me something, Danny. Whydid he leave it to you?"
"You're joking!" Danny cried.
"I was your uncle's lawyer. I wouldn't joke about it. He said it was theonly thing he had worth willing. He said he willed it to you. Want me toread you the clause?"
Danny nodded. He felt strangely flattered, because the contraption inAverill Jones' basement--a contraption which no one but Averill Joneshad ever seen--had been the dearest thing in the old bachelor's life.Actually, he was not Danny's uncle, but his grand-uncle. He had livedalone in St. Augustine and had liked living alone. The only relative hehad tolerated was Danny, when Danny was a small boy. Then, as Dannyapproached his ninth birthday, the old man had said, "They're teachingyou too much at school, son. Too many wrong things, too manyhighfalutin' notions, too much just plain old hogwash. Why don't youkind of make yourself scarce for a few years?" It had been blunt and tothe point. It had made Danny cry. He hadn't thought of what had happenedthat last day he'd seen his grand-uncle for years, but he thought of itnow.
* * * * *
"But why can't I come back and see you?" he had asked tearfully.
"On account of the machine, son."
"But _why_, uncle?"
"Hey, come on now and stop your blubbering all over me. If you can't youcan't."
"You have to tell me why!"
"Stubborn little critter. Well, I like that. All right, I'll tell youwhy. Because the machine has a funny kind of fuel, that's why. Itdoesn't run on gasoline, Danny, or anything like that."
"What does it do, uncle?"
But the old man had shaken his head. "Maybe someday after I'm goneyou'll find out. If anyone finds out, it will be you, and that's apromise."
"You still didn't tell me why I have to go away."
"Because--well, don't go telling this to your folks, son, or they'llthink old Uncle Averill has a screw loose somewheres--because thatmachine I have downstairs runs on faith. On faith, you understand? Oh,not the kind of faith they think is important and do a lot of talkingand sermoning about, but a different kind of faith. Personal faith, youmight say. Faith in a dream or a belief, no matter what people think.And--you know what ruins that faith?"
"No," Danny had said, his eyes very big.
"Knowledge!" cried his uncle. "Too much so-called knowledge which isn'tknowledge at all, but hearsay. That's what they're teaching you. Inschool, other places, every day of your life. I'll tell you when you cancome back, Danny: when you're ready to throw most of it overboard. Allright?"
He had had to say all right. It was the last time he had ever seen hisuncle, but those weren't the last words Averill Jones had spoken to him,for the old man had added as he got up to go: "Don't forget, son. Don'tlet them pull the wool over your eyes. History is propaganda--from awinner's point of view. If a side lost the war and got stamped on, younever see the war from its point of view. If an idea got out of favorand stamped on, the idea is ridiculed. Don't forget it, son. If youbelieve something, if you _know_ it's right, have faith in it and don'tgive a mind what people say. Promise?"
Danny, his eyes stinging with tears because somehow he could sense hewould never see Uncle Averill again, had said that he promised.
"... to my nephew, Danny Jones," the lawyer was reading. "So, you see,you'll have to go right down there and look the thing over. Naturally,I'll have to leave the house while you do so and I won't be able toreturn until you tell me I can--"
"But why?"
"Weren't you listening?"
"I guess I was thinking about my uncle."
"Well, the clause says you're to examine the machine alone, with no oneelse in the house. It's perfectly legal. If that's what your unclewanted, that's what he'll get. Are you all set?"
Danny nodded and Tartalion shook his hand solemnly, then left the room.Danny heard the lawyer's footsteps receding, heard the front door openand close, heard a car engine start. Then, slowly, he walked through theliving room of his dead uncle's house and across the long, narrowkitchen and to the basement stairs. His hands were very dry and he felthis heart thudding. He was nervous, which surprised him.
