Read Ebook: If at first by Venable Bill Poulton Peter Illustrator

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Ebook has 400 lines and 63176 words, and 8 pages

IF AT FIRST

Mister 3 took the small, gray box from his pocket. Smiling, he handed it to Mr. 7.

"Wait!" exclaimed Shalimar Smith.

"Sorry," said Mr. 7, pressing the red button on the right-hand side of the box.

Shalimar Smith disappeared from the room.

"An excellent plan, indeed," commented Mr. 1.

Messrs. 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 nodded agreement and muttered among themselves.

"And now," pursued Mr. 7, "Stage Two." He pressed the green button on the left-hand side of the gray box.

The Messrs. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7 also disappeared from the room.

Shalimar Smith's living room stood empty.

Immediately after Mr. 7 had pressed the red button on the right-hand side of the gray box, Shalimar Smith found himself sitting comfortably in a reclining seat on a fast-moving train. After contemplating the sudden transition and making himself thoroughly dizzy, he turned in some alarm to considering where he was going. He peered out the window, trying to make something from the mixture of blackness and lights spinning by, overlaid by stationary reflections from inside the car.

"Your ticket, sir," said the conductor for the second time.

"Eh--oh!" Shalimar looked up, felt in the breast pocket of his coat for a ticket that was not there. "Here it--" he pulled the pocket inside out--"isn't," he finished lamely.

"That's nice," said the conductor sarcastically.

Shalimar groaned and dug into his other pockets, distributing their contents over the seat. Finally he gave a cry of jubilation, pulled his hand from his inside coat pocket and handed the conductor a small square of cardboard.

The conductor punched three heart-shaped holes through Shalimar's name and handed him back his driver's license. Shalimar gazed at it stupidly. "I--must have lost it," he ventured.

The thoroughly enraged official grabbed Shalimar by the scruff of his coat in an undignified way, pulling the emergency cord with his other hand. He shoved the unfortunate man down the aisle of the car as the train slowed to a halt.

"Stop!" shouted Shalimar.

Finally he stood up, rubbing his head with one hand and feeling of his skinned knee with the other, and took stock of his surroundings. A moon in quarter phase illuminated dimly the gleaming lines of the railroad tracks, showed a tree in silhouette on a hill not far away. Clouds scudded across the sky. Shalimar endeavoured to ascertain where he was, gave up, and headed toward the hill and the silhouetted tree. In the far distance the whistle of a train wailed mournfully.

From the top of the hill Shalimar looked over a country of rolling plains and grainfields. A single light shone yellow about a half-mile off--probably a farm-house. Shalimar headed off toward the light, mentally cursing the monotonous chirping clamor of crickets and other nocturnal insects. He was trying to remember something--something of vital importance--something that he had to remember before it was too late. The memory hung there, just below the surface of conscious thought, defying him, taunting him. Eventually the lighted window showed clearly through a nearby grove of trees, and the outlines of a small farm-house stood out against the dim sky.

He walked up the gravel path and knocked on the door. Steps sounded inside and the door opened, a crack of light shining out onto the ground. A face peered at him, withdrew, and the door opened wide. A figure stood silhouetted against the light.

"Come in," said Mr. 7.

"Let me go," gurgled Shalimar, gagging as his shirt collar pressed tightly against his throat.

"Not until--" Mr. 7 began, his face suddenly brightening. Footsteps scraped up the gravel path and Messrs. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 strode into the room. Mr. 3 expeditiously took the small, gray box from his pocket and handed it to Mr. 7. "Nowhere around here," he said briskly. "Probably off another psychological sidetrack."

Mr. 7's hand released Shalimar's coat-collar and poised over the red button on the right-hand side of the box.

"Wait," cried Shalimar.

Mr. 7 depressed the button. Shalimar Smith disappeared from the room.

Mr. 7 then pressed the green button on the left-hand side of the box. The Messrs. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7 vanished in like manner. The silent emptiness of the room was broken only by the sound of the bound and gagged farmer grunting from inside a handy closet.

Shalimar Smith abruptly felt himself falling. He had just realized that fact when something cold, hard and wet slapped against his face and engulfed him, and he submerged gaspingly in the water. He came up, choking and treading water, and took his bearings.

He had just done a perfect jackknife from the high board of the public swimming pool in Stockton, Ohio. The quarter moon glinted faintly off the surface of the water. He was aware of the fact that he was still fully dressed, and that his clothes were soaking up water at an alarming rate, bearing him down.

He swam clumsily over to the edge of the pool and climbed out. Then he sat down on the edge and began contemplating this new facet of the whole fantastic experience. He knew the pool well enough--had swum in it many times when he had lived in this small town in Ohio, before getting married and going to New York.

It was a night watchman. The man was swinging a flashlight at his side, throwing the beam around him as he walked. Probably he had heard the splash and was coming to investigate. Shalimar sighed and stood up.

The flashlight beam swung toward him, illuminating him embarrassingly and causing him to blink at the spot of white light before him. A suspicious voice asked, "What're you doin' here this time of night? Pool's closed."

"Yes, I know--" Shalimar thought hard. "I--was walking in my sleep and fell into the pool."

"With all your clothes on?" The beam of light lowered and Shalimar could see again. The watchman stood outlined against the darker trees, his face a blurred shadow.

"Yes, er--I fell asleep in my chair as I was reading the paper."

"Heh! At one o'clock in the morning? Where you live?"

Shalimar hadn't known it was so late. He racked his brains. "Just over the hill on Walnut Street."

The watchman stepped up and looked him over in the light of the flash. "Hmmm. Don't know you--must be new in town. You the one who bought the old Schultz place?"

"Why ... yeah."

"Heh! Thought that was a woman. Well, I guess it's okay. Better watch where you wander off to at night, though."

"Yeah." Shalimar breathed a sigh of relief and began to walk off. "Good-night."

"Better take one of them anty-histamines when you get home. Sound like you're comin' down with a cold. Good-night!" The watchman strolled back toward his shack.

Shalimar gulped. Close. He began trying to remember again.

"Hey!" yelled the watchman suddenly. "Jest thought of somethin'. How'd you get into the pool? I'd've seen you if you come in the gate, and the other three sides is walled off!"

Shalimar had hoped the watchman wouldn't think of that. He began to run down the driveway.

"Wait up!" cried the watchman. "Stop, or I'll shoot!"

Shalimar ran. Three shots buzzed by him, then he was safely around the corner and away. He ducked down a tree-lined street, ran around the corner house and off across the back yard. Behind him he heard the man run on down the main street, yelling.

This was bad. The old fool would wake up the authorities, if not the whole town. Why did that damned button transport him into such messes? He ducked down an alley and into a small toolshed which he noticed at the end of it. What to do next? He stood in the shed, panting. As he backed up to the far wall, something brushed his face. A light cord! He pulled on it; the shed exploded into light.

Mr. 7 stood leaning against the far side of the shed, arms folded across chest. "Failed again," he remarked philosophically.

Shalimar leaped back with a cry.

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