Part 11 (1/2)

”Time to unmask, gentlemen,” said Dr. Mitch.e.l.l.

All unmasked.

Ed Luby stared at his utter ruin.

The man at the microscopes broke the silence. ”They match,” he said. ”The bullets match. They came from the same gun.”

Harve broke through the gla.s.s walls of his trance momentarily. The tiles of the operating room echoed. Harve Elliot had laughed out loud.

Harve Elliot dozed off, was taken to a private room to sleep off the drug.

His wife, Claire, was waiting for him there.

Young Dr. Mitch.e.l.l was with Harve when he was wheeled in. ”He's perfectly all right, Mrs. Elliot,” Harve heard Dr. Mitch.e.l.l say. ”He just needs rest-and so, I'd think, would you.”

”I don't think I'll be able to sleep for a week,” said Claire.

”I'll give you something, if you like,” said Dr. Mitch.e.l.l.

”Later, maybe,” said Claire. ”Not now.”

”I'm sorry we shaved off all his hair,” said Dr. Mitch.e.l.l. ”It seemed necessary at the time.”

”Such a crazy night-such a crazy day,” she said. ”What did it all mean?”

”It meant a lot,” said Dr. Mitch.e.l.l, ”thanks to some brave and honest men.”

”Thanks to you,” she said.

”I was thinking of your husband,” he said. ”As for myself, I never enjoyed anything more in my life. It taught me how men get to be free, and how they can stay free.”

”How?” said Claire.

”By fighting for justice for strangers,” said Dr. Mitch.e.l.l.

Harve Elliot managed to get his eyes open. ”Claire-” he said.

”Darling-” she said.

”I love you,” said Harve.

”That's the absolute truth,” said Dr. Mitch.e.l.l, ”in case you've ever wondered.”

A SONG FOR SELMA.

Around Lincoln High School, Al Schroeder's first name was hardly ever mentioned. He was simply Schroeder. Or not so simply Schroeder, either, because his last name was spoken with a strong accent, as though Schroeder were a famous dead European. He wasn't. He was as American as cornflakes, and, far from being dead, he was a vivid sixteen years old.

It was Helga Grosz, the German teacher at Lincoln, who first gave the name a rich accent. The other faculty members, hearing her do it, recognized instantly the rightness of the accent. It set Schroeder apart, reminded any faculty member who discussed him that Schroeder represented a thrilling responsibility.

For Schroeder's own good, it was kept from him and from the rest of the student body just why Schroeder was such a thrilling responsibility. He was the first authentic genius in the history of Lincoln High.

Schroeder's blinding I.Q., like the I.Q. of every student, was a carefully guarded secret in the confidential files in the office of the princ.i.p.al.

It was the opinion of George M. Helmholtz, portly head of the music department and director of the Lincoln Ten Square Marching Band, that Schroeder had the stuff to become as great as John Philip Sousa, composer of ”Stars and Stripes Forever.”

Schroeder, in his freshman year, learned to play a clarinet well enough in three months to take over the first chair in the band. By the end of his soph.o.m.ore year, he was master of every instrument in the band. He was now a junior, and the composer of nearly a hundred marches.

As an exercise in sight reading, Helmholtz was now putting the beginners' band, the C Band, through an early Schroeder composition called ”Hail to the Milky Way.” It was an enthusiastic piece of music, and Helmholtz hoped that the straightforward violence of it would tempt the beginners into really having a go at music. Schroeder's own comments on the composition pointed out that the star farthest from the earth in the Milky Way was approximately ten thousand light-years away. If the sound of the musical salute was to reach that farthest star, the music would have to be played good and loud.

The C Band bleated, shrieked, howled, and squawked at that farthest star gamely. But the musicians dropped out one by one until, as was so often the case, the ba.s.s drummer played alone.

Blom, blom, bloom went the ba.s.s drum. It was being larruped by Big Floyd Hires, the biggest, the most pleasant, and the dumbest boy in school. Big Floyd was probably the wealthiest, as well. Someday he would own his father's dry-cleaning chain. went the ba.s.s drum. It was being larruped by Big Floyd Hires, the biggest, the most pleasant, and the dumbest boy in school. Big Floyd was probably the wealthiest, as well. Someday he would own his father's dry-cleaning chain.

Bloom, bloom, bloom went Big Floyd's drum. went Big Floyd's drum.

Helmholtz waved Big Floyd to silence. ”Thank you for sticking with it, Floyd,” he said. ”Sticking with it to the end is an example the rest of you could well follow. Now, we're going to go through this again-and I want everybody to stick with it right to the end, no matter what.”

Helmholtz raised his baton, and Schroeder, the school genius, came in from the hall. Helmholtz nodded a greeting. ”All right, men,” Helmholtz said to the C Band, ”here's the composer himself. Don't let him down.”

Again the band tried to hail the Milky Way, again it failed.

Bloom, bloom, bloom went Big Floyd's drum-alone, alone, terribly alone. went Big Floyd's drum-alone, alone, terribly alone.

Helmholtz apologized to the composer, who was sitting on a folding chair by the wall. ”Sorry,” he said. ”It's only the second time through. Today's the first they've seen of it.”

”I understand,” said Schroeder. He was a small person-nicely proportioned, but very light, and only five feet and three inches tall. He had a magnificent brow, high and already lined by scowling thought. Eldred Crane, head of the English department, called that brow ”the white cliffs of Dover.” The unrelenting brilliance of Schroeder's thoughts gave him an alarming aspect that had been best described by Hal Bourbeau, the chemistry teacher. ”Schroeder,” Bourbeau said one time, ”looks as though he's sucking on a very sour lemon drop. And when the lemon drop is gone, he's going to kill everybody.”

The part about Schroeder's killing everybody was, of course, pure poetic license. He had never been in the least temperamental.

”Perhaps you would like to speak to the boys about what you've tried to achieve with this composition,” Helmholtz said to Schroeder.

”Nope,” said Schroeder.

”Nope?” said Helmholtz, surprised. Negativism wasn't Schroeder's usual style. It would have been far more like Schroeder to speak to the bandsmen thrillingly, to make them optimistic and gay. ”Nope?” said Helmholtz.

”I'd rather they didn't try it again,” said Schroeder.

”I don't understand,” said Helmholtz.

Schroeder stood, and he looked very tired. ”I don't want anybody to play my music anymore,” he said. ”I'd like to have it all back, if you don't mind.”

”What do you want it back for?” said Helmholtz.

”To burn it,” said Schroeder. ”It's trash-pure trash.” He smiled wanly. ”I'm through with music, Mr. Helmholtz.”

”Through?” said Helmholtz, heartsick. ”You can't mean it!”

Schroeder shrugged. ”I simply haven't got what it takes,” he said. ”I know that now.” He waved his small hand feebly. ”All I ask is that you don't embarra.s.s me any more by playing my foolish, crude, and no doubt comical compositions.”