[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories April 1962
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The boy was twelve, and running for dear life. Behind him came the
sounds of half a dozen pursuers, the faintly sticky slap of leather
soles coming down on summer-hot blacktopping and the sharp explosions
of breath let out and sucked back in quickly as out-of-condition bodies
forced muscles angrily beyond normal limits of endurance.
"There goes the little bastard now!"
"Don't let him get away!"
A scant hundred yards separated pursued from pursuers. The boy stopped
at the mouth of an alley, panic stealing logic as he glanced over his
shoulders at the boys coming up quickly behind him. He darted into
the alley, rounded a curve, and realized too late that he was in a
dead-end. Boxes and trash were piled against the wall; a fire-escape
beckoned invitingly just above. He scrabbled up the side of the pile,
then realized his mistake as it began to shift beneath him. He leaped
for the fire-escape ladder, his fingers brushing the lowest rung just
as the pile collapsed, carrying him down and burying him.
"Where the hell is he?"
Hands started pulling at the pile, tearing away debris. The boy bit
down on his lip, and closed his eyes against the inevitable.
"Hey, here he is!"
They grabbed him and pulled him out. A palm slapped across his cheek,
forcing his eyes open.
"Okay, you little sneak. What's the big idea? Why'd you rat to the
Principal?" He shook his head.
"Come on, dammit! Talk! You were talking enough yesterday!"
"Ah, you're wasting your breath. Come on, let's do what we came to do
and get it over with."
"Okay, if that's the way you want it."
* * * * *
Johnson winced, as the first of the blows fell. The picture on the
screen seemed far away, but the memory of physical pain was suddenly
freshened. As hands and feet lashed out, repeatedly, raining down a
storm of punishment on the quivering mass of flesh in the center of the
picture, once-tortured nerves twinged in sympathy.
"Brutal little monsters, aren't they?" said Cavendish.
"I got back at them," said Johnson. "Every last one of them. I was the
last kid they beat up."
"Mmmm. Still, that didn't change the fact that you had already received
a nasty beating yourself. No matter how sweet revenge, wouldn't it have
been sweeter to have avoided the beating altogether?"
Johnson massaged his crippled hand as he watched the tortured boy make
a break away from his tormentors. A foot shot out, and the boy went
sprawling. His chin hit the pavement; only the adult saw the biggest
of the tormentors bring booted foot down on pathetic fingers. The foot
twisted, and the man looked away.
"Shut it off!" he shouted.
"Certainly." Cavendish reached out and the screen went dead. Getting
up, he went to the bar in the corner of the room and returned with a
tumbler half-full of amber liquid. "Here, you need this."
Johnson tossed off the drink, gasping as the liquor burned its way down
to his stomach. "Ahhhh!" He wiped his mouth on the back of his good
hand.
"What do you think of my little machine, Mr. Johnson?" Cavendish
settled himself behind a cluttered desk, hands folded over his paunch,
looking extremely satisfied with himself. Pointed mustache and faintly
slanted eyes heightened the effect of a cat with a stolen canary.
"Your gadget is effective," admitted Johnson. "Just how powerful is it?"
"Fifty years seems the limit it can probe. I've tried increasing the
power, but beyond fifty years things quickly fade away into a gray fog.
That's why I wanted to see you so urgently. Another few weeks, and this
particular event in your life will be irrevocably lost." He glanced at
the crippled hand. "Considering the direct consequences, I thought it
would be a good place to start."
"Assuming that I want to have anything to do with this at all."
"Of course," said Cavendish, blandly. "Everything is always an
assumption."
"Your machine. It can actually send me back through time?"
"In effect, yes."
"I don't believe it."
"I think you do, Mr. Johnson. You want to believe it, therefore you do
believe it. A man like yourself, aware of missed opportunities...."
"I haven't missed many chances in my day," said Johnson. "If I had, I'd
never have become what I am today."
"Rich."
"I'd rather call it powerful."
"As you like." Cavendish shrugged. "After all, what is money but
power? With it, you have the power to do things, make a living, run
a business, increase your standing in the community. Without it....
Everything becomes negative. You have the power to die, but nothing
more."
"You need money, too."
"Of course. I've never denied it. Science has never been a particularly
profitable field of endeavor--at least, not on my level. For you,
science has made money. For me, it merely uses it."
"You want money from me."
"Naturally. You have enough for both of us."
* * * * *
"But why me?" asked Johnson, suspiciously. "Why not someone else? There
are other men as wealthy or wealthier than I--Reading, Blackwell,
Morgenstern, just to name three in this very city."
"Yes, I considered them--all of them, and many others besides. It
really made no difference which one I finally selected. I chose you,
Mr. Johnson, for just one reason--the scene just witnessed."
"All right. You've aroused my interest. Now tell me just how your time
machine can help me."