by Isaac Asimov
“Trouble?” the cop asked. He was young and rangy, built more like a cigarette-ad cowboy than a cop.
“In a way, Officer,” I said.
“He was trying to hold me up!” the little man almost screamed, and his poodle started growling again.
“I thought so,” the cop said. “I was watching from across the street.”
I felt my heart fall like a meteor. “Hey, no, wait a minute!” I was shoved roughly so that I had to support myself against the side of a building with both hands.
“Be careful!” I heard the little man shout. “He’s got a gun in his right coat pocket!”
The cop’s hands searched me the way they’d been trained in the police academy, and I knew by his unsteadiness that he was nervous. All three of us were standing there frightened. Even the dog was frightened.
“He was bluffing you,” the cop said. “They do that.” He jerked me up straight and held onto my arm.
“Bluffing?... I was only trying to borrow some money!..”
The young cop let out a sharp laugh. “A polite mugger, huh?”
“This is insane!” I said.
The cop shrugged. “So plead that way in court.”
“I’ll press charges!” the little man kept saying. “You can be sure of that!”
But the cop was ignoring him now, reciting my rights in a low monotone. He was even ignoring me somewhat as he droned on about my “right to remain silent.” He was really going to do it! I might really be going to jail! And even if I wasn’t convicted, what would the arrest mean to my family, my friends, and my job?
I panicked then, and in what seemed at the time a lucky break, a bus turned the corner and lumbered toward us. I remember one headlight was out and the wiper blades were swinging back and forth out of rhythm. The bus was only doing ten or fifteen miles an hour, and when it was almost even with us I jerked out of the cop’s grip and darted in front of it, around it. The front bumper even brushed my pants leg, but I didn’t care.
Now the bus was between me and the law, and I had a few precious seconds to run for freedom. The bus driver helped me by slamming on his brakes, probably stopping the bus directly in front of the cop so he had to run around it. I was running down an alley, not looking back or even thinking back, when I heard the shot. In my state, the bark of the gun only made me run faster. I turned the corner, flashed across the rain-slick street and cut through another alley. That alley led to a parking lot, and I ran through there to the next street. I slowed then, listening, but hearing no footsteps behind me. I knew I wouldn’t have much time, though. The cop was probably calling in for help right now.
I walked for three more blocks before I saw a cab. It scared me at first; I’d thought the lettering on the door signified a police car. Then I saw that the light atop the car was blue, and there was a liquor advertisement on the trunk. I waved to the cab and climbed in with deliberate casualness when it stopped to pick me up.
“Regent Hotel,” I said, trying to keep my breathing level. Didn’t every city have a Regent Hotel?
“Torn down,” the cabby said, glancing over his shoulder. “You mean the Regency?”
“That’s it,” I said, and we drove on in silence.
After about ten minutes I saw an all-night drugstore ahead of us, and I had the cabby pull over.
“I’ll only be a minute,” I told him. “I want to see if they’ll fill an out-of-town prescription for insulin.”
“Sure.” He settled back in his seat and stared straight ahead.
It was a big drugstore, with a few other customers in it. The pharmacist behind the counter gave me a funny look, and I smiled and nodded at him and walked over to the magazine rack. After leafing through a news magazine, I replaced it in the rack and walked over to a display of shaving cream as if it interested me. From there I walked out the side door.
I walked until I was clear of the drugstore’s side display window and ran for three or four blocks. I turned a corner then and started walking at a fast pace, but slow enough so that my breathing evened out.
I must have walked over a mile, trying to think things out, trying to come up with some kind of an idea. The agonizing thing was that nothing that had happened was really my fault. You could be in this same kind of mess sometime, just like me. Anybody could.
If only I had some money, I thought, I could get a plane or bus ticket. The police didn’t watch bus terminals or airports for every fleeing street-corner bandit. If I could get out of this city, get back home a thousand miles away, I’d be safe. After all, no one had my name or address. The cop hadn’t gotten any identification from me when he searched me because I wasn’t carrying any. It would be as if none of this had ever happened. Eventually Laurie and I would joke about it. You and your spouse joke about that kind of thing.
