"Yeah? Well, I'm gonna see what I came down here to see, whether you
like it or not, Janie. Now come on!"
"No! Keep your dirty hands off me, Danny Grissome!"
Heart pounding in his breast, Timmy edged towards the door of the
shower room. From the voices, he knew there were at least half a dozen
boys inside. The door was slightly ajar; the school was supposed to be
empty, so the boys had been careless. Placing his eye to the crack,
Timmy tried to make out what was going on, but his field of vision was
too limited. All he could get were vague impressions of bodies moving
back and forth.
Frustrated, he leaned his weight against the door. Suddenly it swung
in, and he fell after it.
"Hey, who's that?"
Rough hands pulled him to his feet.
"Ahh, it's Teacher's Pet Johnson. What are you doing here, stupid?"
Timmy panicked. "I saw what you were doing!" he piped. His voice was
shrill with fear. "I'm going to--"
Something clicked.
"Yeah?" demanded Danny. "What are you going to do shrimp?"
"I...."
Timmy shook his head; his eyes took on a faraway expression.
"Hey, what's the matter with you, shrimp? Wake up."
Something clicked again, and the adult Id settled into control of
the youthful body. T. Arthur Johnson looked out on the situation
confronting Timmy Johnson and came to a decision. It was not the
decision the boy had--would--make of his own volition. But, then,
the adult Johnson had one important advantage over his juvenile
counterpart--he knew the certain and distasteful consequences of the
boy's activities.
"Well?" demanded Danny. "Get with it, kid. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to tell Mr. Arkins--unless you let me watch too!"
* * * * *
"How's your hand?" asked Cavendish, as he unsnapped the electrodes.
"Hand?" Johnson looked at first one then the other. "What about my
hand?"
Cavendish looked, then shook his head, puzzled. "That's funny. Now
where did I get the idea that something was wrong with your hand?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Johnson, getting up and stretching. He
felt tired, more tired than he could remember having been in a long
time. The feeling had become alien to the desk-bound man, but it was
simply physical exhaustion. He yawned. "How about a drink?"
"Of course." He retreated to the little bar and came back with a
generous slug in the usual water tumbler. Johnson tossed it off,
sighed, and wiped his mouth.
"Well?" demanded Cavendish.
"Well, what?"
"Don't keep me in suspense!" begged the little man. "What was it like?"
Johnson considered. "Nostalgic, I suppose. Everyone would like
another chance to revisit his childhood. You've proven that your time
ma--Pardon me. Your temporal transgressor, works. But as to your idea
that events can be changed--well, consider me from Missouri."
"But the machine does work," insisted Cavendish.
"I've already said that," said Johnson, irritated with the little man.
Cavendish seemed much more pushy than he had at their first meeting.
Johnson had never cared for that type of person, perhaps recognizing
too much of himself reflected in the other personality.
"The next part should be simple, then," said Cavendish. "All we have
to do is find a suitable crisis point in your life, and send you back.
Once you have changed it--made a different decision--then you'll see."
"Perhaps," said Johnson, a strong doubt in the back of his mind. "Have
you picked out such a suitable crisis?"
"I think so." He turned to the screen, and began adjusting the dials.
Gray fog swirled mistily across the face of the tube, resolving
momentarily into brief scenes as the scientist searched for something
in particular. At last he grunted in satisfaction, and straightened up.
"Here we are." He sharpened the focus, and it became Johnson's turn to
grunt in surprise.
"Damn you!"
* * * * *
The scene was dimly-lit, obviously happening late at night. Two youths
in their late teens were busy at the rear door of a service station,
while another kept peering around the corner, keeping an anxious eye
out for passers-by. At last the lock of the door gave way to their
efforts, and all three slipped inside. Cavendish turned a dial and the
picture followed the actors into the interior of the station.
One of the figures produced a pencil flash; by its thin beam, they
made their way past a store-room piled high with cases of motor oil
and transmission fluid and into the garage part of the station. One of
the figures stopped by a stack of tires and a heated argument broke
out, soundless though it seemed to the watchers in the future. At last,
one prevailed over the other and they continued their search of the
station, stopping at last by the register. One of the boys punched it
open, and scooped up a small handful of bills, only to have disgust
register on his face when they turned out to be all singles.
