by Various
"Me? Why, honey, that hurts. Do you think your Uncle Patrick would breathe an unkind word about you?"
"Well, it's mighty strange," she said. "He won't even tell me what's biting him."
"I wouldn't pay any attention to him," I said. "Perhaps it's all for the best."
"Hmmm," she said, eyeing me shrewdly.
"Come on now, be a good kid and get things rolling. A lot depends on this you know."
I went back and joined Morry.
Well the act was terrific. Mystiffio had Morry's eyes sticking out inside of thirty seconds. I hadn't told Morry about Horatio. I figured I'd let that angle ride for a while.
But Morry was really impressed.
"The guy is good," he said. "The things he does don't seem humanly possible."
Of course he didn't know that most of the effects were being created by the invisible Horatio but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. And he didn't miss Alice, either. When she came on stage in her cute, abbreviated little costume, he straightened up and opened his eyes.
"The kid is nice," he murmured.
"Are we in?" I demanded.
"Can't say yet. I gotta talk to the act but I'd say your chances were pretty good."
I almost swooned with happiness. The break I'd been waiting for all my life was here at last. The golden apples were about ready to drop into my lap.
* * * * *
When Mystiffio finished his routine I took Morry backstage. I found Alice.
"Here she is, Morry," I said. "And she's just as nice as she looks." I shoved Alice toward him. "Be nice, baby," I hissed in her ear.
Morry took one of her little hands and his eyes were interested.
"I kinda like the act," he said. "If you could find time to be nice to me I might like it a whole lot."
Alice takes her hand back as if it had accidentally brushed something slimy.
"I'm sorry but I don't go with the act," she snapped. "There are some things worth more to me than three meals a day and a paycheck."
"Okay, sister," Morry said without expression. He turned to me. "Guess I made a mistake coming up here. The act is lousy."
"Now wait a minute," I yelled. "You said it was good. You can't walk out now." I wheeled to Alice. "Baby, baby, don't do this to me. Tell him you're sorry."
Mystiffio came up behind us while we were talking.
"What is the matter?" he asked. I noticed he put an arm around Alice's shoulders. I was too distraught to think about it.
"Nothing's wrong," I said desperately. "Alice just took offense at something Morry said. Nobody meant any harm."
Mystiffio drew himself up straight and he grabbed Morry by the lapels. Morry struggled to free himself but he was pinioned helplessly.
"You cad! You bounder!" Mystiffio roared. "Do you mean you've been making advances to my daughter?"
Daughter! How do you like that! That just goes to show you never to trust people.
Morry pulled himself loose.
"You're all crazy," he shouted. "Lemme out of here."
He wheeled and started away, but before he had taken two strides he collided with a solid, unyielding, invisible substance.
He backed away a few steps, his mouth working in terror.
"What is it?" he screamed.
"I'm sorry," Horatio's voice sounded in the air a few feet from Morry.
Morry's face went white; he stared wildly about for another instant and then charged madly out of the theatre, screaming in terror.
* * * * *
I chased after him, but it was a hopeless effort. When I got to the sidewalk he was gone. Moodily I slumped back into the theatre and went backstage. My big opportunity was gone, but I still had Horatio.
I found Alice in the office and she was alone. She smiled sweetly when she saw me.
"You too, Brutus," I muttered. Then I thought about my meal ticket and looked worriedly around the room.
"Where's Horatio?" I snapped.
"Horatio," she smiled, "is gone. Too bad you missed him. He would have liked to say goodbye."
"Goodbye!" I shrieked. "Where's he going?"
"Into the Army," Alice said sweetly. "Isn't it wonderful?"
"You're crazy," I shouted. "The Army won't take him."
"I arranged a little something for him," Alice said. "I'm sure he'll be very useful in the camouflage department."
Camouflage!
I groaned and sank into a chair.
"Yes," Alice said pleasantly, "when he learned that Mystiffio was my father--not my husband as you so cleverly told him--he was quite angry for a while. But of course he felt better when he thought it over. And he was very happy to take my suggestion to apply for a commission in the camouflage. I think Horatio and I are going to get along nicely."
