The Collection (33 page)

I looked around me. We were sitting together in a booth at
Shorty
^'
s lunchroom, and Shorty was coming over to ask what we
wanted. It looked like a sane and orderly world.

I waited until Shorty had gone to fry our hamburger steaks,
and then I asked quietly,
^"
What happened?
^"

^"
Another manifesto. Walter, it demands that
I install
another
Linotype.
^"
His eyes bored into
mine, and a cold chill went down my spine.

^"
Another—George,
what kind of copy were
you setting this morning?
^"

But of course I
^'
d already guessed.

There was quite a long silence after he
^'
d told
me, and I didn
^'
t say anything until we were ready to leave. Then:
"George, was there a time limit on that demand?
^"

He nodded. "Twenty-four hours. Of course I couldn
^'
t
get another machine in that length of time anyway, unless I found a used one
somewhere locally, but—Well, I didn
^'
t argue about the time limit
because—Well, I told you what I
^'
m going to do."

"It's suicide!
^"

"Probably. But—"

I took hold of his arm.
^"
George,
^"
I said,
^"
there must be something we can do.
Something.
Give
me till tomorrow morning. I
^'
ll see you at eight; and if I
^'
ve
not thought of anything worth trying, well—I'll try to help you destroy it.
Maybe one of us can get a vital part or—
^"

^"
No, you can
^'
t risk your life,
Walter. It was my fault—
^"

^"
It won
^'
t solve the problem just
to get yourself killed,
^"
I pointed out.
^"
O.K.?
Give me until tomorrow morning?
^"
He agreed and we left it
at that.

Morning came. It came right after midnight, and it stayed, and
it was still there at seven forty-five when I left my room and went down to
meet George—to confess to him that I hadn
^'
t thought of anything.

I still hadn
^'
t an idea when I turned into the
door of the print shop and saw George. He looked at me and I shook my head.

He nodded calmly as though he had expected it, and he spoke
very softly, almost in a whisper—I guess so that
it
back in the shop
wouldn
^'
t hear.

^"
Listen, Walter,
^"
he said,
^"
you
^'
re
going to stay out of this. It
^'
s my funeral. It
^'
s all my
fault, mine and the little guy with the pimples and—
^"

^"
George!" I said,
^"
I
think I
^'
ve got it! That—that pimple business gives me an idea!
The—Yes, listen: don't do anything for an hour, will you, George? I'll be back.
It
^'
s in the bag!
^"

I wasn
^'
t sure it was in the bag at all, but the
idea seemed worth trying even if it was a long shot. And I had to make it sound
a cinch to George or he
^'
d have gone ahead now that he
^'
d
steeled himself to try.

He said,
^"
But tell me—
^"

I pointed to the clock.
^"
It
^'
s one
minute of eight and there isn
^'
t time to explain. Trust me for an
hour. O.K.?
^"

He nodded and turned to go back into the shop, and I was
off. I went to the library and I went to the local bookstore and I was back in
half an hour. I rushed into the shop with six big books under each arm and
yelled,
^"
Hey, George! Rush job. I
^'
ll set it.
^"

He was at the type bank at the moment, emptying the stick. I
grabbed it out of his hand and sat down at the Linotype and put the stick back
under the vise. He said frantically,
^"
Hey, get out of—
^"
and grabbed my shoulder.

I shook off his hand.
^"
You offered me a job
here, didn
^'
t you? Well, I
^'
m taking it. Listen, George, go
home and get some sleep. Or wait in the outer office. I
^'
ll call you
when the job is over.
^"

Etaoin Shrdlu seemed to be making impatient noises down
inside the motor housing, and I winked at George—with my head turned away from
the machine—and shoved him away. He stood there looking at me irresolutely for
a minute, and then said,
^"
I hope you know what you
^'
re
doing, Walter.
^"

So did I, but I didn
^'
t tell him that. I heard him
walk into the outer office and sit down at his desk there to wait.

Meanwhile, I'd opened one of the books I
^'
d
bought, torn out the first page and put it on the clipboard of the machine.
With a suddenness that made me jump, the mats started to fall, the elevator
jerked up and Etaoin Shrdlu spat a slug into the stick. And another. And on.

I sat there and sweated.

A minute later, I turned the page; then tore out another one
and put it on the clipboard. I replenished the metal pot. I emptied the stick.
And on.

We finished the first book before ten thirty.

When the twelve-o'clock whistle blew, I saw George come and
stand in the doorway, expecting me to get up and come to lunch with him. But
Etaoin was clicking on—and I shook my head at George and kept on feeding copy.
If the machine had got so interested in what it was setting that it forgot its
own manifesto about hours and didn
^'
t stop for lunch, that was swell
by me. It meant that maybe my idea might work.

One o'clock and going strong. We started the fourth of my
dozen books.

At five o
^'
clock we
^'
d finished six of
them and were halfway through the seventh. The bank was hopelessly piled with
type and I began pushing it off on the floor or back into the hopper to make
room for more.

The five o'clock whistle, and we didn
^'
t stop.

Again George looked in, his face hopeful but puzzled, and
again I waved him back.

My fingers ached from tearing sheets of copy out of the
book, my arms ached from shoveling metal, my legs from walking to the bank and
back, and other parts of me ached from sitting down.

Eight o
^'
clock. Nine. Ten volumes completed and
only two more to go. But it ought—it
was
working. Etaoin Shrdlu was
slowing
down.

It seemed to be setting type more thoughtfully, more deliberately.
Several times it stopped for seconds at the end of a sentence or a paragraph.

Then slower, slower.

And at ten o'clock it stopped completely and sat there, with
only a faint hum coming from the motor housing, and that died down until one
could hardly hear it.

