell of
a lot of things." _Tap_ went the barrel. "You wanta argue?"
"Not with the gun," the professor said calmly. "It always wins. I'll
talk with you, however, if you'll talk with your mouth instead of with
the gun."
* * * * *
By this time I was filled with admiration for the professor's guts,
and fear that he'd get a bullet in them ... I was all set to duck, in
case Buck should lose his temper and start throwing lead.
But suddenly Buck's gun was back in his holster. I saw the professor
blink again in astonishment.
"You know," Buck said, grinning loosely, "you got a lotta nerve,
professor. Maybe you _can_ tell me what I wanta know."
He didn't look at the little man while he talked--he was glancing
around, being "wary" again. And grinning that grin at the same time.
You could see he was off-balance--he was acting like everything was
going on just like he wanted it; but actually the professor had beaten
him again, words against the gun, eyes against eyes.
The professor's dark eyes were level on Buck's right now. "What is it
you want to know?"
"This--" Buck said, and his gun was in his hand again, and it was the
first time when he did it that his face stayed sober and kind of
stupid-looking, his normal expression, instead of getting wild and
dangerous. "How--do you know how do I do it?"
"Well," the professor said, "suppose you give me your answer first, if
you have one. It might be the right one."
* * * * *
"I--" Buck shook his head--"Well, it's like I _think_ the gun into my
hand. It happened the first time this morning. I was standing out in
the Pass where I always practise drawing, and I was wishing I could
draw faster'n anybody who ever lived--I was wishing I could just get
my gun outa leather in no time atall. And--" the gun was back in his
holster in the blink of an eye--"that's how it happened. My gun was in
my hand. Just like that. I didn't even reach for it--I was just
getting set to draw, and had my hand out in front of me ... and my gun
was in my hand before I knew what'd happened. God, I was so surprised
I almost fell over!"
"I see," said the professor slowly. "You _think_ it into your hand?"
"Yeah, kind of."
"Would you do it now, please?" And the professor leaned forward so he
could see Buck's holster, eyes intent.
Buck's gun appeared in his hand.
The professor let out a long breath. "Now think it back into its
holster."
It was there.
"You did not move your arm either time," said the professor.
"That's right," said Buck.
"The gun was just suddenly in your hand instead of in your holster.
And then it was back in the holster."
"Right."
"Telekinesis," said the professor, almost reverently.
"Telewhat?"
"Telekinesis--the moving of material objects by mental force." The
professor leaned back and studied the holstered gun. "It _must_ be
that. I hardly dared think if at first--the first time you did it. But
the thought did occur to me. And now I'm virtually certain!"
"How do you say it?"
"T-e-l-e-k-i-n-e-s-i-s."
"Well, how do I _do_ it?"
"I can't answer that. Nobody knows. It's been the subject of many
experiments, and there are many reported happenings--but I've never
heard of any instance even remotely as impressive as this." The
professor leaned across the table again. "Can you do it with other
things, young man?"
"What other things?"
"That bottle on the bar, for example."
"Never tried."
"Try."
Buck stared at the bottle.
It wavered. Just a little. Rocked, and settled back.
Buck stared harder, eyes bulging.
The bottle shivered. That was all.
"Hell," Buck said. "I can't seem to--to get ahold of it with my mind,
like I can with my gun."
"Try moving this glass on the table," the professor said, "It's
smaller, and closer."
* * * * *
Buck stared at the glass. It moved a fraction of an inch across the
tabletop. No more.
Buck snarled like a dog and swatted the glass with his hand, knocking
it halfway across the room.
"Possibly," the professor said, after a moment, "you can do it with
your gun because you want to so very badly. The strength of your
desire releases--or creates--whatever psychic forces are necessary to
perform the act." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Young man, suppose
you try to transport your gun to--say, to the top of the bar."
"Why?" Buck asked suspiciously.
"I want to see whether distance is a factor where the gun is
concerned. Whether you can place the gun that far away from you, or
whether the power operates only when you want your gun in your hand."
"No," Buck said in an ugly voice. "Damn if I will. I'd maybe get my
gun over, there and not be able to get it back, and then you'd jump
me--the two of you. I ain't minded to experiment around too much,
thank you."
"All right," the professor said, as if he didn't care. "The suggestion
was purely in the scientific spirit--"
"Sure," said Buck. "Sure. Just don't get any more scientific, or I'll
experiment on how many holes you can get in you before you die."
The professor sat back in his chair and looked Buck right in the eye.
After a second, Buck looked away, scowling.
Me, I hadn't said a word the whole while, and I wasn't talking now.
"Wonder where that goddam yellow-bellied sheriff is?" Buck said. He
looked out the window, then glanced sharply at me. "He said he'd come,
huh?"
"Yeah." When I was asked, I'd talk.
We sat in silence for a few moments.
The professor said, "Young man, you wouldn't care to come with me to
San Francisco, would you? I and my colleagues would be very grateful
for the opportunity to investigate this strange gift of yours--we
would even be willing to pay you for your time and--"
Buck laughed. "Why, hell, I reckon I got bigger ideas'n that, mister!
_Real_ big ideas. There's no man alive I can't beat with a gun! I'm
going to take Billy the Kid ... Hickock ... all of them! I'm going to
get myself a rep bigger'n all theirs put together. Why, when I walk
into a saloon, they'll hand me likker. I walk into a bank, they'll
give me the place. No lawman from Canada to Mexico will even stay in
the same town with me! Hell, what could _you_ give me, you goddam
little dude?"