I groaned again.
Mystiffio stuck his head in the door.
"Goodbye," he said. "Ready, dear?"
"Yes," Alice said, moving to the door. "I'm ready."
"Now wait a minute," I cried. "Where are you two going? You're the last act I've got."
"I am enlisting!" Mystiffio said proudly.
"As what?"
"Signal corps, in charge of messenger pigeons."
Mystiffio flapped his coat tail and a lone pigeon fluttered into the air. "I've had a lot of experience with the little devils."
I groaned again and dropped my head in my hands.
What was left?
When I looked up, Mystiffio and Alice had gone.
For a moment I sat there staring about the quiet dusty office. Then I stood up and I knew what I was going to do.
I put my hat on and walked out of the building. I didn't stop walking until I reached the Marine recruiting office. A big poster said, "The Marines Promise You Action!"
I walked in. Nothing could be worse than what I'd just been through. I felt contented for the first time in sixteen years.
* * *
Contents
THE PROPHETIC CAMERA
By John McGreevey
Joey Barrett set his camera carefully to one side and swung onto the edge of the desk. He knew this annoyed Nugent, and, at the moment, nothing gave him greater satisfaction than his ability to irritate the editor.
His heels thunked against the highly polished sides of the desk, and he shook his head very deliberately, in rhythm with the heel-hammering.
"No," he said. "I don't think so, Nugent." He decided the drumming had lost its impact, so, he crossed his legs and turned to face the balding man behind the desk. "Why should I? This assignment's out of my line and you know it."
Nugent nodded. "I know. But this is an unusual story, Joey, and I'd like to get a photographer's slant on it."
"Want to find out how the other half thinks, huh?"
Nugent referred to a memo. "This is the address." He pushed the slip of paper toward Joey. "I think you'll find this Jason Ewing most cooperative."
"He's a crackpot." Joey shied away from the memo and slid off the desk. "That's why none of your brainy reporters will touch the assignment."
"He's eccentric." Nugent didn't bother to hide his impatience. "What inventor isn't?"
"He's an inventor?"
"New kind of camera. That's where you come in, Joey." Nugent leaned back in his swivel chair. "I want a photographer's reactions to it."
"What's so special about his camera?"
Nugent didn't look at Joey. "It photographs another dimension."
There was a moment's silence. Nugent was abruptly preoccupied with his hands. Joey moved slowly toward the desk.
"Another dimension! You mean stereoptican stuff? With depth?"
Nugent stood. "No. I don't think that's what Ewing means." He moved from his desk to the window. "I want you to find out what it is. Get all the information you can."
"Are you sure this doesn't belong on the comic page, Nugent?"
Dusk was settling over the city. Nugent stared out at the darkening skyline. "I admit it sounds crazy. But, it'll make a good human
interest yarn." He turned back to Joey. "Just bring in the facts and one of the re-write boys will put them in shape."
Joey Barrett's chin set doggedly. "You've got no right to ask me to...."
But he didn't finish. His editor had abruptly moved in very close. "You're in no position to quibble, Joey."
"What does that mean?"
Nugent's thin lips were tightly compressed. "The management's not happy with you." Joey's laugh was brittle. Nugent walked slowly back to his desk. "I've had more and more complaints about your work."
Joey was close behind him. "I take the assignments you hand me. And there's no one on the staff gets a sharper shot."
Nugent waved this aside. "It's your manner." He pushed a glossy eight by ten print toward the photographer. "You play up the grisly, the macabre."
Joey stared down at the picture. A slow smile narrowed his eyes. "I photograph what I see. I figure it's what your readers want to see, too."
Nugent sat heavily. "We had a hundred phone calls about that picture. Brutal ... sadistic ... morbid."
The print fell face up before Nugent. He turned it over. Joey laughed. "Sure. It's all those things. And they loved it." He leaned very close to Nugent. "You didn't have to print it."
