Callahan's Crosstime Saloon Read Online Free PDF Page A

bewilderment. Shorty handed him another drink and it was like he didn’t know what to do with it.
    “You tell us how much it will take, mister,” Shorty said respectfully, “and we’ll get you drunk.”
    The tall man with star-burned skin groaned from deep within himself and backed away until the fireplace contained him. He and the flames ignored each other, and no one found it surprising.
    “What is your matter?” he cried. “Why are you not destroying me? You fools, you need only destroy me and you are saved. I am your judge. I am your jury. I will be your executioner.”
    “You didn’t ask for the job,” Shorty said gently. “It ain’t your doing.”
    “But you do not understand! If my data are not transmitted, the Masters will assume my destruction and avoid this system forever. Only the equal or superior of a Master could overcome my defenses, but I can control them. I will not use them. Do you comprehend me? I will not activate my defenses-you can destroy me and save yourselves and your species, and I will not hinder you.
    “Kill me!” he shrieked.
    There was a long, long pause, maybe a second or two, and then Callahan pointed to the drink Shorty still held out and growled, “You better drink that, friend. You need it. Talkin’ of killin’ in my joint. Wash your mouth out with bourbon and get outta that fireplace, I want to use it.”
    “Yeah, me too!” came the cry on all sides, and the big guy looked like he was gonna cry. Conversations started up again and Fast Eddie began playing “I Don’t Want to Set the World On Fire,” in very bad taste indeed.
     
    Some of the boys wandered thoughtfully out, going home to tell their families, or settle their affairs. The rest of us, lacking either concern, drifted over to console the alien. I mean, where else would I want to be on Judgement Day?
    He was sitting down, now, with booze of all kinds on the table before him. He looked up at us like a wounded giant. But none of us knew how to begin, and Callahan spoke first.
    “You never did tell us your name, friend.”
    The alien looked startled, and he sat absolutely still, rigid as a fence post, for a long, long moment. His face twisted up awful, as though he was waging some titanic inner battle with himself, and cords of muscle stood up on his neck in what didn’t seem to be the right places. Doc Webster began to talk to himself softly.
    Then the alien went all blue and shivered like a steel cable under strain, and very suddenly relaxed all over with an audible gasp. He twitched his shoulders experimentally a few times, like he was making sure they were still there, and then he turned to Callahan and said, clear as a bell, “My name is Michael Finn.”
    It hung in the air for a very long time, while we all stood petrified, suspended.
    Then Callahan’s face split in a wide grin, and he bellowed, “Why of course! Why yes, yes of course, Mickey Finn. I didn’t recognize you for a moment, Mr. Finn,” as he trotted behind the bar. His big hands worked busily beneath the counter, and as he emerged with a tall glass of dark fluid the last of us got it. We made way eagerly as Callahan set the glass down before the alien, and stood back with the utmost deference and respect.
    He regarded us for a moment, and to see his eyes now was to feel warm and proud. For all the despair and guilt and anguish and horror and most of all the hopelessness were gone from them now, and they were just eyes. Just like yours and mine.
    Then he raised his glass and waited, and we all drank with him. Before the last glass was empty his head hit the table like an anvil, and we had to pick him up and carry him to the back room where Callahan keeps a cot, and you know, he was heavy.
    And he snored in three stages.

2
    The Time-Traveler
     
    Of course we should have been expecting it. I guess the people at Callahan’s read newspapers just like other folks, and there’d been a discotheque over on Jericho Turnpike hit three days