So on the boat trip home, Martin tried to strike up a few acquaintances at the ship’s bar. But all these people were much younger, and Martin had nothing in common with them. Also they wanted to dance and drink, and Martin wasn’t in condition to appreciate such pastimes. Nevertheless, he tried.

  Perhaps that’s why he had the little accident the day before they docked in San Francisco. ‘Little accident’ was the ship’s doctor’s way of describing it, but Martin noticed he looked very grave when he told him to stay in bed, and he’d called an ambulance to meet the liner at the dock and take the patient right to the hospital.

  At the hospital, all the expensive treatment and the expensive smile and the expensive words didn’t fool Martin any. He was an old man with a bad heart, and they thought he was going to die.

  But he could fool them. He still had the watch. He found it in his coat when he put on his clothes and sneaked out of the hospital.

  He didn’t have to die. He could cheat death with a single gesture – and he intended to do it as a free man, out there under a free sky.

  That was the real secret of happiness. He understood it now. Not even friendship meant as much as freedom. This was the best thing of all – to be free of friends or family or the furies of the flesh.

  Martin walked slowly beside the embankment under the night sky. Come to think of it, he was just about back where he’d started, so many years ago. But the moment was good, good enough to prolong forever. Once a bum, always a bum.

  He smiled as he thought about it, and then the smile twisted sharply and suddenly, like the pain twisting sharply and suddenly in his chest. The world began to spin, and he fell down on the side of the embankment.

  He couldn’t see very well, but he was still conscious, and he knew what had happened. Another stroke, and a bad one. Maybe this was it. Except that he wouldn’t be a fool any longer. He wouldn’t wait to see what was still around the corner.

  Right now was his chance to use his power and save his life. And he was going to do it. He could still move; nothing could stop him.

  He groped in his pocket and pulled out the old silver watch, fumbling with the stem. A few twists and he’d cheat death, he’d never have to ride that Hell-Bound Train. He could go on forever.

  Forever.

  Martin had never really considered the word before. To go on forever – but now? Did he want to go on forever, like this; a sick old man, lying helplessly here in the grass?

  No. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. And suddenly he wanted very much to cry, because he knew that somewhere along the line he’d outsmarted himself. And now it was too late. His eyes dimmed, there was a roaring in his ears . . .

  He recognised the roaring, of course, and he wasn’t at all surprised to see the train come rushing out of the fog up there on the embankment. He wasn’t surprised when it stopped, either, or when the Conductor climbed off and walked slowly toward him.

  The Conductor hadn’t changed a bit. Even his grin was still the same.

  “Hello, Martin,” he said. “All aboard.”

  “I know,” Martin whispered. “But you’ll have to carry me. I can’t walk. I’m not even really talking any more, am I?”

  “Yes, you are,” the Conductor said. “I can hear you fine. And you can walk, too.” He leaned down and placed his hand on Martin’s chest. There was a moment of icy numbness, and then, sure enough, Martin could walk after all.

  He got up and followed the Conductor along the slope, moving to the side of the train.

  “In here?” he asked.

  “No, the next car,” the Conductor murmured. “I guess you’re entitled to ride Pullman. After all, you’re quite a successful man. You’ve tasted the joys of wealth and position and prestige. You’ve known the pleasures of marriage and fatherhood. You’ve sampled the delights of dining and drinking and debauchery, too, and you travelled high, wide and handsome. So let’s not have any last-minute recriminations.”

  “All right,” Martin sighed. “I can’t blame you for my mistakes. On the other hand, you can’t take credit for what happened, either. I worked for everything I got. I did it all on my own. I didn’t even need your watch.”

  “So you didn’t,” the Conductor said, smiling. “But would you mind giving it back now?”

  “Need it for the next sucker, eh?” Martin muttered.

  “Perhaps.”

  Something about the way he said it made Martin look up. He tried to see the Conductor’s eyes, but the brim of his cap cast a shadow. So Martin looked down at the watch instead.

  “Tell me something,” he said softly. “If I give you the watch, what will you do with it?”

  “Why, throw it in the ditch,” the Conductor told him. “That’s all I’ll do with it.” And he held out his hand.