"It was the only shot I had. It was print it or be scooped on one of the big stories of the year."
Joey's outward nonchalance failed to mask entirely his inner tension. "When I take a picture, they remember it."
"There's a difference between memorable photography and cheap sensationalism." The editor picked up the memo with Ewing's address. "All things considered," he said, "I think you'd better get this interview for me."
Joey stared at Nugent for an insolent second. Then, he took the memo. He checked the address, jammed the paper into his pocket, and moved quickly to the door. Hand on the knob, he paused.
"Oh, Nugent," he called, "if you can't see the story I bring back, just remember: it's in another dimension."
He slammed the door on Nugent's anger.
* * * * *
Early evening traffic was heavy as he pulled into the quiet, old-fashioned street where Ewing lived.
Sober brownstone houses, their front steps rising steeply to stain-glass paneled doors; heavily curtained bay windows; weather-stained and rotting gingerbread; an atmosphere of reluctant decay and genteel senescence. Ewing's house was like a dozen others in the same block.
Joey was not a man given to hunches, and yet, as he climbed out of his car and stood staring up at the silent house, he could not repress a shiver of apprehension.
He looked up the street. Nothing marred the quiet. A middle-aged woman hurried home with her armload of groceries. A man paraded an ancient dog on a leash.
Slowly, Joey climbed the steps. His apprehension was no more than the resentment he felt for the assignment. He yanked the old-fashioned bell and listened for its echoes dying deep in the house.
He fidgeted impatiently. Perhaps old Ewing wasn't at home. Or, maybe he was so eccentric he no longer answered the bell. Joey jerked it again.
On the traffic-noisy boulevard a block away, he heard a raw squealing of brakes.
Joey sighed and turned away. He'd wasted an hour. He started down the steps. And the door opened.
Jason Ewing was very old. His incredibly blue eyes seemed alien in the yellow parchment face. His clothing, his manner, even his speech were archaic.
As Joey shook the bony hand, Ewing was apologizing for the delay.
"I was in my dark-room," he said--the voice strangely resonant to come from so frail a chest--"and I had to get the developer off my hands."
Joey nodded and stepped inside. The atmosphere of the house was a curious mixture of chemical and decay. There was a layer of dust on the bric-a-brac, and as Joey followed the stooped figure from the entry-hall into the living-room, he saw Ewing as a kind of insubstantial ghost, moving through the deserted rooms so carefully that the dust was not disturbed.
Ewing gestured to a chair which looked prim and uncomfortable in its yellowed antimacassars. "Sit down, please, Mr. Barrett." He switched on an ornate table lamp. "It's most kind of you to be interested in my work."
Joey gave him the automatic smile. The room was a combination studio and parlor. A bulky, antique camera lorded it over the conventional furnishings. Its unblinking eye regarded Joey coldly.
There was a fireplace, with massive brass andirons cast to resemble griffon-heads; purple draperies at the window were faded by sun and time; the heavy furniture was defiantly shabby; even the antique photograph album with its plush cover and gold-plated clasp and lock was right for the room. This was Jason Ewing's world and Joey felt himself to be an alien.
* * * * *
Ewing hovered nervously, white fingers clenching and unclenching, reaching out, now and then, to touch the album on the dusty table-top. "I know you are a busy man, Mr. Barrett," he said, "so I'll come at once to the point."
Joey relaxed as much as he could in the old chair. "I should tell you first, Mr. Ewing, that I'm not a writer. I'm a photographer. My editor thought maybe you and me would talk the same language."
Ewing bobbed his head up and down. "Excellent. Excellent." He pulled up a small chair. "Believe me, Mr. Barrett, I hesitated a very long while before I decided to make my discovery public."
Joey disguised a grin. "What finally decided you?"
Ewing closed his eyes. "I'm not well. Heart. Most unreliable. Doctor tells me I may ... may die ... at any time."
"I see."