In the meantime, one of the other boys was forcing the coin box on the
cigarette machine. He scooped silver into his pockets, then turned to
the soft drink machine at its side.
Sudden light glared into the station, blinding the boys. They stopped
dead in their tracks, as they tried to shield their eyes from the
glare. Then, panic-stricken, they broke for the rear and the door they
had forced to gain entrance. The figures were lost for a moment, but
soon reappeared, shepherded none too gently by several men in blue. The
station's own lights came on.
Cavendish suddenly felt pity for the aged man and switched off the
picture. Without asking, he refilled Johnson's glass.
"No one ever knew about that," said Johnson, softly.
"Your family did a good job of hushing it up," agreed Cavendish.
"We served our time, though--nine months in that stinking county jail,
after time off for good behavior." He shuddered. Across two-thirds of a
lifetime, the memory was still painful.
"It kept you out of the service, didn't it?"
"Yes. My folks always claimed I spent the time bumming around the
country. They said ill health kept me out of the Army. People never
believed them, though. They seemed to know better."
"Definitely a crisis in your life?"
"Most definitely," agreed Johnson.
"Then if I send you back to the time when you and your companions were
planning this adventure, and you succeed in talking your younger self
out of it, you'll be convinced that what I say is true?"
"Yes, that'll do it."
"Good! Events can be altered; time is not immutable!" The little man's
eyes gleamed fanatically; Johnson for the first time debated the wisdom
of letting himself be strapped in under his care. But Cavendish was
already adjusting the electrodes; he finished, and turned on the power
source.
"I'll send you back to that afternoon," he said. "The three of you are
gathered in the back room of Cook's News Shop."
"I remember," said Johnson.
* * * * *
"Hi, Danny."
"Hi," said the leader of the three, looking up. "What do you want,
Janie?"
"Oh, nothing," said the girl, tossing her pony tail back over her
shoulder. "But I'll settle for a coke."
"Be my guest," said Danny Grissome, digging a dime from his pocket.
"But be a doll and drink it at the counter, hey?"
"What's the matter? My company not good enough for the big shots?" She
sniffed, but accepted the dime.
"Your company's fine," said Grissome. "But we're busy----man-type busy.
So later, hey? Later."
The boys watched her flounce sensuously through the archway separating
the back room from the front section of the store, and knew as they
watched that she was fully aware of their eyes on her. Danny's tongue
darted over his lips; he sighed.
"Man, I gotta get me some more of that. But not now. We got things to
talk about now. Important things, right, Art?"
Johnson tore his eyes from the girl. "Uh, yeah, Danny. Sure. Anything
you say."
"That's right. Anything I say. And don't you creeps ever forget it."
"So who's arguing?"
"Nobody, Flip--not yet. But I got me a feeling all of us in our little
group aren't happy. Right, Art?"
"I didn't say that," protested Johnson.
"That's what it sounded like to me."
"So excuse me for living." He shrugged. "All I said was that I don't go
for that kind of jazz. It spells trouble, big trouble. C--O--P trouble."
"Ahhh, you're a real nervous nellie, Art. I tell you, this place is
a leadpipe cinch. He leaves the money in a register my baby brother
could walk off with, and the lock on that back door is made out of
bubble-gum. Now all we gotta do is wait till about midnight, after
the patrol car swings through. It doesn't come back again for forty
minutes, and that's more than enough time for what we want to do. What
do you say?"
"I don't like it."
"You don't have to like it. Just do it. Now, what do you say?"
"Well, okay."
"Good!" Danny settled back and slapped the table. "It's settled, then.
Flip picks us up here at eleven thirty and we drive over to Blandina
and park behind the billboard on the vacant lot the next block down.
Now don't either one of you creeps go fouling up this deal."
"What's to foul?" said Flip.
"Yeah, you're right. What's to foul?" He slapped the table again. "Hey,
who wants a coke? I'll buy." He leaned around the corner of the booth
and whistled. "Hey, Janie! Fun time! Tell Sandy to fix us three cokes
and come on out and join the party!"
* * * * *
Art Johnson rounded the corner and approached the coke shop, hands
sweaty in anticipation of what was going to happen within the next
hour. He wished there was some way for him to back out of the situation
and still manage to save face, but it was too late. The pattern was
set, and events would ride out to their inevitable climax.