One More for the Road Read Online Free PDF Page A

up into the attic without breaking his neck.
    We stood, imbalanced, by my Time Machine.
    â€œNow I know why I built it,” I said.
    â€œBuilt what?” cried Simon Cross.
    â€œShut up. In!”
    â€œAn electric chair?”
    â€œMaybe. Jump!”
    He jumped and I locked him in place and took the second seat and threw the control lever.
    â€œWhat?” said Simon Cross.
    â€œNo,” I said. “Where!”
    Swiftly, I hit the tabs: year/month/day/hour/ minute; and just as swiftly: state/town/street/block/ number; and yanked the backward/turn/backward bar.
    And we were off, dials spinning, unspinning suns, moons, and years until the Machine melted to silence.
    Simon Cross, stunned, glanced around.
    â€œWhy,” he said, “this is my place.”
    â€œYour home, yes.”
    I dragged him up the front walk.
    â€œAnd there, yes, there, do you see?” I said.
    On the front porch, in his sunbright sailor’s suit, stood the beautiful young man with a clutch of story pages in his hands.
    â€œThat’s me!” cried the old, old man.
    â€œYou. Simon Cross.”
    â€œHello,” said the young man in the fresh white sailor’s suit. He scowled at me, curious, then puzzled. “Hold on. Why do you look—different?” He nodded at his older self. “And who’s this?”
    â€œSimon Cross,” I said.
    In silence, youth looked at age, age looked at youth.
    â€œThat’s not Simon Cross,” said the young man.
    â€œThat can’t be me,” said the old one.
    â€œYes.”
    Slowly, both turned to look at me.
    â€œI don’t understand,” said Simon Cross, nineteen years old.
    â€œTake me back!” the old man exclaimed.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œTo where we were, wherever that was,” he gasped wildly.
    â€œGo away.” The young man backed off.
    â€œI can’t,” I said. “Look close. This is what you will become after you’ve lost yourself. Simon Cross, yes, forty years on.”
    The young sailor stood for a long moment, his eyes searching up and down the old man’s body and fixing on his eyes. The young sailor’s face reddened. His hands became fists, relaxed, became fists again. Words did not convince, but some intuition, some power unseen, an invisible vibration between the old man and himself.
    â€œWho are you really?” he said at last.
    The old, old man’s voice broke.
    â€œSimon Cross.”
    â€œSon of a bitch!” cried the young man. “Damn you!”
    And struck a blow to the older man’s face, and then another and another and the old, old man stood in the rain, the downpour of blows, eyes shut, drinking the violence, until he fell on the pavement with his young self astride him staring at the body.
    â€œIs he dead?” he wondered.
    â€œYou killed him.”
    â€œI had to.”
    â€œYes.”
    The young man looked at me. “Am I dead, too?”
    â€œNot if you want to live.”
    â€œOh God, I do, I do!”
    â€œThen get away from here. I’ll take him with me, back to where we came from.”
    â€œWhy are you doing this?” said Simon Cross, only nineteen.
    â€œBecause you’re a genius.”
    â€œYou keep saying that.”
    â€œTrue. Run, now. Go.”
    He took a few steps and stopped.
    â€œSecond chance?” he said.
    â€œOh, God, I hope so,” I said.
    And then added, “Remember this. Don’t live in Spain or become the champion dove shooter in Madrid.”
    â€œI would never be a champion dove shooter anywhere!”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œAnd never become the old, old man I must drag through Time to meet himself.”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œYou’ll remember all this and live by it?”
    â€œIt’s remembered.”
    He turned and ran down the street.
    â€œCome,” I said to the body, the scarecrow, the silent thing. “Let’s get you in the Machine