  “What if somebody comes along and finds it? And twists the stem backward, and stops time?”

  “Nobody would do that,” the Conductor murmured. “Even if they knew.”

  “You mean it was all a trick? This is an ordinary, cheap watch?”

  “I didn’t say that,” whispered the Conductor. “I only said that no one has ever twisted the stem backward. They’ve all been like you, Martin – looking ahead to find the perfect happiness. Waiting for the moment that never comes.”

  The Conductor held out his hand again.

  Martin sighed and shook his head. “You cheated me after all.”

  “You cheated yourself, Martin. And now you’re going to ride that Hell-Bound Train.”

  He pushed Martin up the steps and into the car ahead. As he entered, the train began to move, and the whistle screamed. And Martin stood there in the swaying Pullman, gazing down the aisle at the other passengers. He could see them sitting there, and somehow it didn’t seem strange at all.

  Here they were; the drunks and the sinners, the gambling men and the grifters, the big-time spenders, the skirt-chasers, and all the jolly crew. They knew where they were going, of course, but they didn’t seem to give a damn. The blinds were drawn on the windows, yet it was light inside, and they were all living it up – singing and passing the bottle and roaring with laughter, throwing the dice and telling their jokes and bragging their big brags, just the way Daddy used to sing about them in the old song.

  “Mighty nice travelling companions,” Martin said. “Why, I’ve never seen such a pleasant bunch of people. I mean, they seem to be really enjoying themselves!”

  The Conductor shrugged. “I’m afraid things won’t be quite so jazzy when we pull into that Depot Way Down Yonder.”

  For the third time, he held out his hand. “Now, before you sit down, if you’ll just give me that watch. A bargain’s a bargain –”

  Martin smiled. “A bargain’s a bargain,” he echoed. “I agreed to ride your train if I could stop time when I found the right moment of happiness. And I think I’m about as happy right here as I’ve ever been.”

  Very slowly, Martin took hold of the silver watch stem.

  “No!” gasped the Conductor. “No!”

  But the watch stem turned.

  “Do you realise what you’ve done?” the Conductor yelled. “Now we’ll never reach the Depot! We’ll just go on riding, all of us – forever!”

  Martin grinned. “I know,” he said. “But the fun is in the trip, not the destination. You taught me that. And I’m looking forward to a wonderful trip. Look, maybe I can even help. If you were to find me another one of those caps, now, and let me keep this watch –”

  And that’s the way it finally worked out. Wearing his cap and carrying his battered old silver watch, there’s no happier person on or out of this world now and forever – than Martin. Martin, the new brakeman on that Hell-Bound Train.

  THE PI MAN

  Alfred Bester

  "With each act of destruction we dissolved a little. Now we're all gone. We've committed chronicide. We're ghosts. I hope Mrs. Has-sel will be very happy with Mr. Murphy. . . . Now let's go over to the Academic. Ampere is telling a great story about Ludwig Boltzmann.

  How to say? How to write? When sometimes I can be fluent, even polished, and then, reculer pour mieux sauter, patterns take hold of me. Push. Compel.

  Sometimes..

  I I I

  am am am

  3.14159 +

  from from from

  this other that

  space space space

  Othertimes not

  I have no control, but I try anyways.

  I wake up wondering who, what, when, where, why?

  Confusion result of biological compensator born into my body which I hate. Yes, birds and beasts have biological clock built in, and so navigate home from a thousand miles away. I have biological compensator, equalizer, responder to unknown stresses and strains. I relate, compensate, make and shape patterns, adjust rhythms, like a gridiron pendulum in a clock, but this is an unknown clock, and I do not know what time it keeps. Nevertheless I must. I am force. Have no control over self, speech, love, fate. Only to compensate.

  Quae nocent decent. Translation follows: Things that injure teach. I am injured and have hurt many. What have we learned? However. I wake up the morning of the biggest hurt of all wondering which house. Wealth, you understand. Damme! Mews cottage in London, villa in Rome, penthouse in New York, rancho in California. I awake. I look. Ah! Layout familiar. Thus:

  Foyer

  Bedroom Bath Bath

  Living Room Kitchen

  Dressing Room Bedroom

  So. I am in penthouse in New York, but that bath-bath-back-to-back. Pfui! All rhythm wrong. Pattern painful. Why have I never noticed before? Or is this sudden awareness result of phenomenon elsewhere? I telephone to janitor-mans downstairs. At that moment I lose my American-English. Damn nuisance. I'm compelled to speak j a compost of tongues, and! never know which will be forced on me'

  next.