I stood up, scarcely daring to breathe until I
^'
d
made certain. My legs trembled as I walked over to the tool bench and picked up
a screwdriver. I crossed over and stood in front of Etaoin Shrdlu and
slowly—keeping my muscles tensed to jump back if anything happened—I reached
forward and took a screw out of the second elevator.

Nothing happened, and I took a deep breath and disassembled
the vise-jaws.

Then with triumph in my voice, I called out,
^"
George!
^"
and he came running.

^"
Get a screwdriver and a wrench,
^"
I told him.
^"
We
^'
re going to take it apart and—well,
there
^'
s that big hole in the yard. We
^'
ll put it in there
and fill up the hole. Tomorrow you
^'
ll have to get yourself a new
Linotype, but I guess you can afford that.
^"

He looked at the couple of parts on the floor that I
^'
d
already taken off, and he said, "Thank God," and went to the
workbench for tools.

I walked over with him, and I suddenly discovered that I was
so dog tired I
^'
d have to rest a minute first, and I sank down into
the chair and George came over and stood by me. He said,
^"
And
now, Walter, how did you do it?" There was awe and respect in his voice.

I grinned at him.
^"
That pimple business gave
me the idea, George. The pimple of Buddha. That and the fact that the Linotype
reacted in a big way to what it learned. See, George? It was a virgin mind,
except for what we fed it. It sets books on labor relations and it goes on
strike. It sets love pulp mags, and it wants another Linotype put in—“

^"
So I fed it Buddhism, George. I got every
damn book on Buddhism in the library and the bookstore.
^"

"Buddhism? Walter, what on earth has—"

I stood up and pointed at Etaoin Shrdlu.
^"
See,
George? It believes what it sets. So I fed it a religion that convinced it of
the utter futility of all effort and action and the desirability of nothingness.
Om Mani padme hum,
George.

"Look—it doesn't care what happens to it and it doesn't
even know we
^'
re here. It's achieved
Nirvana,
and it
^'
s
sitting there contemplating its cam stud!
^"

It happened-of all places-in Cincinnati. Not that there is
anything wrong with Cincinnati, save that it is not the center of the Universe,
nor even of the State of Ohio. It's a nice old town and, in its way, second to
none. But even its Chamber of Commerce would admit that it lacks cosmic
significance. It must have been mere coincidence that Gerber the Great-what a
name!-was playing Cincinnati when things slipped elsewhere.

Of course, if the episode had become known, Cincinnati would
be the most famous city of the world, and little Herbie would be hailed as a
modern St. George and get more acclaim than a quiz kid. But no member of that
audience in the Bijou Theater remembers a thing about it. Not even little
Herbie Westerman, although he had the water pistol to show for it.

He wasn't thinking about the water pistol in his pocket as
he sat looking up at the prestidigitator on the other side of the footlights.
It was a new water pistol, bought en route to the theater when he'd inveigled
his parents into a side trip into the five-and-dime on Vine Street, but at the
moment, Herbie was much more interested in what went on upon the stage.

His expression registered qualified approval. The front-and-back
palm was no mystery to Herbie. He could do it himself. True, he had to use
pony-sized cards that came with his magic set and were just right for his
nine-year-old hands. And true, anyone watching could see the card flutter from
the front-palm position to the back as he turned his hand. But that was a detail.

He knew, though, that front-and-back palming seven cards at
a time required great finger strength as well as dexterity, and that was what
Gerber the Great was doing. There wasn't a telltale click in the shift, either,
and Herbie nodded approbation. Then he remembered what was coming next.

He nudged his mother and said, "Ma, ask Pop if he's
gotta extra handkerchief."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Herbie saw his mother turn
her head and in less time than it would take to say, "Presto," Herbie
was out of his seat and skinning down the aisle. It had been, he felt, a
beautiful piece of misdirection and his timing had been perfect.

It was at this stage of the performance-which Herbie had
seen before, alone-that Gerber the Great asked if some little boy from the
audience would step to the stage. He was asking it now.

Herbie Westerman had jumped the gun. He was well in motion
before the magician had asked the question. At the previous performance, he'd
been a bad tenth in reaching the steps from aisle to stage. This time he'd been
ready, and he
^,
hadn't taken any chances with parental restraint.
Perhaps his mother would have let him go and perhaps not; it had seemed wiser
to see that she was looking the other way. You couldn't trust parents on things
like that. They had funny ideas sometimes.

"-will please step up on the stage?" And Herbie's
foot touched the first of the steps upward right smack on the interrogation
point of that sentence. He heard the disappointed scuffle of other feet behind
him, and grinned smugly as he went on up across the footlights.

It was the three-pigeon trick, Herbie knew from the previous
performance that required an assistant from the audience. It was almost the
only trick he hadn't been able to figure out. There
must,
he knew, have
been a concealed compartment somewhere in that box, but where it could be he
couldn't even guess. But this time he'd be holding the box himself. If from
that range he couldn't spot the gimmick, he'd better go back to stamp
collecting.

He grinned confidently up at the magician. Not that he,
Herbie, would give him away. He was a magician, too, and he understood that
there was a freemasonry among magicians and that one never gave away the tricks
of another.

He felt a little chilled, though, and the grin faded as he
caught the magician's eyes. Gerber the Great, at close range, seemed much older
than he had seemed from the other side of the footlights. And somehow
different. Much taller, for one thing.

Anyway, here came the box for the pigeon trick. Gerber's
regular assistant was bringing it in on a tray. Herbie looked away from the
magician's eyes and he felt better. He remembered, even, his reason for being
on the stage. The servant limped. Herbie ducked his head to catch a glimpse of
the underside of the tray, just in case. Nothing there.