Something clicked.
The youth paused in midstride and nearly stumbled. His eyes took on a
faraway look. A boy and girl came out of the shop arm-in-arm and nearly
walked into him.
"Hey, stupid! Watch where you're going."
"Sorry," he muttered, shaking his head.
"Some people," said the boy, "live in a fog." The girl giggled, and Art
pushed his way into the packed interior of the shop.
"Hey, man!"
Danny was holding a booth open. Art pushed his way through the crowd
and slid in beside him.
"You're late," said Danny. "What happened?"
"The old lady stayed up to watch the eleven o'clock news. I had to wait
until she was in bed."
"Well, it's a good thing you made it. We were about ready to take off
without you. Come on, Flip; let's move out."
"Just a minute, Danny."
"Yeah?" The boy paused, half-risen out of his seat. After staring at
Johnson's face, he sat back down again. "What is it, Art boy?"
"The deal's off. I'm cutting out."
"What?" He shook his head in disbelief. "You crazy man?"
"No. That's why I'm cutting out." He sighed. "I didn't like this deal
from the word go. You knew that."
"Yeah. But I never thought you'd go chicken on us, Art boy. Not on old
Danny. That's me, remember? Danny Grissome. What I say, goes. Anything
I say goes. Right, Flip?"
"Right, Danny."
"Right, Art boy?"
"Not right, Danny," said Johnson, softly.
"You mean it. You really mean it!" He shook his head, sadly. "What's
the world coming to?"
"No good end, most likely," said Johnson. "But I don't intend to mess
myself up any sooner than I absolutely have to."
"I dunno." Danny shook his head again. "You don't talk like the
same Art boy I know. Hey, is that you, hiding inside that mess of
goody-goody talk, Art baby? Come on out and join the party."
"No go, Danny." Johnson shook his head. "If I'm not the same Art boy,
it's because I finally woke up."
* * * * *
"How did it go?" asked Cavendish, as he unclipped the electrodes.
"Go?" Johnson shrugged, then stretched and yawned widely. "I guess it
went all right. I haven't seen Danny or Flip for forty years. Wonder
what ever happened to them?"
"Ended up in jail, most likely. But what about the crisis? Did you
succeed in avoiding it?"
"Crisis?" Johnson peered at him through narrowed lids. "Are you daft,
man? What crisis could there possible be in a bunch of kids getting
together in a corner sweet shop?"
"But...." Cavendish shook his head. "Things did change!"
"What changed? Name me one concrete thing that's different than it
used to be."
"I...." He shook his head. "I can't."
"Of course you can't. And for the very simple reason that nothing did
change. I'm still the same man I always was. And you'd better start
coming up with some concrete benefits from this gadget of yours. You
know I put myself into hock to raise the money you needed--I told my
wife I was adding another franchise to my line. If she finds out her
jewels were hocked for me to play around with a time machine, instead
of a new line of cars, she'll flip. So how about it, Cavendish? Some
concrete results next time."
Cavendish went to the bar and returned with a generous slug of whisky.
"What's this?" said Johnson.
"Why, your drink."
"Drink?" He snorted. "You know I don't drink, man. Have you gone
completely daft? I haven't touched alcohol since I was a youngster."
Cavendish seemed near tears. He drank the whisky himself, then turned
back to the machine.
"What are you up to now?"
"I'm looking for a suitable crisis point." The screen wavered, then
filled with a group of men in uniform--heavy winter garb. They were
clustered around a small fire in a cave; one seemed to be heating
coffee in a tin can. Johnson sucked in his breath.
"You know what is going to happen?"
"Yes, dammit! You're a devil!"
"Perhaps." He sighed. "I sometimes wonder.... But no matter." He
adjusted the picture, and events flowed forward a few hours. The
soldiers were now at the base of a snow-covered hill. Above them, gaunt
and bare, the timber-line beckoned with obscenely stretching limbs.
Suddenly a flare shot up from someplace to the right of the little
band. Its eerie glare picked out unexpected shadows among the trees
above. One of the soldiers, facing the prospect of near and immediate
personal death for the first time in his life, panicked and began
spraying the tree-line with his grease gun. Branches and splinters of
wood kicked out, until the Sergeant reached out and slapped the gun
from the boy's arms.
* * * * *
The men waited until an unheard signal sounded; then the Sergeant waved
them on up the hill. Slowly, cautiously at first, they made progress
through the protecting trees. But then they reached the timber-line
and froze. Cursing, the Sergeant moved from man to man, shoving them
out of the false protection. At last he came to the boy who had fired
earlier. Just as the older man placed his hand on the boy's shoulder,
the boy twisted and broke away, running madly down the hill....
"That's enough, damn you!"
Cavendish turned off the picture and came back to Johnson's side. "They
court-martialed you, didn't they?"
"You know they did," he said, dully.
"You were unlucky, that's all. Many a soldier spooks his first time
under fire. A lot of them run away."
"How many of them run right into the arms of their Commanding General?"
"Unlucky," said Cavendish.
"They kicked me out," said Johnson, bitterly. "A dishonorable
discharge--'cowardice in the face of enemy action'. Said I was lucky I
didn't face the firing squad."
"Officers are human, too," said Cavendish. "In times of stress, they
tend to panic."
"They were 'making an example of me'," said Johnson. He laughed, a
humorless sound that grated on the ears. "Some example. It took me
twenty years to live it down."
"But people do forget, eventually."
"Not all of them."
"Shall we get on with it?"
"Of course, man. This is what I have been waiting for!" His words were
sharp and impatient.
* * * * *
"Hey, Art! Got a butt?"
"Yeah, sure." Art Johnson scrabbled around inside his jacket and came
out with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He passed them over.
"Thanks, buddy. God, but it's cold here!" He stripped off one glove and
warmed the palm of his hand over the glowing coal of the cigarette.
"Now I know what they mean when they call a place Godforsaken."
"Ease off there, you two!" Sergeant Stebbins glowered their way. "You
want every chink in Korea to hear you?"
"Sorry, Sarge," muttered the cigarette-bummer. He dropped his voice
to a whisper. "Hey, Artie! I hear some of the guys in Fox company are
making book on how many of us live through the day."
"Yeah?" Johnson shook his head. "Some characters'll bet on their own
mother's funeral."
"Or their own." The boy giggled. "Wouldn't it be funny if the winners
couldn't collect because they were all dead?"
"A real scream," said Johnson, sourly. "Look, let's change the subject,
huh?"