  "Pronto. Ecco mi. Signore Marko. Miscusi tanto—"

  Pfui! Hang up. Hate the garbage I must sometimes speak and write. This I now write during period of AmerEng lucidity, otherwise would look like goulash. While I wait for return of communication, I shower body, teeth, hairs, shave face, dry everything, and try again.

  Vqila! Ye Englishe, she come. Back to invention of Mr. A. G. Bell and call janitor again.

  "Good morning, Mr. Lundgren. This is Peter Marko. Guy in the penthouse. Right. Mr. Lundgren, be my personal rabbi and get some workmen up here this morning. I want those two baths converted into one. No, I mean it. I'll leave five thousand dollars on top of the icebox. Yes? Thanks, Mr. Lundgren."

  Wanted to wear grey flannel this morning but compelled to put on sharkskin. Damnation! Black Power has peculiar side effects. Went to spare bedroom (see diagram) and unlocked door which was installed by the Eagle Safe Company—Since 1904—Bank Vault Equipment—Fireproof Files & Ledger Trays—Combinations changed. I went in.

  Everything broadcasting beautifully, up and down the electromagnetic spectrum. Radio waves down to 1,000 meters, ultraviolet up into the hard X-rays and the 100 Kev (one hundred thousand electron volts) gamma radiation. All interrupters innn-tt-errrr-up-ppp-t-ingggg at random. I'm jamming the voice of the universe at least within this home, and I'm at peace. Dear God! To know even a moment of peace!

  So. I take subway to office in Wall Street. Limousine more convenient but chauffeur too dangerous. Might become friendly, and I don't dare have friends anymore. Best of all, the morning subway is jam-packed, mass-packed, no patterns to adjust, no shiftings and compensations required. Peace.

  In subway car I catch a glimpse of an eye, narrow, bleak, grey, the property of an anonymous man who conveys the conviction that you've never seen him before and will never see him again. But I picked up that glance and it tripped an alarm in the back of my mind. He knew it. He saw the flash in my eyes before I could turn away. So I was being tailed again. Who, this time? U.S.A.? U.S.S.R? Interpol? Skip-Tracers, Inc.?

  I drifted out of the subway with the crowd at City Hall and gave them a false trail to the Woolworth Building in case they were operating double-tails. The whole theory of the hunters and the hunted is not to avoid being tailed, no one can escape that; the thing to do is give them so many false leads to follow up that they become overextended. Then they may be forced to abandon you. They have a man-hour budget; just so many men for just so many operations.

  City Hall traffic was out of sync, as it generally is, so I had to limp to compensate. Took elevator up to tenth floor of bldg. As I was starting down the stairs, I was suddenly seized by something from out there, something bad. I began to cry, but no help. An elderly clerk emerge from office wearing alpaca coat, gold spectacles, badge on lapel identify: N. N. Chapin.

  "Not him," I plead with nowhere. "Nice mans. Not N. N. Chapin, please."

  But I am force. Approach. Two blows, neck and gut. Down he go, writhing. I trample spectacles and smash watch. Then I'm permitted to go downstairs again. It was ten-thirty. I was late. Damn! Took taxi to 99 Wall Street. Drivers pattern smelled honest; big black man, quiet and assured. Tipped him fifty dollars. He raise eyebrows. Sealed one thousand in envelope (secretly) and sent driver back to bldg. to find and give to N. N. Chapin on tenth floor. Did not enclose note: "From your unknown admirer."

  Routine morning's work in office. I am in arbitrage, which is simultaneous buying and selling of moneys in different markets to profit from unequal price. Try to follow simple example: Pound sterling is selling for $2.79H in London. Rupee is selling for $2.79 in New York. One rupee buys one pound in Burma. See where the arbitrage lies? I buy one rupee for $2.79 in New York, buy one pound for rupee in Burma, sell pound for $2.79H in London, and I have made H cent on the transaction. Multiply by $100,000, and I have made $250 on the transaction. Enormous capital required.