* * * * *
But why? he thought, why should it surprise me? All my life, UncleAverill's basement has been a mystery. Let's face it, Danny-boy, youhaven't exactly had an adventurous life. Maybe Uncle Averill was thebiggest adventure in it, with his secret machine and strangedisappearances. And maybe Uncle Averill did a good selling job when youwere small, because that machine means mystery to you. It's probably notmuch more than a better mousetrap, but you want to believe it is, don'tyou? And you're nervous because the way Uncle Averill kept you andanyone else away from his basement when you were a kid makes it a kindof frightening place, even now.
He opened the basement door with a key which the lawyer had given him.Beyond the door were five steps and another door--this one of metal. Ithad had a time lock in the old days, Danny remembered, but the lock wasgone now. The metal door swung ponderously, like the door to a bankvault, and then Danny was on the other side. It was dark down there, butfaint light seeped in through small high windows and in a few momentsDanny's eyes grew accustomed to the gloom.
The basement was empty except for what looked like a big old steamertrunk in the center of the dusty cement floor.
Danny was disappointed. He had childhood visions of an intricate mazeof machinery cluttering up every available square foot of basementspace, but now he knew that whatever it was which had taken up so muchof Uncle Averill's time could fit in the odd-looking steamer trunk inthe center of the floor and thus wasn't too much bigger than a good-sizeTV set. He walked slowly to the trunk and stood for a few moments overthe lid. It was an ancient-looking steamer: Uncle Averill must haveowned it since his own youth. Still, just a plain trunk.
Danny was in no hurry to open the lid, which did not seem to be locked.For a few moments, at least, he could shield himself from furtherdisappointment--because now he had a hunch that Uncle Averill's machinewas going to be a first-class dud. Maybe, he thought gloomily, UncleAverill had simply not liked to be with people and had used the ruse ofa bank-vault door and an empty steamer trunk to achieve privacy wheneverhe felt the need for it.
Remembering the history class, Danny decided that--after all--sometimesthat wasn't a bad idea. Finally, he called himself a fool for waitingand threw up the trunk-lid.
A small case was all he saw inside, although the interior of the trunkwas larger than he had expected. A man could probably curl up in therequite comfortably. But the case--the case looked exactly like it oughtto house a tape-recorder.
Danny reached in and hauled out the case. It was heavy, about as heavyas a tape-recorder ought to be. Danny placed it down on the floor andopened it.
What he saw was a battery-powered tape-recorder. His disappointmentincreased: Uncle Averill had left a message for him, that was all.Dutifully, however, he set the spools and snapped on the switch.
A voice from yesterday--Uncle Averill's voice--spoke to him.
* * * * *
"Hallo, Danny," it said. "The way the years roll by, I forget exactlyhow old you are, boy. Seventeen? Eighteen? Twenty? Well, it doesn'tmatter--if you still believe. If you have faith. Faith in what? Maybenow you're old enough to know. I mean faith in--not having faith. Thatis, faith in not taking faithfully all the silly items of knowledgethey try to cram down your throat in school. See what I mean? Rememberwhat I always said about history, Danny: you get propaganda, is all,from the winning side. If you got faith enough in yourself, Danny, faithenough not to believe everything the history books tell you, that's thekind of faith I mean. Because such a faith gave me the most interestinglife a man ever lived, make no mistake about that.
"I'm dead, Danny. Yep, old Uncle Averill is dead. Because thistape-recorder won't be left you in my will until I am dead. But, noregrets, boy. I had a great life. How great--nobody knows. Only you,you're about to find out. Do you believe? Do you believe the way
I havein mind? Make no mistake about it now, son. If you don't believe, youmight as well burn these spools and go home."
Danny considered. He remembered what had happened in his history class.Wasn't that the sort of faith Uncle Averill had in mind? Faith not tobelieve in historical fairy tales? Faith to doubt when one ought todoubt? Faith to be skeptical....
"Good," said the voice from the past. "Then you're still here. Look infront of you, Danny-boy. The trunk. The old steamer. Know what it is?"
"No," Danny said, then clamped a hand over his mouth. For a
My Shipmate—Columbus Page 2