"But, before I die," the old man said, leaning forward again, "I must share my secret." He seemed to have difficulty in finding the words he sought. "It's ... it's so extraordinary, Mr. Barrett, that I've been afraid to divulge it." He gave a sad shake of his head. "People today are so unwilling to accept the unusual."
Joey writhed inwardly. This was worse than he had thought. He would make Nugent pay. "Mr. Nugent said something about your photographing another dimension," he prompted.
The old man pushed himself to his feet. "It was accidental. I've dabbled in amateur photography for years." He limped over to his camera. "Not only took pictures--developed my own." He paused and looked very directly at Joey. "About six years ago, I began experimenting with a new developer."
Ewing's eyes were disturbing. Joey looked away. "You had used commercial developers before?"
"Yes." Ewing gripped the camera. "I wanted a developer that would give a more sharply defined image. I tried fifty different formulae--never quite achieving what I had in mind."
Joey lit a cigarette. "You must have spent a lot of time on it."
"I had retired. I live alone here. No other interests." The phrases came in little gasps, as if Ewing had to force the words between his lips. "Made no progress. And then, I tried Formula #53."
The pause indicated Joey was expected to react. "Formula #53?"
Ewing moved back to the light. "My fifty-third experiment. Radical departure from commercial developers."
"It succeeded?"
"It succeeded, Mr. Barrett, but not in the way I had imagined." The fish-white hands rested on the photo album. "I developed some film in Formula #53 and received the shock of my life." His voice was a whisper. "The pictures on the negative were NOT the pictures I had taken."
He paused to watch the effect on Barrett. Joey scratched his ear. "You took one set of pictures and the negatives you got were of another set?"
"I know what you're thinking," Ewing said. "What I thought at first: that I'd gotten hold of the wrong film. But that wasn't the answer. The same thing happened again and again. Whenever I used Formula #53 as my developer, I produced a strange set of pictures."
Joey stood up nervously. The old boy was crazier than he had first guessed. Humoring him seemed the only answer. "That's incredible."
Ewing nodded excitedly. "I thought I was losing my mind. But, slowly, I began to realize what had happened."
"What?"
The old man sank into the chair by t
he table. "School of modern philosophers ... teaches all time is co-existent."
Joey felt almost sorry for the old boy. He was so much in earnest about his crack-brained discovery. "Time ... co-existent?"
"Past, present, future--all simultaneous. Running along in parallel dimensions."
* * * * *
Joey tried a laugh. "Little rough for me, Mr. Ewing," he apologized. "Look," he went on quickly, "I've been thinking...."
But Ewing wasn't listening. "Simplify it. At this moment, Caesar crossing the Rubicon; Columbus is discovering America; you and I are talking; a man in the twenty-fifth century is rocketing toward Mars."
"I see what you mean."
Ewing was holding the old fashioned photo album in his lap. "Well, I know now that what I've stumbled into with Formula #53 is another dimension in time."
"You mean that ... that you can take a picture of what's happening in another time?"
Ewing nodded. "I know it's difficult to grasp, Mr. Barrett." He held out the plush-covered album. "But I have proof."
Joey stepped toward the old man. "You've got pictures in there--pictures of this other dimension?"
"Yes." He fumbled in his vest pocket, found a small key, and with trembling hand inserted it in the album lock. "I've never shown anyone these pictures before," he said.
Despite himself, Joey felt excited. Even as he dismissed Ewing as a hopeless crackpot, he was disturbingly eager to see the pictures in the old album.
Ewing gestured for him to be seated. Joey sat in the chair near the table and the old man handed him the open album.
"So far," Ewing said, "I haven't been able to control the process. I photograph a subject and the picture may be projected ten years into the future or a hundred years into the past. There must be an infinite number of dimensions registered on the film, but my developer varies."
Joey's initial eagerness was quickly dissipated. The photographs in the album were disappointingly ordinary. True, there were some that seemed to be trick-shots and a few in which the costuming was unfamiliar, but certainly nothing to document the old boy's claim. Aside from a few shots that were interesting because of their violence, there was nothing in the album.