  But this is only crude example of arbitrage; actually the buying 1 and selling must follow intricate patterns and have perfect timing. Jj Money markets are jumpy today. Big Boards are hectic. Gold fluctu-( ating. I am behind at eleven-thirty, but the patterns put me ahead $57,075.94 by half-past noon, Daylight Saving Time.

  57075 makes a nice pattern but that 94e1 lych! Ugly. Symmetry above all else. Alas, only 24? hard money in my pockets. Called secretary, borrowed 70
  "But why, Mr. Marko? Why?" she asked, trying not to cry. Darling little thing. Pale-faced and saucy, but not so saucy now.

  "Because you're beginning to like me."

  "What's the harm in that?"

  "When I hired you, I warned you not to like me."

  "I thought you were putting me on."

  "I wasn't. Out you go."

  "But why?"

  "Because I'm beginning to like you."

  "Is this some new kind of pass?"

  "God forbid!"

  "Well you don't have to worry," she flared. "I despise you."

  "Good. Then I can go to bed with you."

  She turned crimson and opened her mouth to denounce me, the while her eyes twinkled at the corners. A darling girl, whatever her name was. I could not endanger her. I gave her three weeks' salary for a bonus and threw her out. Punkt. Next secretary would be a man, married, misanthropic, murderous; a man who could hate me.

  So, lunch. Went to nicely balanced restaurant. All chairs filled by patrons. Even pattern. No need for me to compensate and adjust. Also, they give me usual single corner table which does not need guest to balance. Ordered nicely patterned luncheon:

  Martini Martini

  Croque M'sieur Roquefort

  Salad

  Coffee

  But so much cream being consumed in restaurant that I had to compensate by drinking my coffee black, which I dislike. However, still a soothing pattern.

  x2 1 x 1 415 prime number. Excuse, please. Sometimes I'm in control and see what compensating must be done . . . tick-tock-tick-tock, good old gridiron pendulum . . . other times is force on me from God knows where or why or how or even if there is a God. Then I must do what I'm compelled to do, blindly, without motivation, speaking the gibberish I speak and think, sometimes hating it like what I do to poor mans Mr. Chapin. Anyway, the equation breaks down when x 5 40.

  The afternoon was quiet. For a moment I thought I might be forced to leave for Rome (Italy) but whatever it was adjusted without needing my two ($0,02) cents. ASPCA finally caught up with me for beating my dog to death, but I'd contributed $5,000.00 to their

  178 ALFRED BEST ER

  shelter. Got off with a shaking of heads. Wrote a few graffiti on posters, saved a small boy from a clobbering in a street rumble at a cost of sharkskin jacket. Drat! Slugged a maladroit driver who was subjecting his lovely Aston-Martin to cruel and unusual punishment. He was, how they say, "grabbing a handful of second."

  In the evening to ballet to relax with all the beautiful Balanchine patterns; balanced, peaceful, soothing. Then I take a deep breath, quash my nausea, and force myself to go to The Raunch, the West Village creepsville. I hate The Raunch, but I need a woman and I must go where I hate. That fair-haired girl I fired, so full of mischief and making eyes at me. So, poisson d'avril, I advance myself to The Raunch.

  Chaos. Blackness. Cacophony. My vibes shriek. 25 Watt bulbs. Ballads of Protest. Against L. wall sit young men, with pubic beards, playing chess. Badly. Exempli gratia:

  1 P—Q4

  2 Kt—Q2

  3 PXP

  4 P—KR3

  Kt—KB 3 P—K4 Kt—Kt5 Kt—K6

  If White takes the knight, Black forces mate with Q—R5ch. I didn't wait to see what the road-company Capablancas would do next.

  Against R. wall is bar, serving beer and cheap wine mostly. There are girls with brown paper bags containing toilet articles. They are looking for a pad for the night. All wear tight jeans and are naked under loose sweaters. I think of Herrick (1591-1674): Next, when 1 lift mine eyes and see/That brave vibration each way free/Oh, how that glittering taketh me!

 

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