Right now, though, things were a far cry from a joke! If I didn’t get out of town fast, I might well wind up ruined, in prison!
I was in more of a residential part of town now, wide lawns, neat ranch houses, and plenty of trees. The moon was out and it had stopped raining, and I saw the man walking toward me when he was over a block away, on the other side of the street. The desperation surged up in me, took control of me. You can understand how I felt. There was no time to make phone calls or wait for money. I had to get away fast, and to get away fast I needed money. I stooped and picked up a white grapefruit-sized rock from alongside someone’s driveway.
Crossing the street diagonally toward the man, I squeezed the rock concealed in my raincoat pocket, smiling when I got close enough for the man to see my face.
He was carrying enough money for a plane ticket to a nearby city, where I had Laurie send me enough to get home. At home, though, where I’d thought I’d be safe, I still think about it all the time.
I’d never had any experience in hitting someone’s head with a rock, so how was I to know? I was scared, like you’d be, scared almost out of my senses, so I struck harder than I’d intended — much harder.
Think about it and it’s kind of frightening. I mean, here’s this stranger, on his way home from work on the late shift, or from his girl-friend’s house, or maybe from some friendly poker game. Then somebody he’s never seen before walks up and for no apparent reason smashes his skull with a rock. It could happen to you.
Class Reunion
by Charles Boeckman
The banner across one wall in the Plaza Hotel banquet room welcomed “Jacksonville High, Class of ’53.” The crowd milling around in the room was on the rim of middle age. Temples were graying, bald spots were in evidence.
Tad Jarmon roamed through the crowd. At the bar, he found his old friend, Lowell Oliver, whom he had not seen since graduation. “Hello, Lowell,” he said.
Oliver drained his glass. “Hi, ol’ buddy,” he said with a loose grin. He shoved his face closer in an effort to focus his eyes. Suddenly, he became oddly sober. “Tad Jarmon.”
“In the flesh.”
“Well... good to see you, Tad. You haven’t changed much.” He held his glass toward the bartender for a refill. His hand was shaking slightly.
“We’ve all changed some, Lowell. It’s been twenty years.”
“Twenty years. Yeah... Twenty years...”
“Have you seen Jack and Duncan?”
“They’re around here someplace,” Oliver mumbled.
“We’ll have to get together after the banquet and talk over old times,” Tad said.
Oliver stared at him with a peculiar expression. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. “Old times. Yeah... sure, Tad.”
Tad Jarmon meandered back into the crowd. Soon he spotted Jack Harriman with a circle of friends in another corner of the room. Jack looked every inch the prosperous businessman. He was expensively dressed. His face was deeply tanned, but he was growing paunchy. He’d put on at least forty pounds since graduation.
“Hello, Jack.”
Harriman turned. His smile became frozen. “Well, if it isn’t Tad Jarm
on.” He reached out for a handshake. “You guys all remember Tad,” he said, a trifle too loudly. His hand felt damp in Tad’s clasp.
One of their ex-schoolmates grinned. “I remember how you two guys and Duncan Gitterhouse and Lowell Oliver were always pulling off practical jokes on the town.”
“Yeah,” another added. “If something weird happened, everybody figured you four guys had a hand in it. Like the time the clock in the courthouse steeple started running backward. Took them a week to figure out how to get it to run in the right direction again. Nobody could prove anything, but we all knew you four guys did it.”
The group chuckled.
“I saw Lowell over at the bar,” Tad said to Harriman. “I told him we should get together after the banquet and talk over old times.”
“Old times...” Harriman repeated, a hollow note creeping into his voice. “Well... sure. Tad.” He wiped a nervous hand across his chin. “By the way, where are you living now?”
“Still right here in Jacksonville, in the big old stuffy house on the hill. After my dad died, I just stayed on there.”
Tad excused himself and went in search of Duncan Gitterhouse. He soon found him, a man turned prematurely gray, with a deeply lined face and brooding eyes.
