“They’re getting ready to sue,” said Green.
“I’ll sell them my life insurance. Reverse engine.”
The train shook like a great iron dog.
“Too late, I gotta go.”
“Oh God, yes. Look.”
All the victims and lawyers were scrambling to pile on, and the stupid fool who had shouted “fire” was forgotten.
The train jerked with a great rumbling rattle.
“So long,” whispered Green.
“Go,” I said, wearily. “But who’s next?”
“Next?”
“With your big damned awful Mortuary Warp. Who gets caught, gassed, and pinned?”
Green pulled out a crumpled paper.
“Some guy named Lafayette.”
“Some guy? You dumb, stupid sap! Don’t you know Lafayette saved our Revolution, age twenty-one, brought us guns, ships, uniforms, men!?”
“It doesn’t say that here.” Green stared at his notes.
“Lafayette was Washington’s adopted son. Went home and named his firstborn George Washington Lafayette.”
“They left that out,” said Green.
“Came back, age seventy, paraded eighty cities where people named streets, parks, and towns for him. Lafayette, Lafayette, Lafayette.”
“Hey!” Green poked the note. “Yeah, Lafayette’s second farewell tour.”
The train gave an assassin’s cry, the wheels ground their teeth.
“See you in Springfield.” Green jumped up onto the back platform. “Next April.”
“Who’s that with you?” I shouted.
Green turned and yelled.
“Booth,” he cried. “John Wilkes Booth. He lectures from this observation car up ahead.”
“Poor son of a bitch,” I whispered.
Green read my lips and repeated, “Poor S.O.B.”
And the train moved on.
A CAREFUL MAN DIES
1946
YOU SLEEP ONLY FOUR HOURS A NIGHT. You go to bed at eleven and get up at three and everything is clear as crystal. You begin your day then, have your coffee, read a book for an hour, listen to the faint, far, unreal talk and music of the predawn stations and perhaps go out for a walk, always being certain to have your special police permit with you. You have been picked up before for late and unusual hours and it got to be a nuisance, so you finally got yourself a special permit. Now you can walk and whistle where you wish, hands in your pockets, heels striking the pavement in a slow, easy tempo.