Time and Time Again | Page 4

pushed a chair to the table and built up the seat with cushions, wondering how soon
he would become used to the proportional disparity between himself and the furniture. As
he opened the books and took his pencil in his hand, there was one thing missing. If he
could only smoke a pipe, now!
His father came out and stretched in a wicker chair with the Times book-review section.
The morning hours passed. Allan Hartley leafed through one book and then the other. His
pencil moved rapidly at times; at others, he doodled absently. There was no question, any
more, in his mind, as to what or who he was. He was Allan Hartley, a man of forty-three,
marooned in his own thirteen-year-old body, thirty years back in his own past. That was,
of course, against all common sense, but he was easily able to ignore that objection. It
had been made before: against the astronomy of Copernicus, and the geography of
Columbus, and the biology of Darwin, and the industrial technology of Samuel Colt, and
the military doctrines of Charles de Gaulle. Today's common sense had a habit of turning
into tomorrow's utter nonsense. What he needed, right now, but bad, was a theory that
would explain what had happened to him.
Understanding was beginning to dawn when Mrs. Stauber came out to announce midday
dinner.
"I hope you von't mind haffin' it so early," she apologized. "Mein sister, Jennie, offer in
Nippenose, she iss sick; I vant to go see her, dis afternoon, yet. I'll be back in blenty time
to get supper, Mr. Hartley."
"Hey, Dad!" Allan spoke up. "Why can't we get our own supper, and have a picnic, like?
That'd be fun, and Mrs. Stauber could stay as long as she wanted to."

His father looked at him. Such consideration for others was a most gratifying deviation
from the juvenile norm; dawn of altruism, or something. He gave hearty assent:
"Why, of course, Mrs. Stauber. Allan and I can shift for ourselves, this evening; can't we,
Allan? You needn't come back till tomorrow morning."
"Ach, t'ank you! T'ank you so mooch, Mr. Hartley."
At dinner, Allan got out from under the burden of conversation by questioning his father
about the War and luring him into a lengthy dissertation on the difficulties of the
forthcoming invasion of Japan. In view of what he remembered of the next twenty-four
hours, Allan was secretly amused. His father was sure that the War would run on to
mid-1946.
After dinner, they returned to the porch, Hartley père smoking a cigar and carrying out
several law books. He only glanced at these occasionally; for the most part, he sat and
blew smoke rings, and watched them float away. Some thrice-guilty felon was about to
be triumphantly acquitted by a weeping jury; Allan could recognize a courtroom
masterpiece in the process of incubation.
* * * * *
It was several hours later that the crunch of feet on the walk caused father and son to look
up simultaneously. The approaching visitor was a tall man in a rumpled black suit; he had
knobby wrists and big, awkward hands; black hair flecked with gray, and a harsh, bigoted
face. Allan remembered him. Frank Gutchall. Lived on Campbell Street; a religious
fanatic, and some sort of lay preacher. Maybe he needed legal advice; Allan could
vaguely remember some incident--
"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Gutchall. Lovely day, isn't it?" Blake Hartley said.
Gutchall cleared his throat. "Mr. Hartley, I wonder if you could lend me a gun and some
bullets," he began, embarrassedly. "My little dog's been hurt, and it's suffering something
terrible. I want a gun, to put the poor thing out of its pain."
"Why, yes; of course. How would a 20-gauge shotgun do?" Blake Hartley asked. "You
wouldn't want anything heavy."
Gutchall fidgeted. "Why, er, I was hoping you'd let me have a little gun." He held his
hands about six inches apart. "A pistol, that I could put in my pocket. It wouldn't look
right, to carry a hunting gun on the Lord's day; people wouldn't understand that it was for
a work of mercy."
The lawyer nodded. In view of Gutchall's religious beliefs, the objection made sense.
"Well, I have a Colt .38-special," he said, "but you know, I belong to this Auxiliary
Police outfit. If I were called out for duty, this evening, I'd need it. How soon could you
bring it back?"

Something clicked in Allan Hartley's mind. He remembered, now, what that incident had
been. He knew, too, what he had to do.
"Dad, aren't there some cartridges left for the Luger?" he asked.
Blake Hartley snapped his fingers. "By George, yes! I have a German automatic I can let
you have, but I wish you'd bring