“Well, Duncan, I guess I should call you ‘Doctor’ now.”
“That’s just for my patients,” Gitterhouse replied, his deep-set eyes resting somberly on Tad. “I was pretty sure I’d be seeing you here. Tad.”
“Well, you know I couldn’t pass up the opportunity of talking over old times with you and Jack and Lowell. Maybe after the banquet, the four of us can get together.”
The doctor’s eyes appeared to sink deeper and grow more resigned. “Yes, Tad.”
The banquet was followed by speeches and introductions. Each alumnus arose and told briefly what he had done since graduation. When the master of ceremonies came to Tad, he said, “Well, I’m sure you all remember this next guy. He and his three buddies sure did liven up our school years. Remember the Halloween we found old Mrs. Gifford’s wheelchair on top of the school building? And the stink bombs that went off during assembly meetings? They never could prove who did any of those things, but we all knew. How about confessing now, Tad? The statute of limitations has run out.”
Tad arose amid laughter and applause. He grinned and shook his head. “I won’t talk. My lips are sealed...”
After the banquet, the four chums from high school days drifted outside and crossed the street to a small, quiet town-square park. Jack Harriman lit an expensive cigar.
“It hasn’t changed, has it?” Duncan Gitterhouse said, looking up at the ancient, dome-shaped courthouse, at the Civil War monument, the heavy magnolia trees, the quiet streets. “It’s as if everything stopped the night we graduated, and time stood still ever since.”
“The night we graduated,” Jack Harriman echoed. He pressed a finger against his cheek, which was beginning to twitch again. “Seems like a thousand years ago.”
“Does it?” Tad said. “That’s odd. Time is relative, though. To me it’s just like last night.”
“We don’t have any business talking about it,” Duncan Gitterhouse said harshly. “I don’t know why I came here for this ridiculous class reunion. It was insanity.”
“Don’t know why you came back, Duncan?” Tad said softly. “I think you do. You couldn’t stay away. None of you could. You had to know if anyone ever suspected what we did that night. And you wanted to find out what that night did to the rest of us, how it changed our lives. We shared something so powerful it will bind us together always. I was sure you’d all come back.”
“Still the amateur psychologist. Tad?” Harriman asked sourly.
Tad shrugged.
“It was your fault what we did that night, Tad,” Lowell Oliver said, beginning to blubber in a near-alcoholic crying jag. “You were always the ringleader. We followed you like sheep. Whatever crazy, sick schemes you thought up—”
“We were just kids,” Gitterhouse argued angrily. “Just irresponsible kids, all of us. Nobody could be held accountable—”
“Just kids? We were old enough in this state to have been tried for murder,” Tad pointed out.
There was a heavy silence. Then Tad murmured slowly, “I used to go past the place on the creek where old Pete Bonner had his house-trailer. For years you could see where the fire had been. The ground was black and the rusty framework of the house-trailer was still there. It was finally cleared away when the shopping center was built, but every time I go by that place I think about the night old Pete Bonner died there. And I think about us. A person acts; the act is over in a few minutes. But the aftermath of the act lives on in our emotions, our brains, perhaps forever. We committed an act twenty years ago. The next day, they buried what was left of old Pete. We’re stuck with that for the rest of our lives.”
They fell silent again, each thinking back to that night. It was true that Tad had been the ringleader of their tight little group, and the night of their graduation, it was Tad who thought of the final, monstrous prank: “Let’s set Pete Bonner’s trailer on fire.”
“But Pete’s liable to be in the trailer,” one of the others had said.
“That’s the whole point,” Tad had grinned, then explained, “After tonight, we’ll be going different directions. Duncan is going into medical school. Lowell’s going into the Army. Jack’s going to business college. I’ll probably stay here. We need to do something so stupendous, so important, that it will weld the four of us together forever. So, we’ll roast old Pete Bonner alive.”
Tad had pointed out to the rest of them that Pete was the town drunk, an old wino who had no family. It would be like putting a worthless old dog out of his misery.
