Part 5 (2/2)

Then he looked up.

Above him, black and regal against the sky, stood the huge stone lion. Its mouth was open, and the great head was raised proudly.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l smiled. King Richard. Memories scattered in his mind: old King Richard, well, my G.o.d, here we are.

He got to his feet. Fifty thousand times, at least, he had pa.s.sed this spot, and every time he had experienced that instant of wild craving. Less so of late, but still, had it ever completely gone? He was amazed to find that now the childish desire was welling up again, stronger than ever before. Urgently.

He rubbed his cheek and stood there for several minutes. It's the most riduculous thing in the world, he thought, and I must be going out of my mind, and that must explain everything. But, he inquired of himself, even so, why not?

After all, I'm invisible. No one can see me. Of course, it didn't have to be this way, not really. I don't know, he went on, I mean, I believed that I was doing the right thing. Would it have been right to go back to the University and the h.e.l.l with Madge? I couldn't change that, could I? Could I have done anything about that, even if I'd known?

He nodded sadly.All right, but don't make it any worse. Don't for G.o.d's sake _dwell_ on it!

To his surprise, Mr. Minch.e.l.l found that he was climbing up the concrete base of the statue. It ripped the breath from his lungs--and he saw that he could much more easily have gone up a few extra steps and simply stepped on--but there didn't seem anything else to do but just this, what he was doing.

Once upright, he pa.s.sed his hand over the statue's flank. The surface was incredibly sleek and cold, hard as a lion's muscles ought to be, and tawny.

He took a step backwards. Lord! Had there ever been such power? Such marvelous downright power and--majesty, as was here? From stone--no, indeed. It fooled a good many people, but it did not fool Mr. Minch.e.l.l. He knew. This lion was no mere library decoration. It was an animal, of deadly cunning and fantastic strength and unbelievable ferocity. And it didn't move for the simple reason that it did not care to move. It was waiting. Some day it would see what it was waiting for, its enemy, coming down the street. Then look out, people!

He remembered the whole yarn now. Of everyone on Earth, only he, Henry Minch.e.l.l knew the secret of the lion. And only he was allowed to sit astride this mighty back.

He stepped onto the tail, experimentally. He hesitated, gulped, and swung forward, swiftly, on up to the curved rump.

Trembling, he slid forward, until finally he was over the shoulders of the lion, just behind the raised head.

His breath came very fast.

He closed his eyes.

It was not long before he was breathing regularly again. Only now it was the hot, fetid air of the jungle that went into his nostrils. He felt the great muscles ripple beneath him and he listened to the fast crackle of crushed foliage, and he whispered: ”Easy, fellow.”

The flying spears did not frighten him; he sat straight, smiling, with his fingers buried in the rich tawny mane of King Richard, while the wind tore at his hair - Then, abruptly, he opened his eyes.

The city stretched before him, and the people, and the lights. He tried quite hard not to cry, because he knew that forty-seven-year-old men never cried, not even when they had vanished, but he couldn't help it. So he sat on the stone lion and lowered his head and cried.

He didn't hear the laughter at first.

When he did hear it, he thought that he was dreaming. But it was true: somebody was laughing.

He grasped one of the statue's ear for balance and leaned forward. He blinked. Below, some fifteen feet, there were people. Young people. Some of them with books. They were looking up and smiling and laughing.

Mr. Minch.e.l.l wiped his eyes.

A slight horror came over him, and fell away. He leaned farther out.

One of the boys waved and shouted: ”Ride him, Pop!”

Mr. Minch.e.l.l almost toppled. Then, without understanding, without even trying to understand--merely knowing--he grinned widely, showing his teeth, which were his own and very white.

”You--see me?” he called.

The young people roared.

”You do!” Mr. Minch.e.l.l's face seemed to melt upwards. He let out a yell and gave King Richard's s.h.a.ggy stone mane an enormous hug.

Below, other people stopped in their walking and a small crowd began to form. Dozens of eyes peered sharply, quizzically.

A woman in gray furs giggled.

A thin man in a blue suit grunted something about these d.a.m.ned exhibitionists.

”You pipe down,” another man said. ”Guy wants to ride the G.o.dd.a.m.n lion it's his own business.”

There were murmurings. The man who had said pipe down was small and he wore black-rimmed gla.s.ses. ”I used to do it all the time.” He turned to Mr. Minch.e.l.l and cried: ”How is it?”Mr. Minch.e.l.l grinned. Somehow, he realized, in some mysterious way, he had been given a second chance. And this time he knew what he would do with it. ”Fine!” he shouted, and stood upon King Richard's back and sent his derby spinning out over the heads of the people. ”Come on up!”

”Can't do it,” the man said. ”Got a date.” There was a look of profound admiration in his eyes as he strode off. Away from the crowd he stopped and cupped his hands and cried: ”I'll be seeing you!”

”That's right,” Mr. Minch.e.l.l said, feeling the cold new wind on his face. ”You'll be seeing me.”

Later, when he was good and ready, he got down off the lion.

A PLACE OF MEETING.

by Charles Beaumont

It swept down from the mountains, a loose, crystal-smelling wind, an autumn chill of moving wetness. Down from the mountains and into the town, where it set the dead trees hissing and the signboards creaking. And it even went into the church, because the bell was ringing and there was no one to ring the bell.

The people in the yard stopped their talk and listened to the rusty music. Big Jim Kroner listened too. Then he cleared his throat and clapped his hands-- thick hands, calloused and work-dirtied.

”All right,” he said loudly. ”All right, let's settle down now.” He walked out from the group and turned. ”Who's got the list?”

”Got it right here, Jim,” a woman said, coming forward with a loose-leaf folder.

”All present?”

”Everybody except that there German, Mr. Grunin--Grunger--”

Kroner smiled; he made a megaphone of his hands. ”Gruninger--Bartold Gruninger?”

A small man with a mustache called out excitedly, ”Ja, ja! ... s'war schwer den Friedhof zu finden,”

”All right. That's all we wanted to know, whether you was here or not,” Kroner studied the pages carefully. Then he reached into the pocket of his overalls and withdrew a stub of pencil and put the tip in his mouth.

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