Because of the hypnotic-like hold Tad had on the others, they had agreed — sweating and scared — but they’d agreed.
That night after graduation exercises, Tad led them to Pete Bonner’s trailer with cans of gasoline and matches. As they ran away from the blazing funeral pyre, the screams of the dying old wino followed them.
“I can still hear that old man screaming,” Duncan Gitterhouse said, his hands shaking as he chain-lit another cigarette.
“Tad, you said we’re stuck with what we did for the rest of our lives,” Jack Harriman sighed. “It’s true. I’ve made a pile of money, but what good is it? I can’t go to sleep without pills. I eat too much. My doctor says I’m going to have a coronary in five years if I don’t quite eating so much, but I can’t stop. It’s an emotional thing, a compulsion. Look at poor Lowell there. He’s spent the last five years in and out of alcoholic sanitariums.”
Duncan Gitterhouse nodded. “My practice is a success. Compensation, I guess. I have the idea that if I save enough lives, I’ll make up for the one we took. I do five, ten operations a day. But my private life is a shambles — my wife left me years ago; my kids are freaked out on drugs.” He turned to Tad Jarmon. “I suspect you didn’t get off any better than we did. Tad. You never married. You’re stuck here, in the home you grew up in. I don’t think you can leave...”
They sat in the park for a while. Then they got up and went off to their respective motel rooms — Tad to his big, old-fashioned house with white columns.
In his study. Tad took down one of his journals from a bookshelf. In his neat, precise hand, he carefully described the events of the evening, recording in detail all that Jack, Duncan, and Lowell had said. Following that entry, he added his prognostication for their future. “I would estimate that Jack will be dead within ten years, probably suicide if he doesn’t have a stroke first. Lowell will become a hopeless alcoholic and spend his last years in a sanitarium. Duncan will keep on with his practice, but will have to turn to drugs to keep himself going.”
He sat back for a moment. Then as an afterthought, he added, “I will continue to live out my life here in this old house, on the inheritance my father left me, eventually becoming something of a recluse. Duncan was right; I can’t le
ave. It is a psychological prison. But I am reasonably content, keeping busy with my hobby, the study of human nature, that will fill volumes when I am through.”
He put the journal away. Then he turned to another bookcase. It was lined with similar neatly bound and dated journals. He went down the line until he found one dated 1953. He opened it and flipped the pages, stopping when he came to the date of their graduation, then he started to read:
“Tonight being graduation,” he had written, “I decided we must do something spectacular. A crowning achievement to top any previous prank. Early in the afternoon, I stopped by Pete Bonner’s trailer. I had in mind giving him a few dollars to buy us some whiskey for the evening. Being underage, we couldn’t go to the liquor store ourselves, but Pete is always ready to do anything for a small bribe. I was surprised, indeed, when I walked into Pete’s trailer and found him sprawled out on the floor. He was quite dead, apparently from a heart attack. If I hadn’t found him, he’d probably have stayed there for days until someone accidentally stumbled upon him as I had done. I immediately got a brilliant idea for a colossal joke and a chance to test a theory of mine. They say time is relative. If someone believes he has committed an act, it’s the same to him as if he has committed the act. The consequences, as far as they affect him, should be the same.
“This time the joke would be on Jack, Duncan, and Lowell. They’re so gullible, they’ll do anything I tell them. I hurried home and swiped the wire recorder out of Dad’s study. I recorded some agonized screams and put it under Pete’s trailer, all hooked up so it would take only a second to turn it on. I then went over to talk to Jack, Duncan, and Lowell. I convinced them it would be a great idea to burn up Pete’s trailer and roast Pete alive. Of course, they had no way of knowing Pete was already dead. Tonight, after graduation, we slipped down to Pete’s trailer with gasoline and matches. I went around the other side, pretending to slosh my gasoline around, and reached under the trailer and switched on the wire recorder. As soon as the flames shot up, we began hearing some very convincing screams. It will be most interesting, in future years, to see what effect tonight’s act will have on the lives of Jack Harriman, Duncan Gitterhouse, and Lowell Oliver.”
